She’d miss Maroon Beach and its deep red sand, T’Horehound’s Garden, and, most especially, her friend Trif Clover. But Gael City would be good for her. Gael City was more casual than Druida, the capital and oldest city on Celta. Gael City was also less under the thumb of the FirstFamilies and nobles in general. It could use a FirstLevel Healer. There, maybe she could blossom into the woman she sensed she could become, a woman not dragged down by the past or dodging the continual manipulations of her father—but a woman ready to unfurl new wings to fly to the future. A woman more open to people and possibilities.
She bit her lip when she realized the silver shade of the courtyard reminded her of Holm Holly, his gilt hair and his eyes that changed from dark gray to gleaming silver. She wondered if he was fighting and how she’d feel if he got hurt.
Her scrybowl played a lilting melody, announcing an incoming call. She glanced at the timer and frowned. It neared the second morning septhour, 2 A.M. Who would call? Any emergency or Family summons would be announced by starburst-page.
She walked over to the scry bowl. “Here.”
A boy’s mischievous grin greeted her. A prank?
“Greetyou, GentleLady Collinson.” His head bobbed out of sight as he bowed.
He looked a little familiar, more, his general coloring and features tickled her memory—noble features, GreatHouse features. Lark frowned. “I know you—”
“Muin T’Vine, Vinni.” He puffed out a thin chest. “I’m GreatLord T’Vine. You delivered me nine years ago. I was your first kid.” He stared at her hands. “You have FabFlaired hands, I remember.”
Lark repressed a shiver. She didn’t doubt it. He had been the first babe she’d brought into the world from his mother’s womb. He’d been uncanny, with ever-changing eye color. Lark had felt the seed of powerful Flair in him, which was immediately confirmed by the Oracle attending the birth. Old D’Vine, the prophetess, had done the honors of Oracle, and named the newborn as her Heir, bypassing three generations of her descendants. No, Lark didn’t need any further reminding of Vinni, the seer.
“I’ve got your coordinates, you’re in MidClass Lodge. I’m there, transnow.” His image vanished and his voice lost the tinny scrysound as he spoke again, behind her. “Nice cave. Soft cushions and sweet-smelling potpourri, Phyll will like it. Got any cocoa mousse?” He opened his satchel and an orange kitten hopped out, hissing, with all its hair on end.
Before she bent to pick it up, Lark was in love. “Mine?”
“Zanth, Fam to T’Ash, is the Sire and a feral Downwind queen is the Dam. The kitten was raised by GreatLady D’Ash.”
“Good bloodline.” She stroked the kitten’s head.
Wide emerald eyes gleamed. Greetyou, FamWoman, it said.
She held it at eye level, cocked an eyebrow at Vinni, who continued to grin. “Male?”
“Yeah. One tough cookie. One great Fam. He and his brother, Meserv, are really special cats. Make sure they spend a lot of time together.”
I’m Phyll. A tiny pink tongue licked her cheek and Lark choked. You are lonely. I’m here now.
Vinni looked away and scuffed his feet.
“Phyll. That’s not a Collinson name,” Lark said.
The boy gave her a sharp, too-adult look. “You’re not a Collinson.”
“I—”
Vinni cut her off with a commanding gesture. “He was your husband and you had a short time together. He’s cycling on the wheel of stars, awaiting rebirth, gone. He wasn’t your HeartMate.”
The word shocked her. She had no HeartMate in this life. She’d never connected with a HeartMate during the turbulent Passages that freed her Flair.
HeartMate, Phyll echoed.
She held her breath.
Vinni continued relentlessly. “Phyll’s not your Family name of Hawthorn, either. Phyll’s a Heather name, from your mother, Calluna. You carried the name of Larkspur Hawthorn, but don’t forget, the skylark is a Heather symbol.” His odd-colored eyes went distant, focused again. “Don’t think you can run from Druida and your destiny,” he whispered.
Lark shivered. He opened his mouth, looked at her, shut it, jerked his head in a nod. “You will do very well.” He screwed up his mouth, nodded again. “Think of what Family the name Meserv comes from.” Vinni bowed once more. “Merry meet.”
Lark resumed breathing; obviously he wasn’t going to say anything else about her future right this moment. She chilled as she thought of “destiny.” She inclined her head. “And merry part.”
“And merry meet again. We will meet again.” He left with a pop.
Lark shook her head. Far too many noble males were telling her that.
Phyll licked her face with a rough little tongue, his brilliant green gaze fastened on her. We all have fine fate. He mewed, his eyes widened more, and he playfully bit at her thumb. Foood. Mmm-Meserv-vvv. Foood.
The next morning Holm sparred with several men at The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon until his G’Uncle Tab, twelve decades old, overpowered him. Pushing Holm against a wall, Tab braced his gnarly arm across Holm’s throat. “I guess I know what’s gnawin’ at you, boy, but you don’ have to take it out on me anymore. I got better things to do than be a beatin’ bag for you,” Tab panted. He’d gone to sea as a young man, and his accent slipped from time to time into seaspeech.
“I have to marry,” Holm said between clenched teeth.
“Yap, you do. Real sorry that ya are between the cauldron and the deep blue sea, but that’s an Heir’s duty for you. Ya have filled the shoes of a Heir very well.” Tab shrugged. “Ya knew this day would come. Make the best of it instead of comin’ around to batter my students ’cause ya are antsy.”
Holm growled.
Tab swatted Holm’s head hard enough to make his ears ring. “And don’ try an’ take it out on me.”
“If you can’t take it . . .” Holm grinned ferally and whipped his sword out.
Tab promptly twisted the weapon from his grip.
Holm scowled.
“I don’ have to take anythin’ from ya, boy. And I want ya gone, you’re scarin’ my students away. This is a respectable place, been in the Family for generations, an’ I won’ let ya close it down ’cause you’re in a snit. If ya wanna fight, go pick on your friend T’Ash.”
Holm bared his teeth. “He’s no fun since he married. We practice defensive sparring only. Maybe Tinne—” Holm gagged as the muscular arm cut off his air.
“Don’ be a-pesterin’ that boy. Tinne’s my heir. He’ll be a-runnin’ this place when I retire. An’ I want him in good shape to do it. Now sheath your sword, cool your blaser, and master your temper. Ain’ nothin’ ya can do here that will make your duty any more tasty, an’ I’m tired of ya beatin’ on me. So, go!” With a strength that belied his many years, Tab marched Holm to the atrium and shoved him out.
Holm winced at Tab’s loud binding spell on the door, denying Holm entrance for an eightday. He looked back at the inner doors to the salon, narrowing his eyes. If the place was forbidden to him for a week, he’d go mad. He needed somewhere to work off his restlessness and figure out how he was going to woo and win his HeartMate. The sparring rooms in T’Holly Residence smelled so sour he could barely tolerate them.
He might even find himself looking for fights in Downwind slums—there real danger awaited him.
He jammed his blade into its sheath and stormed from the salon, nearly tripping over a boy of about nine who sat on the steps.
“HollyHeir.” Something in the very quietness of the boy’s voice stopped Holm. He turned, hand on sword hilt.
The child gave him a cheeky grin.
Holm snorted. “You want me?”
“No, you need me,” the boy said. “More than that, you need him.” He pulled something that had made a small bulge in the leather satchel beside him into the summer morning.
Before Holm knew it, the tiny marmalade tom kitten had mewed plaintively and attached all of its small, sharp claws onto his shirt. He
sighed—the silkeen shirt was ruined. He scowled at the boy, then froze in recognition.
“You’re the new GreatLord T’Vine,” Holm said. Muin was the fourth generation son of the old seeress, given the title at so young an age because of his outstanding Flair in prophecy.
“Muin T’Vine, that’s me. Call me Vinni.” He gave a little bow. Holm would have done better at his age.
Holm scanned the neighborhood. An old established commercial area near CityCenter, it was still no place for a Noble child alone. “You shouldn’t be here by yourself.”
A dimple flashed in T’Vine’s cheek. “Now and then I evade my captors—um, tutors. I’m really just a kid, after all.”
Holm doubted it.
“And you need me.” Vinni struck a cocky pose, legs wide, hands on hips. “I picked the kitten ’specially for you from one of Zanth’s get. Dam was a Downwind feral. His name is Meserv, a Holly name.” Vinni’s voice became crisp. “I’ve had a vision.” He screwed up his mouth as if thinking how to phrase it.
Holm quashed rising anxiety. He hadn’t ever been on the receiving end of a prophecy and he didn’t like it.
Vinni jutted his chin. “Think on this and remember when the future comes to pass. You have a hard fight ahead and you also need”—he lifted a finger—“One: to make a HeartGift”—another finger rose—“Two: two protective amulets from T’Ash, and”—a shudder passed through him—“Three: to be reminded of the Null, Captain Ruis Elder of the starship Nuada’s Sword.”
Holm’s stomach clenched into a sickening knot. “Not Ruis Elder—” Ruis Elder was a Null, a person who drained a person’s Flair, negated their psi powers. No one with great Flair cared to endure Ruis Elder’s presence.
“Gotta go. Merry meet.”
“And merry part,” Holm said through cold lips. He didn’t know what Vinni’s words meant and wished he could forget them, but didn’t dare.
“And merry meet again!” T’Vine skipped a few steps and vanished with a quiet pop and a scent of ozone.
“I won’t meet you again, if I can help it,” Holm muttered, sure he wasn’t alone in the thought. Those Vines were damned uncanny. No wonder people avoided them.
Now the little cat was a source of comfort. Holm cradled it in his hands, enjoying its warmth and rumbling sides.
Fooood. A teeny telepathic voice echoed in his mind.
Holm lifted the kitten to eye level.
It unscrunched its face and opened wide blue eyes.
Fooood.
“I suppose you want cocoa mousse.”
A little pink tongue darted out. Furrabeast bites? First?
Holm sighed and cuddled the kitten close to his chest. “You’re Zanth’s son, most definitely.”
Meserv settled, sniffed. Excellent smell. We all have fine fate.
“A HeartMate! Oh, my darling son, I’m so thrilled for you.”
Dozing, his mother’s voice sounded like it came from a long distance. Though he couldn’t see her, Holm knew his mother was dancing. She had a habit of dancing when she was in high spirits. It made for some interesting GreatHouse Rituals.
He grunted and fumbled for his robe. Meserv mewed in reproach at being jostled. Holm lay in the sunlight pouring through the glass dome of the solar on the top level of GreatHouse Holly Residence, drowsing after a strenuous swim.
“You naughty boy, you’ve been avoiding your father and me.”
He had. Unlike most other topics in his life, the interview with the matchmaker D’Willow and its outcome was not something he wanted to discuss with his parents.
“Where are you?” Passiflora D’Holly trilled.
He heard the hasty push of a branch, and the limb snapping back. “Ow! Don’t you think this conservatory of yours is getting a teensy bit overgrown, dear? Holm? Holm!”
Reluctantly he sat up from the natural moss bed and pulled the fleecy sorbaroot robe around him, letting delightful wisps of daydreams about Lark Collinson dissolve. He glanced at Meserv, who had rolled over to his back, round belly prominent and forepaws curled over it. The Fam gave a little snuffle of pleasure. He’d gorged on ground furrabeast at lunch.
Holm pushed back wet hair from falling in his face and braced for a conversation with his Mother. It would be hard to avoid all the points he wanted to keep to himself.
“Here, Mamá.”
“Holm!” She beamed as she did a dance step and a pirouette. She waved the D’Willow report, which sported four different colored seals. Before he could rise, she came over and gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek. “There’s my boy.”
D’Holly tickled Meserv’s stomach. The kitten burped, slitted its eyes. Greetyou, D’Holly. Good lunch.
She laughed. “Lots of lunch, anyway. Go back to sleep.”
Meserv’s sapphire eyes closed.
His mother glanced at the verdant plant life. “Yes, perhaps we should have the gardeners cut this back a trifle. My, this little alcove is something of a green cave, isn’t it? Hmmm.”
“I’ll speak to them.” He’d tell them not to touch a thing.
“Ah, Holm, a HeartMate, I’m so glad for you.” She sat down, slipped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. “You can’t know how much that marriage discussion hurt.” Her voice was muffled. He swung an arm around her and squeezed her.
“I didn’t want to force you to marry, but the demands of the Family . . .” His mother had been a FirstFamily daughter of GrandHouse Apple, taught from infancy about Family demands. It was great luck for T’Holly and GrandMistrys Passiflora Apple that they’d been HeartMates, but just as the Nobles bred for powerful Flair, so, too, did they more often than others find HeartMates. A HeartMate bond for their line was treasured.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a small voice against him, “but we would have expected you to marry, HeartMate or no. Just as we expect you to marry quickly now.” She rubbed her face on the cloth, then she kissed his cheek once more.
His mother glanced at the report. “But now you don’t have to settle for a wife, you have a HeartMate!” Her dimples flashed.
Holm sighed. “I don’t think it’s going to be as easy as your and T’Holly’s courtship.”
“No? But a HeartMate bond—it can’t be very difficult.”
“Tell T’Ash that.”
“Ah, T’Ash.” D’Holly gave an airy wave. “There were extenuating circumstances, his unfortunate childhood. . . . Nothing like that for you, my dear.”
Now was the time for his own dancing—around the subject. He couldn’t tell her anything he didn’t want his father to know. Holm gave her a final hug, stood, and stretched. His mother rose and nearly matched him in height, a tall, slender woman. The Hawthorns ran to small and curvy. Holm’s daughters would be lucky if they got their FatherDam’s height.
“Did the report name the lady?” Holm asked.
D’Holly squinted down at it. She said she was too busy to get her eyes Healed back to their youthful acuity. Holm just thought she was too impatient for the eight-day procedure. He came from an impatient family.
“No, D’Willow didn’t say who your HeartMate was. Odd. No, ah, but she says you know.”
He had to tell his mother enough that she’d give him time to woo Lark, yet couldn’t reveal his HeartMate was a Hawthorn. That would guarantee that his parents would interfere. The whole situation was messy—and would become even more chaotic if GreatLords T’Holly and T’Hawthorn got involved.
“I’ve had inklings.” Since two months ago when he’d met Lark to plan the charity dance to benefit AllClass HealingHall, and had felt an unexpected pull. Ever since, he’d made it a point to see her at least once an eightday. He fought his own nature to pounce, but also fought a deep, unsettling feeling that if he gave into the desire, his life would change forever.
D’Holly’s feet pattered in a little tap dance. “Tell me.”
He plucked the report from her fingers and tossed it to the pallet. Meserv opened one eye as if considering a pounc
e, burped again, and curled onto his side.
Holm took his mother’s hands and drew her into a waltz. He danced her from the small alcove to the cool stones surrounding the deep blue irregular pool.
She laughed and hummed a waltz of her own, one of her first musical compositions. Music continually ran through his mother’s mind. She was always accompanied by some mental tune. Music and dancing would distract her.
“My wooing won’t be easy. My HeartMate’s a Healer.”
D’Holly almost missed a step. Her eyes widened, then she winced. “Oh, dear. Healers almost never approve of fighting. And Hollys are fighters. Why, you, after your father, are the premier fighter of Celta.”
“I know.”
“It is the basic nature of the Hollys. Something that we will never breed out of the line.”
“I know.”
“It is expected of the Hollys.” She tilted her head. “Perhaps it will take two weeks of courting.”
“Yes.” He spun her into a sweeping turn. She closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened them, they focused on the bare triangle of his chest and the dark red scar of a blaser burn.
“Oh, dear,” she said again. “Scarred. All of you. My innocent babe that was once so smooth and flawless.”
“Not for a long time.”
“Who’s that dancing with my HeartMate?” T’Holly’s voice boomed, then was smothered by plants and the waterfall at the end of the pool. “GreatHouse Residence, music if you please, an Earthen waltz for my GreatLady and me.”
Music filled the solar.
“Louder!” T’Holly ordered. The beautiful “Blue Danube” drowned out his voice. He gracefully cut in and took his wife in his arms. “This is a frivolous place, glass and greenery, a pool, and a waterfall. A waterfall! On top of the Residence.”
Like many GreatHouse Residences, the Holly home was modeled on an Earth castle. It had no fairy-tale charm but was a real fortress, walls rising five stories before angling outward in battlements—a solid, square building with no turrets and no windows on the outside until the last level. The pool had been in the basement. Holm had hated the dank, moldy place. He’d had to fight for the remodeling, and his father would voice displeasure all of his life. It was worth it.
Heart Duel Page 3
