The Wellspring Read online

  THE WELLSPRING

  By

  M. Frances Smith

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 M. Frances Smith

  License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter One

  Denial was futile: Prosser Teomond possessed everything needed for success.

  Magus Teomond, Yule corrected herself with a sarcastic inner voice, glaring at the attractive male image magically reflected in her vanity mirror.

  Disapproval marred her candid, usually pacific features as she brooded on the intelligent, aristocratic face of the preeminent psycho-archaeologist and dissected the moving passages he read aloud from his current best seller, The Earth Is Whole Again, Are You?.

  This was one contender for the Throne whom no crafty Magus would ever prevail against in combat or Court, she allowed grudgingly, cognizant of a gently vindictive desire to witness exactly that circumstance. There was imbalance when any man or woman possessed too much charm, intellect, success, wit and beauty—

  “You did not just describe Prosser Teomond as beautiful,” she chastised herself aloud.

  “If you didn’t, I sure as hell will,” Hermes declared, entering the master bedroom suite and waving a manicured hand, igniting every candle in the room simultaneously, diminishing the clarity of the attractive visage who was the instrument of his young friend’s personal discord.

  “You only think he’s devastating because he’s Magus Teomond,” Yule scolded fondly as the handsome man moved around her bedroom closing windows and drawing the drapes. “I like the night air,” she added complainingly.

  “You wouldn’t like the things that come in on the night air,” he ignored her complaint.

  “And I like the morning sun to wake me,” she groused further.

  “You’re a brat when you wake up that early,” he dismissed her pout as he turned down her bedcovers. “You’re in a foul mood tonight. Did the tutor give you a hard time?”

  “No more than usual.”

  Hermes considered the back of her glossy sable locks and noted the tilt of her head. His discerning gaze moved to the wraiths within the mirror. “Is that Prosser Teomond?”

  “You know it is,” Yule replied with feigned boredom.

  “Why didn’t you say you were spying on him?” Hermes scolded, drawing a straight back, red velvet-upholstered chair over to hers and sitting.

  “I’m not spying on him. This is a public broadcast,” Yule denied her friend’s allegation.

  “I’d spy on him,” Hermes sighed. “He’s powerful, handsome, and he’s probably going to ascend the Throne.” He gazed at the intense face in the mirror. “Why are all of the good ones straight?”

  “You’re not.”

  “Was that a compliment?” he teased her.

  “No, just an observation. You are good.” Yule frowned at the mirror. “I don’t think he is.”

  Hermes chuckled. “Prosser’s not a bad man, he’s powerful, and power has always bothered you. Oh, is that what this sour mood of your is all about? Did you hear back about your application?”

  “My application.” Yule scowled at the mirror. “It never got as far as H.R., it was rejected in the mailroom! It was sniffed out by a sorting imp as imprinted by decelerated magic,” she didn’t conceal her bitterness at the bigotry magically inclined folk showed toward their own who happened to be less powerful.

  “I’m sorry,” Hermes commiserated, taking her nearer hand. “It doesn’t matter very much, does it? You don’t even like Prosser Teomond. Why would you want to work in his spell pool?”

  “I don’t, but I need the extra money for the Grove. If payment lapses the deed will be snapped up by a developer looking to build the next family vacation getaway.”

  “Would that be so bad?”

  The tenor of Hermes’ question surprised Yule. The startled look in her hazel eyes elicited a wan smile on the man’s firm lips. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound heartless, but sometimes I wonder if the damn Grove is worth all of the sweat and magic you’ve put into it.”

  “How can you say that?” Yule exclaimed, unable to believe her guardian and friend would make such a suggestion. “That’s my Family Grove! You saw it when we came here, when it was turning brown and dying of neglect, and you’ve seen it since I assumed possession, how the color and life has returned—”

  “I know you’ve done a wonderful thing—a selfless and honorable one. I’d never deny your sacrifice, but how is it going to benefit you?” Hermes glanced down at their joined hands and back to Yule’s angry face. “I’m only telling you the facts, Yule, you spend every spare moment in the Grove, riding over proverbial hill and dale to a power-spent Grove that isn’t going to recharge in your lifetime—if ever. I know, I know—it’s growing again and it’s your Family Grove,” Hermes added quickly, “but that area’s gone back to wilderness and the power isn’t regenerating, which likely means it never will. Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed. With new Groves being allotted every day, closer in, the old ones are gradually vanishing. In no time at all the oldest, most inaccessible ones will be abandoned altogether—in favor of urban Groves—so why do you insist on throwing away every spare cent and extra ounce of power on an archaic venture?”

  “Marc doesn’t think it’s an archaic venture,” Yule argued peevishly.

  “Marc doesn’t, does he?” Hermes propped an elbow on the back of Yule’s chair. “I can’t help thinking you’d obsess less if Marc Woodmont weren’t so involved in the Reclamation Project.”

  Yule blushed, confirming his suspicion. “That’s what I suspected. You can’t keep tagging along after his heels like a lovesick sex imp. You have one of the oldest Family names, but he’s got you following him in adoration the same way he has all of those Acolytes following him. It’s as unhealthy as a binding spell and I damn well don’t approve no matter how good he looks in a pair of tight jeans.”

  “My Family name is barely remembered,” Yule pointed out. “And Marc is a talented spell-caster no matter what kind of jeans he’s wearing.” She pushed his elbow off of the back of her chair. “You never complained when he stopped by for coffee, to discuss the R.P., or when he started to help me with the Grove. In fact you used to be happy that I was spending more time at the Grove and less at the Grotto. Why do you suddenly have a problem with him?”

  Hermes propped his muscular arm on the back of her chair again. “I don’t have a problem with him, and I’d better not catch you falling in with Liza Silvercrest’s power hungry Grotto again. Not after what I went through getting you away from them.” He stroked her dark hair soothingly. “You need to socialize, network with others like you, make friends—and see more of the world and the men in it, not cloister yourself away with one man who will never take advantage of you and another who’s too high on a pedestal to reach.”

  He sighed with exasperation and gave a handful of her hair a playful tug. “I’m late for a thing—I’ll have to use the wind, but we’ll discuss this more tonight. All of this, and you,
must change.” With this pronouncement he rose from the chair, waved a hand, and vanished, leaving behind a mildly curious Yule to dress for out of doors work and find her way out of town to the surrounding wilderness and to her Family Grove.

  As was often the case of late, the Grove bustled with activity as Acolytes moved throughout the clearing, among the trees, carrying water, fertilizer, and gardening implements, when Yule arrived on foot. The glade fairly glowed with vitality and health, the complete opposite of its woebegone, forsaken, and decaying state in which Yule discovered it when first coming to the ancient Grove. It seemed to thrive as much on pure attention as it did on the water, plant food, and pruning. She supposed this was probably true since power groves were attuned to magical energy, but unfortunately the attention was too late to recharged its depleted power base. It would survive and grow, but not as a true Grove, only as a representation of powers past.

  Still, this was her ancestral Grove and she felt pride and happiness as she strolled up the trimmed grass-and-clover path and into the sylvan depths where ancient stone walls still surrounded the altar that served her family as a power base in centuries past. One of two Acolytes worked busily at scrubbing moss from the large stone and greeted her with casual friendliness as she entered.

  “Hello,” she replied. “Is Marc around?”

  “Not yet, he called to let us know he had to attend a meeting that might run long,” said Brenna, who relaxed nearby, a willowy redhead whom Yule privately resented because she was already a skilled spell-caster with an old, revered Family name whose power base had diluted very little down the ages. There was no doubt in Yule’s mind that Brenna Nova’s membership in the Reclamation Project had more to do with politics and personal interest in its founder than any sense of respect for the past. In fact, because of her family’s connections she spent more time with Marc than any of them. “Anything new going on in the spell-crowd?”

  Yule shrugged vaguely. “Very little, that’s obvious. I wanted to talk to Marc about a couple rumors. I’d like to get his opinion.”

  Brenna gave a small toss of her head. “He probably won’t be very late. He’s meeting with the Sayer of the West Coast—she’s willing to broadcast a dialogue about the Project. She may even use a Visionary in tandem, which'll be a super boost for the Project.”

  “Absolutely,” agreed Yule.

  “And I managed to get Laura Lyra interested.”

  Laura Lyra was born in Catahiti after the previously banished realm of magic reemerged to blend with, and reshape, the average-human Earth, and she currently enjoyed wide success among spell-casters and the non magical as a pop star.

  Her latest single was fairly skyrocketing up the charts and looked like it would be number one, worldwide, by the end of the week. Fans who indulged in learning trivia about their idols would almost certainly back any organization fortuitous enough to garner the support, and especially endorsement of the particular organization by that idol.

  It deeply offended Yule’s sense of etiquette to namedrop so blatantly.

  “And my father plans to bring the matter before the Apex at the next Moon’s gathering,” she added, seeming to take great pleasure in the expression of awe on the other Acolyte’s face.

  “You must thank your father for all of us,” Yule remarked, making certain to clearly indicate to Brenna to whom the gratitude belonged. The flush on Brenna’s arrogantly attractive face told Yule she’d hit her mark.

  “Have you been contacted by Teomond yet, Yule?” asked the other Acolyte, Jory, a young man of nineteen whose enthusiasm to be helpful never waned.

  “I’m afraid not,” she reported somberly, hating to disappoint him. “I’ve messaged him and spoken to his assistant, but I’ve been unable to gain a personal audience.”

  “Maybe it’s time to get more aggressive?” he suggested. “We’re in serious need of a political figure to broadcast regularly for us and he’d be wonderful.”

  Brenna nodded at that observation. “He spoke for the Grotto in Orange Acres and kept the human developers from violating the building treaty, remember? The rumor is that he did it free of barter or charge. If he’s willing to speak for them why not us too?”

  Yule didn’t say so, but she thought a handful of small, power sapped Groves sinking into obscurity differed vastly from a venerable Grotto steeped in power, culture, and historical significance. Numerous skilled spell-casters argued with local politicians against destruction of historical landmarks and the unbridled expansion of humans into previously magic endowed-only occupied territories, but even though an honorable principle was involved in rescuing and protecting historical Groves, would Magus Prosser Teomond view it as worthy of his support? Especially if there was no profit in it? All of the Project’s limited resources were committed to the groves in their care.

  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 ti
me 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.