Page 3 of Reluctant Wizard

So, to kick off his research into romance—an effort likely to be as doomed as this epic love affair—this afternoon Cillian had started reading The Saga of Sylus and Lyndella for the first time in his life. He hadn’t even gotten past the first few pages, an unusually slow pace for him, because he kept sticking on various passages like this. She was meant to be his, in every way, utterly and completely. Sylus wouldn’t rest until Lyndella knelt at his feet.

The kneeling, of course, his analytical brain informed him, was a reference to the bonding ceremony, in which a familiar knelt at a wizard’s feet and accepted the binding enchantment that would tie them together until death parted them. That part wasn’t relevant to Cillian’s interests. He’d embarked on this research project to better understand his feelings for the lovely, prickly, and often remote Alise Phel, who was a wizard like himself. So, really, a wizard–familiar romance wasn’t an appropriate model at all. Not to mention the reality that Cillian was unlikely to ever have a familiar as archivists typically never required that kind of magical boosting.

Alise was a different story. With her tremendous natural talent for, and growing skill in manipulating spirits, she would almost certainly bond a familiar someday. And she would need a familiar appropriate for her status as a high-house wizard, possibly even the head of a high house, as looked to be her destiny. Romances between wizards certainly occurred, but were rarely monogamous, unless the wizards were lower-tier types, like himself. Harahel, alone among the high houses, seemed to have more lasting, wizard–wizard marriages. The wizard–familiar relationship, however, was an intimate one, usually including erotic play, unless the bonded pair were siblings. Thus, many wizard–familiar pairs were also married or sexually exclusive. More, he understood that magical bond created an intensity of connection unlike any other.

Alise would have that someday. He wanted her to have that, and more. Alise deserved happiness and her heart’s desire. And that would not be a wizard–wizard relationship, particularly not with the equivalent of a magical pedestrian, currently employed in an entry-level position at Convocation Academy.

Cillian didn’t even know why he was thinking about anything but being Alise’s friend, much less studying up as if he’d take some kind of action.

Well, strike that. He did know the why. The first time she’d walked into the library, clutching her pass from the provost to her slim bosom like a shield, her wizard-black eyes huge in her piquant face, his heart had lurched dangerously. With her warm, golden skin, and slight figure, she’d resembled a candle flame, lighting up the gloom of his dull night shifts at the reference desk. Something about her struck him hard and fast, hitting him with heady desire and something dangerously like love at first sight.

She was meant to be his…

There was no “meant to be,” of course, outside of fiction. No love at first sight, especially without an actual conversation—though he had known who she was.

His Harahel magic meant that he could recall anything he deliberately memorized, and he made a point of keeping up with the Convocation Academy student roster. So, he’d known that Alise Phel, née Elal, had returned to the academy after a great scandal in which she’d helped two lovelorn familiars escape. Good girl, heir-apparent to House Elal, early manifesting Wizard Alise had been the last person anyone had expected to aid in that rebellion.

Alise had returned to Convocation Academy to finish her education, to the delight of gossips and annoyance of those professors who considered her a lost cause. Cillian hadn’t paid much attention either way. Until she walked into the library, catching his attention not unlike the way Lyndella had seized Wizard Sylus’s singular devotion the first time he saw her dance. A trope that annoyed Cillian even as it resonated.

Cillian had been riveted by Alise, hit by lightning, her magic as tantalizing as the scent of roses on a warm summer afternoon. And she hadn’t even glanced in his direction, just waved that pass at him, entirely focused on her search. He loved that intense, single-mindedness of hers.

He’d kept an eye on her, rationalizing that it was part of his job, though weeks passed without her asking for his assistance. She was a loner, wrapped in a cocoon of remote stillness. And, as he reminded himself daily, she was a student. She might be only four years younger than him, but he was faculty and in a position of power over her, even if it was only a laughably minor sort of power. Cillian was no Sylus, master of vast holdings and possessor of a telekinetic wizardry so devasting he could rend the very bedrock of the land.

Which, a salient point about Sylus, he’d eventually done, destroying his enemies and an entire land along with them in taking vengeance for Lyndella, who died alone and separated from him. At least, if the story was to be believed. The Saga of Sylus and Lyndella was a fictionalized account of a historical tale with murky provenance, at best. Probably ninety percent of the purported “history” had been embellished, if not created whole hog, over the centuries. The book was almost entirely nonsense. So, why was he reading it?

Because he didn’t understand romance, he supposed, and he desperately needed to. He didn’t understand this consuming desire for Alise nor what, if anything, to do about it. She’d been called to Provost Uriel’s office the moment they disembarked from the carriage they’d shared to return to Convocation Academy, and he’d been commanded to attend shortly thereafter. He had no choice but to wait. And wonder. So he did what he always did: read a book to pass the time; bonus if it served as research. He snorted softly to himself in disgust, reading the same lines again.

How dare she refuse his offer? She was meant to be his, in every way, utterly and completely. Sylus wouldn’t rest until Lyndella knelt at his feet.

Alise hadn’t refused Cillian’s offer, of course—because he hadn’t made one. He wasn’t even sure what he’d offer, even if he mustered the balls to do it and overcame all good sense at the same time. He didn’t have much of anything, with no prospects of ever having much. And, when he allowed himself to indulge in romantic fantasies about Alise, none of them included her kneeling and capitulating to him. He wanted her by his side—and he had absolutely zero desire to be like Sylus, full of possessive rage. That wasn’t him at all.

The problem was: he also didn’t much want to be himself. Bookish, retiring, baker of cinnamon rolls, and apt to blurt out things he shouldn’t. Probably Alise knew very well that he had a crush on her, as he’d foolishly said inappropriate things to her when she finally did approach him for assistance. She hadn’t even known his name then, pronouncing it with a soft C instead of a hard one. That should have been humiliation enough to make it abundantly clear how delusional he’d been. He groaned in the back of his throat at the memory.

“Are you well, Archivist Cillian?” Priyan, the provost’s aide and familiar, asked with a frown of concern. “You were making some… noises,” he added when Cillian looked up in confusion. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, no,” Cillian said, sharply enough to make Priyan’s frown deepen. “I mean, I’m fine. No problem here.”

“Provost Uriel should be with you very soon,” Priyan said kindly.

“I’m fine,” Cillian said, realizing he was repeating himself. “I have my book.” He held it up in demonstration, feeling like even more of an idiot when Priyan smiled and nodded.

Just then, the doors to the provost’s office flew open and Alise stalked out. She had a way of entering every room like she defied anyone there to kick her out. Her older sister, Nic, now Lady Phel, had a similar manner, though more confident and less prickly. Both Elal sisters took up a lot of air in the room, drawing the light to them. Alise just tended to look as if she’d rather that wasn’t the case.

Alise’s sharply black eyes fixed on him, and she nodded in greeting, formally, as if they hadn’t just shared a carriage ride back from House Phel for two days. Not to mention all the time they’d spent together before that. Her short black hair stood out in tousled spikes, looking as if she’d been running her hands through it, and she hunched her shoulders inside the mud-spattered black raincoat she’d worn from Meresin, which wasn’t really warm enough for Convocation Center in wintertime. A flush of emotion graced her high cheekbones, but she looked otherwise composed.

“Archivist Cillian,” she greeted him, in what he’d learned to identify as her in-control, lady-of-the-high-house voice. “I’m told to ask you to go in now.”

“Ah, thank you, Wizard Alise.” He was enough of a dork that, in fumbling to stand up from the oversized chair, he dropped his book. Reaching for it, he nearly bumped heads with Alise, who’d crouched to retrieve it. She naturally peeked at the title. He really hoped he wasn’t blushing. Even more strongly, he wished for a hole to open up in tower floor, drop him twenty stories, and kill him immediately.

“Not your usual reading fare,” she commented, raising a brow. She’d know perfectly well that he hadn’t brought the book on their journey, which meant she’d also deduce that he’d grabbed it specifically to read while waiting to be fired.

“Research for a special project,” he said, immediately regretting the choice of words. What project would that be, Cillian, you idiot? “It’s really quite awful, how Sylus behaves,” he babbled on, kicking himself mentally for still talking. As usual around her, he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Also, he didn’t want Alise to think that he thought about women that way. “A terrible example, in truth.”

Then he caught the slight wrinkle of her nose, a wince of discomfort at the corners of her eyes. “Have you read it?” he asked belatedly, with a very bad feeling.

A smile quirked her solemn mouth. Alise rarely smiled in full, always restraining herself. “I did. I believe I filched Nic’s copy and read it at an age far too young for some of the content.”

“I loved that book,” Priyan said on a dreamy sigh. “I used to fantasize about being Lyndella, swept away by Sylus.”

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