The Wellspring (4 page)

“Wait!” she exclaimed, blundering into the
foliage-crowded path. “I don’t know where I am!” Since he’d used
the wind for a portion of the trip he might have moved them to the
opposite side of the world. The curves of the path were serpentine,
nearly blind, and she gave a tiny shrill when she almost collided
with the man, who’d stopped.

“No need for all that,” his tone almost
scolding, brought her back from panic to ire. “I haven’t abandoned
you.”

“I wouldn’t care if you did,” she replied
acridly. “But at least do me the courtesy of telling me where I
am.”

“I’ve told you, a bed-and-breakfast by the
bay.” He continued along the path. “Registry is this way.”

Yule followed, glaring at his back. “That
isn’t what I mean and you know it. I want to call for a cab and I
need to know where to have it pick me up. I don’t know why you
brought me here at all.”

“Presumptuous of you, isn’t it?” he asked.
“You got into
my
car.”

“I explained—”

“I’d say that means you invited yourself,” he
interrupted without looking back.

Yule scowled as she followed him up a short
flight of stairs, across a wide, covered porch and into the bright
bed-and-breakfast beach house foyer. She was too upset to fully
appreciate the bleached plank floors and subtle, sea foam-softened
color scheme, but subconsciously she appreciated the lack of tacky
beach junk littering the place, as some decorators tended to
favor.

Rather than approach the weather-washed
welcome podium supporting a large, open registration book, he only
waved a hand at it as he led the way to the pale, plank staircase.
Yule looked at the book and saw Prosser’s name appear, in gold
leaf, on an empty line.

“I’ll wait here for the receptionist,” Yule
announced as she stopped at the foot of the staircase.

“You’ll be waiting until morning. Staff
doesn’t man the desk at night. It isn’t that kind of business.”

She could tell by his phrasing that he meant
this was not a normal owned and operated business, but one managed
by spell-casters and therefore spells to handle assorted, mundane
tasks abounded. The registry book could check people in and out by
itself and the seemingly vulnerable, unguarded office likely had
protective spells or even hidden security imps. Such imps ranged
from mischievous to deadly and she looked around nervously,
hastening after Prosser, who hadn’t paused in his ascension—further
annoying her.

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Yule
began, fidgeting behind him at a door he paused to unlock with a
crystal.

“Magus Teomond,” he told her, as if he
thought she sought a reply. The door dissolved at the touch of the
crystal and he entered the room. “Come in,” he invited in a way
that made Yule certain he’d simply spell her inside if she failed
to accept the invitation.

She stepped into the room, distractedly
noticing the vintage-chic beach house décor, but far more
interested in finding something imprinted with the B-and-B’s
address, or at least its name. No obvious stationary lay on the
small table or writing desk (she wondered if people actually wrote
these days) nor were there destination leaflets touting this or
that local interesting sight to see or activity in which to
indulge.

“Yule took out her cell phone. “I still can’t
get a signal,” she informed the man who was laying his suitcase on
the cottage-style, waist high bureau.

“I know.”

“You’re blocking my phone?” she angrily
accused.

“Not here. The proprietors encourage a
relaxed, nostalgic atmosphere that discourages cell phone and
computer use.”

“Do they,” she remarked tersely, looking
around the room. She spotted a large, retro phone on the right
night table by the bed and stalked purposefully over to it, lifting
the receiver.

“You’re an odd young woman,” he remarked as
she determined how to get an outside line. “You go to all this
trouble to get me alone then leave?”

Yule stopped pushing buttons and turned to
him, jaw slightly slack in surprise. “Excuse me? Who the hell do
you think you are?”

“Magus Teomond,” he replied casually. “The
man you wanted to convince to come out in favor of Marc Woodmont’s
Reclamation Project, or has that changed?”

“Of all the arrogant!” She slammed the
receiver back into its cradle, call for a cab forgotten. “You
ignore all of my attempts to contact you, and drag me out to this
remote location then have the audacity to act as if you’re doing me
a favor by noticing me!”

Prosser seemed bemused. “Obviously, I did
notice. Rather difficult not to when you stow away in my back
seat.”

Yule’s full lips set in a grim line. “For the
last time; I didn’t stow away in your back seat. I have no idea how
I got in your damn car!”

Prosser appraised her. “I think you’re
serious,” he remarked with the attitude of someone making a clever
deduction.

“Of course I’m serious!” she snapped
irritably. “Why would you think I wasn’t?”

“To be brutally honest, being stalked by
lovely, enthusiastic women hoping to get my attention is a common,
not entirely unpleasant occupational nuisance for me.”

Yule flushed warmly at that, not so annoyed
that she missed the compliment. “I assure you, the attention I’ve
been seeking is entirely charitable!” His undisguised amusement at
her choice of words made her cheeks fairly blaze with
embarrassment. “The charity being the Reclamation Project, of
course,” she added.

“Of course,” he concurred. “Which begs a very
serious question, now that I truly understand the circumstances—how
did you come to be in the back of my car, and why?”

“And I keep telling you—”

“That you don’t know,” he interrupted,
looking thoughtful. “But why don’t you know?”

“I—don’t think I understand your question,”
she admitted.

“What were you doing just before you found
yourself in my car?”

Yule faced having to reveal her skulking. “I
was out,” she generically explained. “I paused to examine some
ornamental landscaping and the next thing I knew I was opening my
eyes in your car.”

“If you weren’t drugged—”

“Oh, no. There’s no possibility of that,” she
assured him, relieved that she’d managed to avoid specifying
exactly where she’d been out.

“Then it must have been a spell.”

Yule flinched as if stung. “A spell? Why does
it have to be a spell?”

“What else?” he asked. “Does your head hurt
as if you’d been hit?”

“No,” she told him, reaching up to gingerly
touch the back of her head, just to be certain.

“It must be a spell.”

“But why in the world would someone do it?”
she exclaimed. “What does it accomplish other than embarrassing the
hell out of me?”

“That could be it.”

“Who’d want to embarrass me?” she wondered
aloud, Brenna’s aloof image springing to mind, but she dismissed
that notion. Brenna might delight in embarrassing her, but this
machination required too much time and effort the privileged young
woman would rather spend shopping or socializing.

“Not you, me,” he corrected her. “What if
this situation had spiraled out of control for one reason or
another? If you had jumped from my car, or called the police
claiming I’d kidnapped you?”

“The latter is still up for debate,” she
reminded him.

He smiled at that and became the familiar,
media-admired persona she recognized. “Granted, now that I’m aware
of the actual circumstances. Imagine the media frenzy, the negative
impact to my career.” The smile faded, sunlight removed by a storm
cloud’s shadow and Yule repressed a shiver, reminded again that a
Magus was not a spell-caster with whom to trifle.

“This was sabotage,” he observed coldly.

“The difficulty is trying to buy all of the
old Groves if a developer takes an interest,” Yule was still
leaning forward, dark eyes alive with earnestness. “We can’t
compete with their kind of capital and spell-casters are becoming
apathetic about old, powered-down Groves.”

“Today’s young people have no patience for
the past. Your cause has fallen prey to the scourge of
disposability,” he observed, not without compassion, she
thought.

After a flurry of angry spell-calls which set
his personal security force scrambling to track down the source of
the predicament in which they found themselves, Magus Teomond
invited Yule to have a glass of wine with him and tell him about
her reason for trying to arrange a meeting. She began tentatively,
uncertain of how he’d react, but as time passed and he actually
seemed to listen, she allowed her passion for the subject matter to
animate her discourse.

“No one seems to be able to generate the
right spark to kindle a flame of interest.”

She thought the corners of his lips twitched
upward. “How poetic,” he teased. “Are those your words or Mr.
Woodmont’s?”

Yule felt her cheeks grow hot. “Well, I might
have heard him say something along those lines,” she admitted. “But
believe me, it’s how I feel.”

“Of that I’m very sure,” his teasing manner
continued.

“This is important to me, Magus,” she
defended. “And personal,” she added reluctantly.

“Oh?” His teasing demeanor faded.

Yule nodded. “Yes, you see my Family Grove is
one of those diminished-power spots and I—am the end of that
Line.”

“Yes, I thought I sensed a—faint hint of
power, but I didn’t want to be rude and ask,” he spoke gently, as
if to someone wounded beyond healing. Yule wasn’t sure if his
attitude made her feel better or worse.

“I’m fine,” she said, as if to convince them
both. “But I feel particularly connected to the Grove, perhaps
because we’re both in the same condition.” She managed a wan smile
at this.

“Is that how you feel, Miss Fiore? Set apart,
forgotten and powerless?” He seemed genuinely concerned and Yule
felt terribly embarrassed.

“I just meant that we both seem to be powered
down,” she clarified.

“Oh, I see,” his tone was apologetic. “I
didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

“That’s all right, Magus.”

His eyes softened at the corners. “You might
want to call me, Prosser.”

She smiled at his invitation. “And I suppose
you may call me, Yule.”

“Thank you, and now that we’re on less formal
terms, may I ask you an impertinent question?”

“Impertinent in what way?” she asked.

“The answer really isn’t any of my business,
but I’m curious.”

“Mysterious,” she remarked. “Go ahead.”

“It’s about the Project, the old Groves; how
invested in this cause are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Take your Grove, for instance, is it so
terrible to let it go, now that it’s just a stand of trees again?
Groves that have exhausted their power and lie so far removed from
the cities—wouldn’t it be simpler, and sensible, to adopt younger
Groves planted closer in?”

“But it’s our heritage, our lineage. Surely
you don’t advocate abandoning them?”

“Heritage and lineage, no, but those are
conceptions, ideas. We can’t lose them the way we lose keys, not
even if all the Groves in the world were gone.”

Yule’s expression closed, swiftly fortifying
against another perceived attack in the offing. She restrained
herself from angrily snapping what would only sound like rhetoric,
that the Groves were living testimonials to their ancestors, to the
Families who’d passed or were passing. Like me, she thought
bitterly. You can’t wait for us to be gone.

“Reminders aren’t always welcome, are they?”
she asked quietly. “It’s not lineage, heritage, or remembering.
Forgetting is what spell-casters want.”

“Forgetting?” he echoed, surprised by the
cold, controlled tenor of her voice.

“Powerless Groves, powerless Families,
powerless spell-casters are all reminders that the world is still
changing. The magic of this world was banished to a place where it
expected to flourish, and when that failed we returned in the hopes
that, because this world was the original source of our power, it
would return. But magic continues to fade and no magic worker cares
for reminders.”

“You think of yourself as an unwanted
reminder?"

"Don’t patronize me,” she retorted. “I’m
neither blind nor deaf. I see the disapproval and I hear the
whispers. Apparently I am possessed of limitless gall, socializing
with spell-casters as if I might consider myself one of them,” her
fury was evident in her quiet voice, like low thunder. “The general
consensus seems to be that I should restrict my relationships to
the average, non-magical humans.”

Magus Teomond spoke deliberately. “This will
probably seem unlikely to you, but I have some acquaintance with
the same attitude.”

“I cautioned you against patronizing me.” She
bridled under what she thought was mild mockery.

“Not at all,” his reply was not defensive in
tone. “I didn’t become Magus by shaking hands and kissing the
cheeks or curly-haired toddlers,” he advised her. “That came
after.” The last was spoken with wry humor.

“Oh,” Yule remarked with small chagrin. “I
didn’t think to compare—not that our positions are comparable, but
it didn’t occur to me that you may have experienced the same kind
of,” she put a hand over her mouth to stop her nervous prattle.

This action elicited a vague smile from
Prosser. “If I promise not to wind you off to some remote Incan
ruin will it help to calm your nerves?”

“What about a Mayan ruin?” she asked,
removing her hand from her mouth.

His smile was more apparent. “Quite right,
there are any number of remote locales to which I might spirit
you.”

“Or even a quaint bed-and-breakfast,” she
ventured, rewarded with a chuckle.

“I see why the intrepid Marc Woodmont sent
you to solicit my support, you’re unexpectedly disarming.”