“Oh, Lady and Lord,” Lark said, finding tears rising to her own eyes. She hurt. She liked and respected Painted Rock. “She won’t forgive me.”
“She’s bitter,” Holm said.
“As I am.”
“No, you’ve worked through it.” He reached for her hand, but she sidestepped.
“Some. She’s right about us. It won’t work.” Painted Rock’s words had vanquished the last tendrils of sexual haze in Lark and made her face stark reality.
Shades and layers of reality. When Holm fought, his handiwork gave her work. Without fighting and violence there wouldn’t be as much need for Healing. Yet, he was willing to defend and protect with his life—an admirable quality.
Her vision of the world had tilted and cracked. Not only her ideas about her world, but about Holm—and herself. She no longer considered life as black or white.
Holm spoke persuasively. “Painted Rock is wrong. She doesn’t know you or me and can’t see the bond between us.”
“There is no bond between us.” Lark picked up Phyll and started back to the log that held their clothes.
Holm reached for her with his mind, not his hands. She kept all her shields closed against him, ignoring the tiniest thread still stretching between them.
“I won’t let you deny it. I won’t let it break,” Holm said.
She stalked up the beach in silence. He matched her pace easily. Then a long, low tone echoed in the evening. Lark hesitated. She’d forgotten that AllClass Beach held evening prayer. She struggled between the need to escape Holm and the faith that was the basic tenet of their culture.
Holm saw her waver. He grabbed at the moment to try and bind them together once more and strengthen their link.
“Do you ignore the prayer bell?” He made his voice even, nonjudgmental. When she looked at him with hurt eyes, and he sensed again the limits of her strength, he couldn’t prevent himself from holding out his hand. “Let us do this together.” It would remind her of the past. It would deepen their connection. It would bring them together in something other than sex. He needed a hold on her that she couldn’t slip out of. Even if she got away later, he’d have this moment.
She shook her head in confusion. “I can’t. I don’t know—”
He took her face in his hands. Comfort he could give, endlessly. “Don’t try and figure out all the problems now, dear heart, my Bélla. Tomorrow is soon enough to worry.”
Singing wafted to them on the light breeze, from others performing rituals. He let her go. Smiling, he faced the beach. From the corner of his eye he saw her do the same.
Lark didn’t know what to think or feel. But Holm had touched her heart, and gave good advice. A small ritual would uplift her.
He inhaled deeply. The very air around him blurred as he released emotion. A whisper of wind brought the sound of subvocal muttering. Lark strained to hear, caught the rhythm, and smiled. He chanted a mantra! Her own mantra came to mind, as she faced the sea.
The sun, Bel, was setting, sending streamers of coral and red across the sky. The ocean had darkened to midnight blue with white froth. The mysterious scents of the coming night edged out the bright ones of a summer day. Brine and sea fragrances tossed on the waves spoke of Celta’s deep oceans and far shores—depths and beaches she’d never experience. The maroon sand released a pleasant tang as it gave up the heat of the day.
The moment demanded recognition, praise. Lark raised her hands. “Lady, She that holds the oceans in her hands, the eternal flow of sea that reflects the eternal Love encompassing All.”
Holm joined in, his voice deeper than she’d ever heard it, and more reverent. “Lady, Dancer of the Tides, beat of wave and pulse, let our lives manifest as Love in all.”
He held out his hand—whether as participant in the Ritual, friend, or lover, she didn’t know or care. As she took it, the bond between them flowed as steady and powerful as the ocean itself, and she felt that he had meant the gesture to include everything—participant, friend, and lover.
Hands joined together, she found new words. “Lady, strong and ceaselessly loving, send forth your tide of caring.”
Holm said, “Lady, gentle and terrible; like water, changeable and changing, fill us with Your courage and Your Love. Touch us, change us, and make us whole.”
They alternated. His words and the timbre of his voice resonated within her, as if setting up an internal vibration that spoke to her very soul and would never be stilled.
The kittens crept to sit at their feet, staring at the endless ocean and inserting a mew now and then, alternating as she and Holm did, Meserv after Lark, Phyll after Holm.
“We thank You for Your Presence, for Your Love, for Your Peace,” Lark whispered.
Holm raised their locked hands to the ocean. “Blessed be,” they ended in unison.
He turned to face her and caught her other hand. Again the circle of emotion between them was complete, and they experienced the same serenity. He kissed one of her hands, then the other. His eyes had deepened to dark gray, and seemed as bottomless and complex as the ocean. “I thank you for sharing your ritual for the Lady. We must find a moment to honor the Lord. I’ll take you home,” he said.
“Lark!” Painted Rock called.
Lark bit her lip and glanced toward the woman running to them. Painted Rock stopped in front of Lark, not deigning to glance at Holm.
“I wanted to give you this.” Painted Rock panted as she dug into her artist’s satchel and pulled out a piece of papyrus. Thrusting it into Lark’s hands, Painted Rock slanted Holm a glance of triumph.
Lark stared down at a drawing of Ethyn. Her lost Ethyn, the face she’d known so well that had faded from her mind stared back at her. She moaned. This was the man who had shared her goals and her career. Not Holm.
Holm tensed. His jaw squared as he stared at Painted Rock. “What have I ever done to you that you should dislike me so?”
She paled and licked her lips, but didn’t speak.
“Do you think I will take Lark away from you? That I would demand such a thing? That I could sully her relationship with you? Why do you believe she is so fickle?”
Painted Rock tossed her hair back. “You can’t take her from me. I am her sister-in-law. She’s leaving here anyway. I might just follow her from Druida to Gael City. Then you’ll be the one left behind. You’re leaving, aren’t you, Lark?”
Lark felt the shock rippling through Holm at the news and found it difficult to meet his eyes. Why, she didn’t know. Her campaign to head Gael City HealingHall wasn’t a secret. She’d told Holm herself.
He looked at her, eyes glinting silver. “When will you hear about the appointment?”
Lark shrugged. “In a few days.”
Holm’s lips pressed together. The energy vibrating between them increased until Lark could hardly stand still.
“If you leave, I can’t follow you—yet. My duty is here.” Again his lips thinned. Then his grin flashed and he sent her a bolt of pure sexual desire through their connection.
He looked at Painted Rock, eyes sharp. For a moment he tottered between anger and pity. “I’m sorry for your loss. I can imagine how painful the death of a beloved brother is.” His tone deepened with the chill of empathy. “I’m also sorry you can’t set aside your grief to wish your friend Lark happiness.”
Painted Rock flinched. Lark felt the blow, too. Ah, this man knew how to fight!—with words and actions and blades.
Holm gave Painted Rock a half-bow. When he spoke his voice was low and soothing. “I admire your work and respect your friendship with Lark. Should you ever have need of any of my services, please send for me.”
The artist fled. Lark rolled up the portrait and slipped it inside the long pocket of her sleeve, then looked at Holm with wide eyes. Before she could speak, a singing mass of people swirled down a dune, joy and peace hovering around them. Ribbons of pink, red, and white rippled in the evening breeze. Tambourines and hand drums added gaiety. Lyrics spoke of lov
e and betrothal.
Holm took her hand. With that affectionate touch Lark’s doubts melted away and her earlier serenity returned. She and Holm joined the song as the party danced by.
Time eddied around her as they scooped up the kittens, retrieved their footgear, and entered the glider. Silence swathed the trip back to Druida. The peace that the ocean and evening had brought filled the quiet with pure delight that simply living in the moment brought.
At MidClass Lodge, Holm set the glider on steady and walked Lark through the courtyard gates, the tunnel of arched trees, the formal lobby, and down the hallway to her door. Meeting her eyes, he brushed his lips over hers. Their bodies touched only there, mouth to mouth, but desire stirred, as well as an underlying, more intimate emotion. “Merry meet,” he said.
She started. She hadn’t expected those words. “And merry part,” she replied.
“And merry meet again,” he said. He pressed his lips upon hers, then raised his head to catch her gaze. “Tomorrow, Bélla.”
With Phyll curled around her neck and her bag in her hand, Lark opened her door. The first thing she saw was her scrybowl flickering ripples of purple-colored water. Her stomach clenched before she noticed the hue wasn’t the dark purple of T’Hawthorn, but the lavender-rose of the other side of her Family, Heather. Heather-colored water. Her peace evaporated. The scrybowl held a message from her MotherSire, T’Heather.
She plopped a tired Phyll onto the red couch and went to the scrybowl, nearly hidden by several vases of roses. Taking a deep breath, she inhaled their fragrance while she repeated her mantra: calm and serenity, shield and acceptance.
Lark touched the rim of the delicate glass bowl. “Here.”
The image of T’Heather formed in the bowl. “Greetyou, Daughter’sDaughter,” he said. “We would be honored if you joined us for dinner.” His ruddy, square face looked out at her with a serious expression. “Please let us know. Blessed be.”
Her father must have sent that wretched report to T’Heather. Now she’d have to face him and defend herself. Lark bit her lip, never doubting his words were more command than invitation. She glanced at the wall timer and winced. As Healers, T’Heathers ate early, to be ready for any evening emergency. She’d missed dinner.
“Scry T’Heather,” she ordered her bowl, muttering words to smooth her hair before the water stopped swirling and showed her his face. “Greetyou, T’Heather, I just returned from restime at AllClass Beach.” She kept her words unhurried and smiled under his penetrating gaze.
“Greetyou, beloved Daughter of Heather. We’re sorry we missed you,” he said. The unexpected, affectionate title relaxed her.
“Can I come for after-dinner drinks?” Lark knew her duty.
He nodded.“’Port to the Library, we will be having caff, cinnamoncaff, cocoa, and herbals there in a quarter septhour.”
“I’ll be there,” she said.
“We’ll see you soon,” he said and broke the spell.
Lark blew out a breath. As much as she hated it, she’d have to use a whirlwind spell. Now she appreciated Holm renewing her energy.
She inhaled, held her breath, let it out slowly, mentally listing her next actions. “Attention! Whirlwind spell, cleansing, dressing, hair arrangement, and minimal makeup consistent with the occasion of after-dinner drinks at T’Heather Residence.” She snapped both her fingers, closed her eyes, and held completely still as her person was stripped, scoured by hot wind to clean her, underpinnings replaced, followed by an elegant dress with silver metallic threads that swirled onto her. Her hair separated into a hundred strands, yanked into intricate braids, wove together, and freshner makeup spritzed on her face.
After the four miserable minutes, she opened her eyelids to see Phyll sitting straight up on the couch and twitching his tail in fascination at her transformation. He studied her unblinkingly. Pretty, he finally said. Heather colors. Phyll is a Heather name, he reminded her.
“Do you want to go to T’Heather’s?” The words escaped her in a sigh at the battering she’d just endured. She’d like her Fam with her, and he might prove a welcome distraction. As far as she knew, no Heather had bonded with a Familiar animal.
Phyll shifted his muzzle, his whiskers drooped. I would like some fizz-energy from you, he said.
“Of course.” Nerves had kicked in, making her edgy. Siphoning energy to Phyll would benefit her. She walked over to the couch, her toes trying to stretch in the stylish pointed shoes, and lifted Phyll into her hands. Lark met wide green eyes and their bond clicked into place. With the care that made her an excellent Healer, she funneled vitality into the kitten.
“Ready?” she asked.
He’d perked up to lick a patch of hair. Ready.
Lark teleported to T’Heather Residence.
Minimal security spells impinged on her awareness, more from exiting MidClass Lodge than entering the inner walls of a GreatHouse.
The Heathers were the Celtan Healers and kept their doors symbolically open for anyone hurt and in need. No moat or locked greeniron gates barred the estate. It wasn’t set on an island in a lake, like D’SilverFir Residence, or reached through several small gatehouses like T’Holly Residence. Modeled after a French chateau, it was less a fortress than a home.
The library was the most comfortable gathering room in the Residence. Two stories tall with bookcases and a ladder on each wall, the old-fashioned room engendered calm—from the furnishings, the memories of good times that breathed in the room, and the centuries-old spells.
Lushly cushioned furniture in textured materials showing threadbare at the seams boasted wide, welcoming arms. Two large wooden tables, scarred and dented, glowed with scented lemon polish and enabled the Family to work together. A huge globe of Celta floated in the middle of the room, dominating the library. Its surface was bespelled to change as exploration updates were reported, and it slowly turned as the planet itself rotated.
Lark released a breath as she landed on layered Chinju rugs in the corner of the room designated as the teleportation pad. She patted Phyll, who curled around her neck.
The mellow golden light of the chamber, reminiscent of a world with a dimmer sun, also instilled comfort. Yet, her eyes went first to a gleaming brass door on the far side of the room, and the alarmlight above it. The light glowed green. The emergency Healing Room was ready, if necessary.
When she returned her gaze to him, T’Heather smiled at her—approving that she, as any Healer, would check on the state of a Healing facility first.
He held out his hands. “Greetyou, Lark.” His brown eyes were surrounded by white squint-lines. He looked more like a farmer than the premier Healer of Celta.
Lark gave him her hands. “Greetyou, MotherSire.” When they touched, the old link between them—he as her last Teacher and household head—smoothly connected them. He studied her, then nodded and dropped one of her hands, leading her with the other in a courtesy that a nobleman used with a noblewoman. “Come, your MotherDam is here and wishes to see you, too.”
Lark hadn’t expected anything else. Heathers often HeartBonded, and T’Heather and D’Heather were HeartMates.
Her MotherDam rose as Lark approached. D’Heather, a plump woman with prematurely silver hair and bright blue eyes, also studied Lark, then in an unusual gesture, pulled her into a warm, soft embrace.
Lark felt tears sting.
“It has been too long since you have visited us, Lark,” D’Heather chided.
“Yes, Dama,” Lark reverted to the childhood name.
D’Heather tssked and tapped a finger on Lark’s cheek. “Make sure you include us in your busy timetable, Lark. It is very important to keep Family close.” She turned and walked to one of several conversational groupings of furniture set around the large room.
Lark’s smile froze and her step hesitated as she saw Cinerea, her cuz who specialized in Mental-Emotional Healing, sitting on a twoseat and sipping cinnamoncaff from a tiny cup painted with sprays of heather and rimmed
in gold.
Lark dipped her head and continued on. “Greetyou, Cinerea. It’s lovely that you are joining us tonight. How is your husband, Culpeper?”
A thin, elegant woman with russet hair, Cinerea smiled. “He’s very well, immersed in his research as always, and not of a mind to spend any time with us. He sends his regards.”
Just thinking of Culpeper made Lark’s smile widen. Abstracted but kind, he was interested in the process of Healing as well as studying and developing new medicines. “And your children?”
“All three are thriving,” Cinerea said with a laugh. “Nicholas is fostering here with T’Heather. T’Ash Tested Nick and he has the Heather Healing gift,” Cinerea said proudly. “It’s his first week here. We thought to start him as soon as possible.”
“He’s seven, isn’t he?” Lark relaxed as she heard the reason for Cinerea’s visit. Her presence wasn’t solely to observe Lark. Lark smiled. Though the day had had emotional ups and downs, she still felt more relaxed than she’d been for a long time and knew her inner peace showed clearly.
“Yes, Nick’s seven, and settling in,” Cinerea said.
Phyll mewed politely.
Cinerea started, then focused on him, and Lark realized that her new hair arrangement had hidden the kitten.
“Who’s that?” Cinerea placed her tiny cup in an equally tiny gilded saucer and rose.
Lark drew Phyll from her neck and put him on the rug. T’Heather and D’Heather came to stand and admire him.
“This is Phyll, my Fam,” Lark said.
T’Heather shot her a shrewd look. “Phyll’s a Heather name.”
“I didn’t name him,” Lark said more sharply than she wanted.
D’Heather crouched and crooned, holding out a hand to Phyll. “What a precious baby. What lovely colored fur. What intelligent green eyes.”
“You’d think she didn’t have enough children calling her Dama,” muttered T’Heather, “gushing about an animal.”
Lark blinked. T’Heather’s descendants were numerous for a noble Celtan Family. He had two children, four grandchildren, and seven great-grandchildren. She was the only childless grandchild. She ignored the thought.
Heart Duel Page 10
