The Wellspring (2 page)

Worry was revealed in her expression and
Brenna quickly pounced. “It’s not very effective speaking to his
assistant in this situation. The politicians refuse to respond
unless it’s through legal representatives. They have a stubborn
tendency to insist on traditionalism to the point of Courtly
formality. It’s terribly frustrating, but it’s the way they handle
their affairs. If you want to see a politician in person you have
to track them down to a club, or even their Grotto.” She tossed her
hair again. “Why don’t you let me manage it, Yule? I remarked at
the beginning of this that you just aren’t accustomed to the same
social circles as he and I are, but you were so adamant you could
do the job—handling him.”

“And I’m still sure I can—I just need a
little more time,” she countered defensively.

Brenna’s smile reflected her patronage. “I
know you’d like to do this for the group, but do you really think
we have the time to spare for a social experiment?”

“Why not give Yule a little more time while
my grandfather reviews the treaties in question? He said he’d like
to lend a hand,” inserted Jory helpfully.

“Seriously?” scoffed Brenna. “Isn’t your
grandfather close to ninety-eight? If we wait for him to interpret
the treaties we all might as well help plant the new Groves.”

“Who’s helping to plant the new Groves?”

The trio turned as Marc Woodmont entered the
temple ruins, and Yule felt flushed with the heat and all-over
invigoration she invariably experienced whenever she initially saw
him. Regardless of anything Hermes said, no one else Yule knew was
like Marc.

He’d never be called classically handsome
with his capricious curls of soft brown hair that fell to his
shoulders, long face, and the appealing mouth that always seemed
about to smile. He had an innate ability to make people feel
friendly and relaxed simply because he was in the same room. Be
that as it may, Marc wasn’t shy or retiring. He was gregarious in
confrontations, determined to follow a course to its conclusion,
and perpetually equitable in resolutions. Quite often the
opposition simply ceded the debate, genially, as if to say, “Oh, go
ahead, Marc. I’m sure you’ll do what’s best.” This was no spell he
cast, unless charm could be called that. He was considered to be a
young man with whom to reckon, but he was possessed of an aspect
that could have belonged to a man of twenty-eight or forty-two and
no one was certain which might be true. He was genial in nature,
generous in spirit, persuasive in contest, and romantically
uninvolved, mused Yule, always optimistic about her chances.

Marc engaged Brenna and Jory in a lively
discussion regarding impending plans while unusually Yule quietly
abstained, nursing the bruises of inadequacy sustained under
Brenna’s heavy arrogance and Jory’s attempt to defend her. She
brooded darkly on the idea that ostensibly empathetic assistants
who pretended helpfulness were actually disposing of her messages
to Magus Teomond, and blocking her attempts to contact him through
other means with the attitude that her stunted magic would pollute
his environs. Her happy fantasy of bringing a glowing report of
success was collapsing to ashes of failure, and the upcoming
weekend was the beginning of her annual Retreat.

“Don’t look so depressed, Yule. I know how
much time and energy you put into this.”

Marc slipped a comforting arm around her slim
shoulders as he said this, his tenor and attitude supportive.
“We’re actually doing much better than original projections showed
us at this time. And we’ve always accepted that our cause is
considered sentimental rather than necessary. Not everyone is given
over to sentimentality. There are many who will ignore us, even
deny us.”

“They wouldn’t deny you—no one denies you,”
she replied with quick allegiance, and he chuckled warmly.

“There are some who’ve managed. You’ve got to
grow a thicker skin so you can recover faster, and you shouldn’t
ever take things they say or do so seriously.”

Yule replied with a less-than-sunny smile,
feeling only moderately bolstered. The others were leaving the
temple, footsteps muffled by moss, Marc withdrew his arm.

“I can’t make it to this evening’s
spell-circle, I’m sorry,” he said. “Will you be attending?”

She gave a small, almost imperceptible shake
of her head. “I’m not really first choice for spell-circles.”

Marc was starting toward the opening where,
decades past, a massive, iron-bound oak door protected the temple
against intruders, but now was only a portal between forest and
ruins. Would you like to hitch a lift on the wind?”

“That would be terrific, thank you.”

He smiled widely. “Great, let’s fly,
Y-drive.”

Y-drive. Yule barely suppressed a groan as
she followed Marc out of the temple. The genial tease regarding the
shortening of her name happening to reflect her reliance on
technology due to her stunted magical abilities might have ignited
a spark or irritation had anyone other than Marc said it. The
reminder still held a sting because it meant her magical handicap
was in the foreground of his thoughts regarding her. Hermes was
right-on-the-mark again. She was squandering her attention on an
infatuation for a man Hermes often described with some contempt as
a “professional champion of lost causes.” But that description was
unfair, at least in the patronizing way Hermes insinuated. Marc was
a truly selfless person who only sought to give a voice to those
who could not, or were afraid to speak. Should they fail to
preserve this Grove she know Marc would mourn the loss even as he
focused on the next endangered ancestral plot. To begin anew never
intimidated Marc.

“Why are you so quiet, Yule? It’s not because
Teomond gave you the cold shoulder? He did, didn’t he?”

“Not just cold, frosty,” she admitted
quietly. “When he didn’t answer any of my emails I thought he might
prefer face-to-face conversations so I went over to the State House
and inquired about gaining an audience with him. I imagined that
the very worst he may do was to send me away on the wind. His
personal assistant regarded me like he’d caught me wearing muddy
boots on their Persian carpets and told me Magus Teomond wasn’t in.
When I said I could wait, told him who I was and why I was there,
he informed me that there was any number of legitimate
organizations seeking grants, favors, reparations and the like and
that if the Project wanted serious consideration it should send a
serious representative. He spoke to me as if I had less business
there than a natural human without a single spell-caster in their
lineage and certainly wouldn’t waste his time in bringing my
request before the—”

“Entirely my fault,” Marc interrupted. “In
hindsight I should have anticipated that reaction. Jory made some
cautionary remark, I remember, but we were all so excited and eager
to begin that I allowed everyone to rush off on their individual
missions. It’ll be fine, Yule, I’ll take care of it.”

Yule wasn’t over feeling the intentional
slight and Marc’s attempt to reassure her only refreshed the
knowledge that magic folk felt she was handicapped. “He was older,
and impossibly stoic. He seemed distracted by some other issue and
treated me as if I was somehow responsible! His sole intent, from
the moment he laid eyes on me, was to eject me from the building.
To make matters worse, that’s when he walked in. He looked
perfectly Mephistophelean in a black-on-black suit and his hair
swept back, not fallen forward like he wears it in public. I could
see him tense when he saw me, like a hunting creature when it
catches a new scent and is trying to decide whether what it smells
might be tasty. And then I swear I saw him struggle to repress an
expression of upset—or even disgust!”

“Surely not,” Marc protested, smiling.

“You didn’t see his expression,” she replied,
the insult she felt undisguised. “Before I had a chance to say a
word, even a simple greeting, he said, ‘Absolutely no personal
audiences for the next few days, St. John,’ and his assistant said,
‘Certainly, sir, but Magus Snowden is already awaiting you in your
office,’ and he nearly collided with me to move me from Prosser’s
path, held open the office door and blockaded my view of the
interior until Prosser went in. After that he said some perfunctory
apologies and actually winded me out of there without my
permission! Like I was trespassing! Worse, like I was a trespassing
normal human. I didn’t have a shadow of a chance to speak to him
and I feel so damn—ineffectual.”

“You’re hardly ineffectual,” the supportive
tone returned to Marc’s voice and expression. “I have no doubt you
did your very best.”

“But I’m leaving for my Retreat this
weekend,” she worried aloud, ignoring his attempt to comfort. “It
doesn’t feel right, leaving while this is unfinished. I’m the one
who talked you into letting me make it my personal project.”

He smiled at that. “Charming as you are, I
can resist you,” he assured her and Yule felt her cheeks warm. “Go
to your Retreat, relax and leave it to us. You deserve the break.”
They vanished from the Grove in mid-step, appearing in her driveway
when the step finished. “We value your contribution and I
appreciate your dedication to the Project, so stop all of this
personal denigration. I’ll see if I have any better success in
getting an audience with the Magus.”

He stopped in the drive about fifty feet from
her bungalow door and she stopped beside him. Clearly he wasn’t
distressed over what she felt was a colossal failure, and that only
served to heighten Yule’s sense of personal deficiency. She quietly
replied to his parting felicitations and continued lethargically up
the drive to her door. She discovered she was unable to dismiss her
lack of success in the endeavor; a burgeoning impression of an
unresolved situation needled, and the image of Marc’s conciliatory
expression rubbed proverbial salt in her metaphorical wound. Was
there anything more she could do?

She suddenly turned back to Marc without
knowing what she planned to say, but he’d vanished from her
driveway, riding the wind to another errand. She sighed and went
into the bungalow seeking solace in the local broadcast of
spell-caster gossip in the ensorcelled vanity mirror given to her
by Hermes. He would scold her for indulging in such tawdry
speculations, but the possible intrigues of other lives helped
distract her from personal problems...and brooding.

Magus Prosser Teomond either had no spare
time for unscheduled meetings or no time for meetings with her.
Brenna Nova thought sending someone like her to make contact with
someone like Prosser was tantamount to a slap to the face. Marc
remained diligently supportive, certain she’d done what was
possible, but if he was so sure why wasn’t she?

Magus Teomond’s home sprawled on a street of
exclusive addresses in an area called Bahatego Bay, one of the
popular tropical garden zones created when the magical realm melded
with the mundane dimension. Every house was barely visible from the
street, protected by various fences, walls, or decorative
landscaping. Yule, standing in the shadows of a small clump of
palms while cool rain pelted her, thought the houses looked too
manicured and quiet to be occupied, especially by families. It was
as though everyone living on that street agreed to remain indoors
to preserve the showcase quality of the place. She imagined the
laughter of children at play would be as alarming to these
residents as lightning strikes in their swimming pools. Lightning
was just what she’d like to strike Magus Prosser Teomond.

She had no problem finding his private
residence. A few minutes watching the gossip broadcasts distributed
that information readily. House of celebrities and other public
figures were watched and admired almost as much as were their
famous owners. She couldn’t fathom why the direct approach hadn’t
occurred to her sooner.

The low-slung, dark Jaguar flowed past her
place of concealment and down the shadowy driveway so swiftly she
had no opportunity to reveal herself as she planned, before the car
entered the estate. She thought she might go to the door anyway,
but stopped while still in her place of hiding. A woman wearing a
designer evening gown and sumptuous fur wrap was with him.

Correction, a young nymph or demigoddess
fresh from the fabled Family of Cyprus, her ebony mane and olive
skin fairly radiating old power that made Yule’s skin tingle even
from a distance. Their body language told her she might as well
forget about seeing Prosser for the remainder of the night.

The following evening was balmy and
rain-free, the British racing green Jaguar was already sitting in
the drive, close to the front door. It looked to Yule as if Prosser
intended to go out on the town again. Her hazel eyes moved to the
impressive double mahogany front doors and she took a deep breath.
What’s the worst he could do? She asked and a flood of horrific
images immediately rushed through her mind because, based on a
Magus’ power, the worst he could do was quite a lot.

Nonsense, she internally scolded, he might
wind you away to the police for trespassing, but that would
probably be the very worst. Self-consciously she passed her hands
over her hair and clothes to assure she had a tidy aspect. It’s
just a few minutes of his time and she knew what she was going to
say. She could do this. Moving forward resolutely, she still
panicked when the front door opened, adding an inner spill of light
to the pool of outdoor light, and leapt into a tall cluster of
ornamental shrubs.

Prosser’s tall, angular shape stalked toward
the car, snapping his fingers—which popped open the driver’s door
and trunk—a vulgar display of power when done in public, but there
was no one to intimidate or impress so Yule knew the man was upset.
He dropped an expensive suitcase into the trunk, physically closed
it, and was about to get behind the wheel when St. John appeared in
the rectangle of light of the still-open front door, calling him
back to attend to some last minute detail.