One of his large hands continued to curve her lower body into his, while the other tipped her chin up, stroked her throat.
They stayed that way for long moments until Lark realized she had to fight or surrender. She opened her eyes to be caught in a silver gaze fiery with need. Holm’s cheeks showed a hectic flush. His lips looked plush and inviting as the amulet that had caused all this.
“Kiss me,” he said.
They made it to the bedroom this time.
The moment she awoke, Lark knew she and Phyll were alone. She’d lived there long enough to know the daily sounds and energies of those who roomed around her. Phyll snuffled in his sleep near her head. When she looked where Holm had sprawled, there wasn’t even the indentation of his body in the linens or the permamoss beneath.
Despite the summer heat, she was cold to the bone. He’d taken her at her word, then. The night had been their last. She didn’t know how she could endure the pain. She’d never felt such emotional agony, not when her mother had died, not when her father had rejected her, not even when Ethyn had died.
She chanted her mantra and breathed through it. She would not allow bitterness or resentment or envy to ever sully her life again. Too much of her time had been wasted on suffering through and banishing those negative emotions when Ethyn died.
She’d chosen to have an affair with Holm knowing they were very separate individuals with differing lifestyles, that circumstances were difficult for them even for a brief fling. She would not regret their time together had been so short. He’d started her on her way to becoming the woman she believed she could be. If she hadn’t been able to reach his knot of wounded emotions and help him in return as she’d wished—well, life wasn’t fair. Healing taught that. Some died who should have Healed and lived, some lived who Healers had despaired of.
Still, she searched for a note from Holm and there was none. Only the white roses spoke of their affair, and only the short calligraphic pieces that came with the last several roses held his essence. Lark shrugged, stripped, and washed under her waterfall. She thought he’d have been courteous enough to leave a note or a token, but what did she know of the proper way to end a short, Noble liaison?
She scrubbed at her skin with herbal soap and ignored the tears trickling from her eyes. He’d finally decided it was best for everyone that they no longer be involved. He was right. She was right.
If she worked hard all day preparing the GreatCircle Temple for tomorrow’s Healing perhaps she could ignore the deep, aching hope that a rose would come this evening, too. Stupid to believe when he left without a word, but the heart was a very stupid organ.
The knock on her door came just as she pressed the shoulder tab of her tunic closed. She sent a mental probe and was surprised at Painted Rock’s emanations. The rhythms of her vibrations were true to Painted Rock’s essential character, but markedly changed from the last three years.
Lark hurried to open the door. Painted Rock stood in traveling leathers, a large rucksack by her feet. She looked weary, scoured out by old grief, but at the same time her skin, the light in her eyes, and her very stance were healthier than Lark had seen in a long, long time.
“Painted Rock!” Lark stepped into the corridor and hugged her. Painted Rock stiffened a moment in surprise, then awkwardly returned Lark’s embrace. Lark felt a steady vitality in her sister-in-law’s muscles, sensed an unfurling of creative energy. A burden lifted from Lark, one she hadn’t been aware of, the responsibility for the well-being of Ethyn’s sister. Lark let out a long sigh of relief.
When she looked up, Painted Rock’s lips curved in a half-smile, and her green eyes were bright. Eyes the same color as Ethyn’s, now, but which had been muddy with unhappiness for so long. For an instant Lark almost caught a flashing image of her lost husband, but it vanished before she could grasp it.
“Not Painted Rock, it’s Citrula,” the woman said. A little color tinted her cheeks. “I chose that name in rebellion, when Ethyn and I struggled to make a life for ourselves out of Downwind. But that’s behind me. I can finally let it go.”
She inhaled. “I wasn’t there to protect him and he died, but I am not guilty of his death. You weren’t there to protect him and he died, but it’s not your fault, either.” She hesitated and though her mouth twisted and her eyes briefly gleamed with bitterness, her words showed new acceptance. “Nobles killed him, but Ethyn made a foolish choice, too, trying to interfere in a duel.”
Lark choked. “We all make foolish mistakes. Come in.”
Painted Rock looked over her head into the apartment. “I don’t think so. I wanted to tell you I’m joining the new artist’s community on Mona Island. I submitted some pieces and was accepted. I’m leaving, now.” Her shoulders shifted. “I couldn’t work before. Wherever I went, I’d take my own problems with me. Now I’ve confronted my faults and survived, I want fresh surroundings.” Thin shoulders twitched again. “New scenery will stimulate me. That’s why you applied for that position in Gael City, isn’t it? I thought you were running away but you aren’t, you’re just getting a new perspective on things.”
Lark blew out a breath and laughed. “When you decide to open your eyes, Painted Rock, you’re very perceptive, and Citrula is a lovely name.”
“Yes, names are very important.”
Lark tried not to hear Holm’s low voice in her mind calling her Bélla. She wondered how long that would haunt her. Forever.
“I wanted to stop by and let you know. Ah”—she shifted feet and ducked her head—“is he here?”
“Holm?” Lark managed to keep her voice from breaking. “No. That won’t work out.”
Citrula flushed red. “It wasn’t any of my business to pass judgment on your relationship with him, or him—”
“No, it wasn’t.” A voice came from across the hall.
They both turned to see Trif Clover standing in her doorway, hands on her hips.
Citrula straightened to her full, bony height. “It’s none of your business, either.”
Trif lifted her chin. “Yeah, it is. Lark’s my friend. I want the best for her. I want to see her happy. You’ve been dragging her down for years.”
“Since we met, you never liked me,” Citrula said tightly.
“No, I didn’t,’cause you never liked me. You were jealous of anything that made Lark more cheerful after Ethyn’s death.”
“That’s enough from both of you,” Lark said.
Trif tossed her long, tangled mop of brown hair. “It’s true. I bet she and Ethyn used you to help move out of Downwind and become middle-class. Then he died and she blamed you.”
Lark threw up her hands. “I don’t think we need to discuss—”
“Maybe it is true,” Citrula said in a low voice. Freckles stood out against her pale skin. “I don’t know anymore. And I’m tired of picking apart every feeling I’ve had for the last few years. I’m ready to move on, and I wanted to let Lark know how much I love and appreciate her. You do that lately, Trif Clover?”
“Aaarrrgh!” Lark waved her hands. “Quiet, please!” She set her hands on Citrula’s shoulders and rose to her toes to kiss her cheek. “I’m glad you’re better, and that you’re starting a new life. Whatever we’ve been in the past, we’re still friends. Whatever I gave you and Ethyn in the past, I gave freely and willingly.” She kissed Citrula’s other cheek. “Go with the Lady and Lord. Blessed be.”
Citrula ducked her head and glanced past Lark, as if expecting to see Holm. She sighed and met Lark’s eyes. “I was jealous of him on behalf of Ethyn.” She flipped an elegant, long fingered hand. “There he is, so handsome and rich and powerful and Noble and perfect. The golden son of a golden Family. I thought it made Ethyn a small nobody.”
“Nothing could make Ethyn small. He was a FirstLevel Healer, not a nobody. He had the determination to develop his Flair. So did you. You’ll go far. Merry meet, Citrula.”
“And merry part.” Citrula nodded to Lark, then to Trif.
“And merry meet again,
” Lark and Trif said in unison.
Citrula inclined her head, picked up her bag, and walked down the hall without looking back.
Trif crossed the corridor and stuck her head in Lark’s apartment, then withdrew it and looked at Lark. “Holm Holly really isn’t in there?”
“No.”
“Well, I’ll come in for a cup of caff.” Trif traipsed into Lark’s apartment.
Lark followed and closed the door.
Trif sniffed. “Not even a scent of the man. I know he came last night, but I didn’t hear him leave.”
“I didn’t, either.” Lark went to the kitchen no-time and pulled out two brimming mugs of hot caff.
Trif scanned the mainspace as Lark handed her a mug.
“No peeking!” Lark ordered.
Trif looked affronted and settled herself into the red sofa. Phyll trotted out from the bedroom to jump up and curl on the girl’s knees. Her eyes widened as she saw the opposite wall. “Nice sunset. When did you do that?”
“A few days ago.” Lark took a chair at an angle and looked at the sunset herself, just days ago and yet it seemed part of another life.
“So, tell me all.” Trif wriggled into the deep cushions.
“There’s nothing to tell. It’s over.”
Trif choked, sputtered a mouthful of caff back into her cup. “Over!”
“How can it be anything else now that there are deaths on both sides of our families? He’s a warrior, and T’Holly’s going to pursue this feud with all his might. Holm is sworn to obey his GreatLord, his father. He’ll be fighting. I’m a Healer.” She hated that her voice broke and her breathing went unsteady when just laying out the facts of things.
Trif shook her head. “I can’t understand it. You two are so right together. It’s wrong to just let circumstances stop a good relationship. Why, you two might be able to stop the feud.”
“He left without a word. It’s better that way. Besides, nothing will stop the feud.”
“Your father could stop it.”
“But he won’t. T’Hawthorn started this up again. He won’t back down.”
“Have you tried, lately?”
Lark sent her a bitter glance. “You know I don’t have any influence over my father.”
“Have you tried?”
“Yes!”
“Lately?”
Lark hesitated.
“You see, try again!”
Lark just stared at her. Trif was a person who’d never give up, despite any odds against her. Lark wasn’t like that. She sipped her caff. The acidity of the brew stung her tongue.
“Don’t you want Holm?” Trif persisted.
“Yes.” Her whole being ached to be with him.
“Then what are you waiting for? Go after him.”
Lark’s hands began to tremble. She set her mug down. “I can’t. It’s best this way. No one gets hurt further.”
“You look pretty devastated to me now,” Trif pointed out.
Lark hissed a breath. She shot to her feet and paced. “Yes, I want him. But I’m not putting myself or Holm in a position to be used against the Hollys by my father. And I’m not putting myself or Holm in a position to be used against my father by the Hollys. The feud is bad enough as it is. Mix in the affair and who knows what might happen!”
Trif finished her caff and set her mug down with a clank. Phyll jumped from her lap to the floor. Trif stood. She fixed her gaze on Lark. “If it were my man, I wouldn’t give up.”
“I’m not you. I’m me.” Lark pounded a fist over her heart.
“Me, Lark Collinson,” not Bélla, not ever again. “And I’ll do what is best for me. If it were a year ago or a few years hence—” She threw up her hands. “Some things are fate. They’re not meant to be.”
Trif looked at Phyll. “Catshit.”
“What?”
I do not de-fe-cate in-app-ro-pri-ate-ly, Phyll lifted his nose in the air.
“What you said is just stupid. Some things are fated to be, despite everything. I think you and Holm are like that.” Trif leveled a finger at Lark. “You think about that.” She stalked from the apartment.
Bing-Bong-Bong-Ching. Lark’s scrybowl sounded.
“Here,” she said.
A small sour-faced man looked out at her. “FirstLevel Healer Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Monkshood, Chief Clerk of All Councils. You are wanted immediately at Guildhall Committee Room One for questioning.” He disconnected.
Holm strode through the greeniron gates of T’Holly estate, across the drawbridge over the moat, into the courtyard, and up to the front door muttering under his breath. Meserv trotted beside him, impervious to Holm’s dark mood.
When he’d nightported, his clothes and Meserv had come with him. Lord and Lady knew what Lark thought of him.
The moment he’d stepped from the labyrinth he’d sent a mind-probe to Lark and found her talking with Painted Rock and Trif Clover. He swore then and he swore now.
He’d only paused to dress before teleporting himself and Meserv to outside the T’Holly gates.’Porting to his rooms through the additional protective shields would expend more energy than he felt safe in using.
Why had he thought that being with Lark would prevent him from nightporting? Well, why shouldn’t it? She was his HeartMate. They were lovers, bound together by desire and physicality as well as weaving a complex tapestry of emotional commitment between them. She should have anchored him, shouldn’t she? Bloody Cave of the Dark Goddess, but this sleep-porting business was getting very, very tiresome.
Can we solar-sail today? trilled Meserv, sniffing the air like a connoisseur, as if he could tell sweet winds would blow.
“No!” He never wanted to solar-sail again. Water was good enough for him. He’d have to convince Bélla. He winced at the thought of trying to explain why—how—he left her bed so rudely.
He grabbed the door handle, but it opened. His cuz, Straif Blackthorn, FirstFamily GrandLord T’Blackthorn, stood in the doorway munching good white bread and cinnamon-sweet.
“Greetyou,” Straif said. “I’d have thought the feud would have put a crimp in your love life.”
Holm gave him a dark look and pushed past him. Maybe he could do a bit of calligraphy and have it delivered with a rose this morning before Lark left for work.
“And,” Straif continued, “I also heard that D’Willow found a HeartMate for you, so that should limit your nightlife. Who is this fellow?” Straif lifted Meserv, who blinked big blue seraphic eyes at him.
“Mmmmmesssservvvvvv,” the kitten rumbled.
“Meserv,” Holm said, heading to the dining room.
“Right,” Straif said. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have the balls to stroll home mid-morning.”
“It’s hardly past dawn,” Holm ground out.
“Fooooooood,” Meserv said, fastening his mouth on one of Straif’s sweet-sticky fingers and sucking.
“Right,” Straif said. “Good idea. Maybe you weren’t out loving. Doesn’t look like you had a great night. Do you know you have leaves in your hair?”
“What are you doing here?” Holm asked.
Straif raised sandy eyebrows. “T’Holly asked me to come for the Great Healing of Aunt Passiflora tomorrow.”
Holm shut his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face, flicked the leaves from his hair. When he opened his eyelids, his cuz was scrutinizing him.
“Tough times,” Straif said.
“Yes.” Holm managed a half bow. “Thank you for coming.”
“All fighters to Sparring Rooms One, Two, and Three, as assigned,” boomed the Residence through the halls.
Holm scowled and grasped Straif by the upper arm. “Has T’Holly asked you to feud?”
Straif raised a brow. “Not yet.”
“Don’t agree. Our lives are a mess. This whole thing is a rare brouhaha. Stay free of it, Cuz.”
Straif dipped his head. “I’ll consid
er it, Cuz. Go to the dining room and grab breakfast, I’ll keep T’Holly occupied.”
For the first time since he’d awakened in the Great Labyrinth again, Holm felt a slip of pleasure. “My thanks.”
Men ran through the halls, footsteps loud, armor jangling. Holm shook his head. “A real mess.”
Twenty-four
Holm’s hasty breakfast didn’t lie easy in his stomach. He sat on the floor of Sparring Room One with the rest of the Holly men who would prowl the streets. Tinne sat to his right.
T’Holly dominated the room, his entire attention focused on winning the feud. “I commissioned GreatLord Furze to do solivids of our opponents. Furze, Tab, the ResidenceLibrary, and I have programmed the models with what we know of their fighting skills. We will train with these models, in single duels and street melées until we are all proficient.”
With a wave of a hand he summoned the first soli-vid. “This is T’Hawthorn.” The model was amazingly like the man—at least what T’Hawthorn looked like the last time Holm had seen him close. Lark would have been able to tell the difference, of course. He winced.
“We will probably not meet T’Hawthorn, especially not traveling in a small group.” T’Holly flashed a lethal grin. “I’ve been told he only travels by glider. Yet it is wise to know his ways.” His father seemed to enjoy walking around the stocky man, looking down at the shorter simulacrum.
“T’Hawthorn fights in the Porthos style of three generations past. He is old,” T’Holly sneered. T’Hawthorn was a few years older than Holm’s father, but damn sure not as supple. He had Lark’s hair and eyes. Holm suppressed a tremor. He would not be facing T’Hawthorn over naked blades.
“Capture of T’Hawthorn and ransom would be our goal, should we find him. Avoid killing if possible.” T’Holly’s words caused a little stir. There wasn’t a man in the room who’d easily skewer a GreatLord except T’Holly himself.
T’Holly waved and the model moved to the center of the room. “Let’s practice capturing T’Hawthorn. Divide into groups of five.”
“We appreciate your prompt attendance, FirstLevel Healer Collinson,” said GrandLady D’Grove, the Captain of the Council as she ushered Lark into a small room richly appointed with dark blue velvet cushioned chairs arranged in a circle. Lark’s MotherSire, T’Heather, was speaking with GreatLord T’Oak in one of the corners. With a swift scan, Lark counted eight GreatLords or GreatLadies who headed their Families.
Heart Duel Page 27
