Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  “Perhaps. But the boathouse isn’t connected to the Residence, and it isn’t an intelligent being.”

  They ascended the steps slowly and had reached the boathouse path where there was a shoe scraper. Letting her go, Cratag worked diligently on the mud clinging to his boots. He said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you’ve been careless about the steps.”

  Signet sighed, slid her fingers through her hair. “Perhaps I have. Riverweed on the steps, if the children had run down there—”

  “—The children wouldn’t have been running anywhere today. They’re too conscious of the punishments they’ve already endured for finessing the rules. You made them promise to stay at the boathouse.”

  “Yes.”

  He came over and grasped her hands, squeezed them until she looked up at him.

  “I’m not a parent,” she said in a small voice.

  “I’m not either.” His head lifted and his gaze slid into the distance. “We do the best that we can with our children. All of us.”

  She knew he was thinking of Laev, of his own relationship with the young man, of T’Hawthorn’s parenting of his Son’sSon, and perhaps even the character of Laev’s lost father. Signet hadn’t known the man well, but he’d been as rigid and arrogant as any noble she’d met. She sighed, leaned in, and wrapped her arms around Cratag. They shared a moment of quiet, the river lapping at the banks, the rush of tumbling water from a waterfall upstream. From here it was a swift current to the ocean.

  After letting her breath out in another sigh, Signet smiled and looked up at Cratag, who was watching her. He lowered his head, brushed her lips, and murmured, “We need to get back.”

  “Yes.” She tightened her arms on him, then let go and stepped aside, slipping her hand down his arm to link her fingers with his and start the climb back up the rest of the stairs. Keeping her voice as low as his had been, she said, “The last few days have been draining. For the first time I’ll be glad when this is all over.”

  Tension from him enveloped her, and she stared up at him. “Glad when Avellana has survived her last Passage and returned to her loving Family. You, Cratag Maytree, may stay as long as you like. You are always welcome.”

  His eyes darkened, and he stopped, pulled her into his arms, kissed her until the energy between them heated with passion.

  Signet! Cratag! Avellana’s mental voice intruded. The Residence is feeding me broth with meat slivers, and then I can have cocoa mousse and *ice cream* all made with sugar! The girl sounded happy with the treats but there was a note of querulousness.

  Are the Fams there? asked Cratag calmly, and with more ease in his telepathy than Signet had heard. One good thing she’d affected with Cratag—his Flair was more quickly accessed.

  They are all staring at me, Avellana grumbled. They don’t get to eat until you come back. She projected an image of a semicircle of cats flicking their tails. Beadle was drooling.

  Cratag chuckled and picked up the pace, and they went through the gate at the top of the path into the beautiful sunny afternoon and locked the gate behind them.

  Cratag and Signet spent the night in her bed. While he liked her suite better than his own, he was farther from his weapons, and that had become a concern. He had an itch along his nerves. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when that frisson had started, and that bothered him, as if the more he depended upon his Flair, the less sharp his other senses were. Nonsense. His Flair, his psi sense, was better than it had been.

  Scrutinizing his memories, he thought that his unease had begun when Avellana had been jostled into the street. Oh, the grumtud on the beach had been a concern for a few days, but the other monsters that had been reported traveling north had been lured out to sea by fishermen.

  The tickle at the back of his neck hadn’t begun with the bannister incident . . . thinking about that, Cratag wondered if the draining of them all had also diminished their energy to ward off accidents . . . maybe their luck, and they were all more prone to incidents. He probably knew less about Flair than anyone in Druida.

  Signet had risen and dressed, sophisticated and beautiful as always. Tougher than she appeared, than he’d ever imagined when he only knew her from glances across a room. He went to his suite and put on work clothes. A kernel of dread had lodged in his heart. She’d spoken of the end yesterday. The end of this job—now so much more to him than a simple job. Though she’d said he could remain here, stay her lover, she hadn’t said that was what she wanted.

  He couldn’t quite see himself living here with no income, but T’Hawthorn Residence was only a few kilometers away in Noble Country. Cratag could buy a personal glider, set a real schedule with T’Hawthorn instead of always being on call there.

  He hesitated then went to the high wall safe and discreetly armed himself. Sheaths were sewn in his shirt for light, thin throwing knives near his loose cuffs. Knives in his old boots, too. He’d have to speak with Signet about including sheaths in his next set of boots . . . then he went downstairs to join the females and Fams for breakfast.

  Avellana looked good, and her voice was back to normal, but he didn’t think she’d eat an iced poppy seed cake soon. There was a deeper maturity in her that seemed to be more revealed as an old soul than learned. Cratag grunted. He hadn’t been brought up to think in such terms, but heard them all the time in Druida, and not just from nobles. Everyone here was more concerned about the basic spiritual structure of their society than those in the south. Probably the influence of being more sophisticated and having so many Families with founders’ blood. And Lord and Lady knew you could see the huge starship Nuada’s Sword from any point in the city. Always a reminder.

  Breakfast passed with minor teasing that cheered them all, and they settled into their schedule.

  His mind was being numbed by some dull lesson the Hazels had sent when the Residence quietly notified him that T’Hawthorn requested his presence.

  Signet, who was with Avellana and him, sent him a concerned glance. As he rose, he leaned down and fir mly kissed her on the lips, waved to Avellana, then left.

  The dread had returned. This could only be about Laev.

  Images of Laev . . . as boy and young man . . . flashed through Cratag’s mind. What did you do when you saw a young person making a mistake? For the fir st time, Cratag recalled his father’s face when he’d left home at fifteen to fiind his sister. Hadn’t there been sadness under his sternness? A trace of fear for his son? In his eyes, hadn’t there flashed despair and the knowledge that he and his wife had driven their children away? Just before the door had slammed.

  Cratag finally acknowledged that leaving his home before he was fully an adult could have turned into a major mistake if he hadn’t been a big kid, had some weapons training and street savvy.

  T’Hawthorn thought Laev was making a mistake courting Nivea Sunflower. Cratag sensed this, too. He and his lord hated to see Laev making a mistake.

  But he hadn’t been able to talk his sister out of her no-good man.

  Thirty-one

  The ride to T’Hawthorn’s Residence was under ten minutes. Cratag disembarked from the glider in the stone courtyard, surrounded by tall walls. All glider travel now left and arrived here, a security measure he’d instituted for the Family. As he crossed the flagstones and mounted a stone staircase, he nodded to the guards stationed in the courtyard. Then he opened a tall arched wooden door and wound down some long corridors, his boot heels ringing on the stone—no pretty faded pastel rugs here, and no windows or skylights to fade them.

  He felt odd. For four years this had been his home, he’d fought and killed to make his place in the Family, to rise to the chief of the guards and live here in the Residence. Now, after a few eightdays away from the place and the Family, he felt as if he was squeezing into old, too-tight armor. He wasn’t the same man he’d been when he’d last sat with T’Hawthorn in the lord’s ResidenceDen.

  It wasn’t just Signet’s Flair that had acted on him, it was the job itself—taki
ng care of Avellana, interacting with Vinni and the others. Having Signet as his lover.

  His love.

  He didn’t know what he was going to do about that, but at least he’d acknowledge that he loved her to himself.

  There was a guard standing outside T’Hawthorn’s den, and that meant only one thing: Laev, HawthornHeir, was also inside. They were the last of the direct line, so when they met together, they were protected. When Cratag entered, the two bodyguards left . . . and his gut tightened. As he’d suspected, a very personal meeting.

  Angry vibrations emanated from both men, making Cratag curse inwardly and wish that his Flair hadn’t been newly sensitized that he could feel it.

  Laev sat in one of the two tapestry chairs angled in front of T’Hawthorn’s massive desk—the one with goats. That left the feminine-looking dragonfly chair for Cratag. He bowed to T’Hawthorn, who sat behind the desk, looking stern.

  Cratag set his hand on Laev’s shoulder, and it was shrugged away. Not good. Obviously Laev thought Cratag would side with T’Hawthorn in the touchy argument regarding Nivea Sunflower. Unfortunately, Cratag would soon learn the minute details.

  “The marriage of a FirstFamily Heir is a formal business,” T’Hawthorn said, gesturing to Cratag to sit while the lord stared at his Son’sSon.

  Cratag’s insides clenched, it was even worse than he’d feared.

  T’Hawthorn continued, “There are long and delicate negotiations that must be held. The marriage of a GreatHouse Heir such as yourself means land and gilt and power are all involved.”

  “You just don’t approve of Nivea.”

  Laev hit that nail on the head. Cratag didn’t like what he’d seen of the young woman either. He knew that sly glance in the eyes, the teasing manner, hoping to marry “up.” He’d had a couple of childhood friends with sisters like that. And if Nivea was pressuring Laev to wed her, sexually teasing him, then Cratag didn’t approve of her at all.

  “Whether I approve of Nivea or not is another matter. I haven’t been given a chance to know her,” T’Hawthorn said.

  “She’s shy! Intimidated by you, the former Captain of All Councils of Celta,” Laev shot back.

  T’Hawthorn’s lips thinned, then he said, “Currently we are speaking of the alliance of Families.”

  “There is nothing wrong with her Family. The Sunflowers are a well-established GraceHouse with ever-increasing Flair.”

  T’Hawthorn steepled his fiingers, a sign his patience was thinning. “I don’t like that you want to marry so soon.”

  “She’s my HeartMate!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! I felt it from the moment we met. That’s why we met, because I felt the Flair and went to her.” His mouth set and he sent Cratag a fle eting glance. “D’Marigold felt it, too, and others. T’Vine. I’ve connected with my HeartMate during my Passages. I gave Nivea my HeartGift, and she accepted it. This is right and true. We’re of age. We could run—” Laev stopped on the brink of disaster.

  “The last time a FirstFamily son eloped it was Tinne Holly with Genista Furze,” T’Hawthorn said in frigid tones. “All know what happened then, the first divorce in FirstFamilies’ history, the smearing of a noble name for generations.”

  “I am not a ramshackle Holly.” Laev’s voice was rising as he struggled with his temper. “I am a Hawthorn and a Grove and an Oak.”

  “You will be T’Hawthorn.”

  “I won’t elope, but I don’t want to drag this matter out for two years while you negotiate the best deal.”

  “Two years is not unusual—”

  “—you don’t know what it is to have a HeartMate.”

  Silence crystallized like ice in the room.

  Cratag stood and once again put his hand on Laev’s shoulder, this time gripping it with enough force that the young man couldn’t displace it without an obvious struggle.

  Finally T’Hawthorn said, “A HeartMate bond will not fade in two years, if you continue to love her.”

  “Of course I will love Nivea, she’s my HeartMate.”

  “Laev,” Cratag said quietly.

  The teenager glanced at his FatherSire. “I beg your pardon.” Then Laev looked up at Cratag with stormy eyes. “You don’t know what it is to have a HeartMate love.”

  “I know what it is to love,” Cratag said. “And there can be loves as strong as HeartMate love. Between a man and a woman. A father and a child.”

  “You don’t approve of the marriage, either.”

  “I think, like your FatherSire, you should give it a little time.”

  Laev opened his mouth but said nothing when Cratag raised his hand. “Three months.”

  “An eternity!”

  “I’m sure it feels so.” He glanced at T’Hawthorn. “I believe if the HeartBond has been offered and accepted—” That happened during sex.

  Laev rubbed his temples. “We aren’t HeartBonded yet. She hon ors her parents and won’t wed with me until the settlements are done.”

  Cratag shared a glance with T’Hawthorn. No sex before marriage was unthinkable in a society where the divorce laws were strict and the birthrate low.

  “I won’t wait two years,” Laev insisted.

  “Three months,” Cratag repeated. Seeing the young man’s mulish jaw, Cratag said, “I’m sure T’Hawthorn would be willing to pay for a full matchmaking consultation by T’Willow to confirm your HeartMate status.”

  Thumping his chest, Laev said, “I connected with her when I had my Passages, saw her and knew.”

  “I’ll be glad to pay for T’Willow’s time,” T’Hawthorn agreed.

  “He’s out of town,” Laev said sulkily. “Consulting at some noble estate. I don’t want to wait.”

  “I consider marriage to be a lifetime commitment,” T’Hawthorn said.

  “So do I,” Laev said. “I’d never bring shame on our name.” He stood and straightened to his full height. “I want to marry her at next full twinmoons. Our TwinMoons, have you officiate. That’s in a couple of eightdays. You should be able to finesse a deal with a GraceHouse Lord by then.” Laev strode to the door.

  “Laev,” Cratag said.

  The young man tensed and didn’t turn around.

  “If you go to a sparring room, we can work off some of this energy.”

  Laev’s shoulders relaxed. “Good idea.” He put his hand on the door latch.

  “Have you restructured your space for a fig hting salon?” Cratag asked.

  “No.”

  “Ah, good, then you should look at the rooms next to yours, for your HeartMate to have her own suite. Have you shown her the rooms or talked about refurbishing them?”

  Laev half-turned. “No.”

  Cratag shrugged. “I’ve learned that women like that sort of thing. Wouldn’t it be a nice gift to have her suite perfect for her before she moves in?”

  “Yes.” Laev smiled. “Yes! I’ll have to talk to her.”

  “After our bout? Since I’ll be returning to D’Marigold’s.”

  Laev nodded. “Sure.” He left with a bounce in his step.

  T’Hawthorn let out a quiet sigh. “I thank you, Cratag. I did not handle that well.” The lord’s jaw fle xed. “The girl is an opportunist social climber.”

  “She is of age?”

  “More’s the pity, yes. They are both adults.” He shook his head, a little pale. “It must be my lot in life to have my children marry where I do not wish. My daughter’s fir st marriage with a commoner, then with my enemy’s son. Now Laev with that slick girl.” He stared out the window, his face bleak, recalling, as Cratag did, that day when T’Hawthorn had nearly killed Holm Holly, his daughter’s HeartMate. T’Hawthorn shook his head. “If worse came to worst, I still would not disinherit him.”

  “Of course not. You are an honorable noble GreatLord.”

  T’Hawthorn grimaced. “But I think that neither GraceLord Sunflower nor his daughter are honorable nobles.” He looked at Cratag. “Thank you for buying me some t
ime, no matter how little. Perhaps the girl will be greedy enough to want to string the process of decorating the rooms out.” He tapped his fingers together. “I wonder if I could convince Mitchella D’Blackthorn, the decorator, to take a trip, too.” He picked up a writestick and began to make notes.

  Noble politics again, over Cratag’s head, but he could see machinations wheel behind T’Hawthorn’s eyes. May as well leave the man to his schemes. “I’ll be in the second-floor sparring room then will return to D’Marigold’s.”

  “Yes,” T’Hawthorn said. He looked up from his work and met Cratag’s eyes.

  Cratag tensed himself at that piercing gaze, wondering if T’Hawthorn was going to ask him personal questions. Something moved in the man’s expression that Cratag couldn’t quite decipher. It almost looked like sadness. But T’Hawthorn only asked, “Have you met Nivea Sunfllower?”

  “Briefly, and had tea with her. Didn’t get a good handle on her character.” Because he’d felt she was wearing a mask. Cratag hesitated. “I was there when Laev fir st met her . . . there was an energy in the air.”

  T’Hawthorn considered him. “You are changing if you can feel such things.”

  “D’Marigold’s Flair.”

  “What did you think of the girl?”

  Cratag shrugged. “Beautiful. Clever.”

  “Calculating? Greedy?”

  “Maybe. Laev was stunned, the girl wasn’t. I was with D’Marigold, Avellana Hazel, and Vinni T’Vine; my attention wasn’t fully on Laev.”

  “I understand.” T’Hawthorn tapped his writestick. “I would like your opinion of the girl—and of her and Laev together. Be sympathetic to my Son’sSon. Encourage Laev to bring her to meet you . . . spend some time with you, perhaps.”

  Another assignment from T’Hawthorn that Cratag didn’t much like. He kept his own sigh between his teeth as he walked to the door. “I’ll remind you that your daughter’s marriage with Holm Holly Junior is a true HeartMate marriage and turned out very well. Your daughter is expecting a child, and I’ve seen how that gives you joy.”