Heart Quest

by Robin D. Owens

  His careful expression alerted her. She caught her breath, her pulse skipped, then quickened. She wet her lips. “You know who he is.”

  T’Willow lifted a shoulder. “It only took one glance at you.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “How is that?”

  Laughing, he shook his head. “Ah, now that would mean a three-septhour lecture on my Flair.”

  “I suppose you won’t tell me.”

  He frowned and turned away, tapped the fountain, and water surged from the top of the ugly mound to roll a clear crystal ball at the top, then rush down a groove. The crystal glowed as it spun, shooting out iridescent sparks. “You must thank your cuz and T’Blackthorn for returning this T’Willow meditation tool.”

  Trif stared at him and the fountain. “It was yours? How did it come to be T’Blackthorn’s?”

  “Let’s walk and talk.”

  Glancing at the glass-paned door opening on the garden outside, Trif frowned. Clouds had rolled in and the wind had picked up.

  But T’Willow followed her gaze, then crossed to a door in the end of the room. “Come into my ResidenceDen.”

  She hesitated. Entering a GreatLord’s ResidenceDen was too much like a very, very expensive consultation.

  Putting his hands in his pockets, he tilted his head at Trif. She studied him, handsome and noble, and secretive. But she sensed he might not have refused to answer her questions, just wasn’t ready yet. She’d have to work on him. She smiled with all her charm.

  T’Willow laughed. “Ah, you canny young woman. The door to the conservatory is through the ResidenceDen.”

  Trif tickled Greyku’s belly. The little cat stretched but didn’t open her eyes. “I’m going to talk with T’Willow in the conservatory.”

  Greyku rolled over and presented her back to Trif. She took that as rejection of any exercise. Shrugging, Trif went into the ResidenceDen. One wall was nothing but glass, showing verdant plants beyond. The furnishings were carefully kept antiques of dark wood. A slight smell of green wood, incense, and laquer drifted through the room. Trif saw thin sticks spread out on a heavy blotter atop the massive desk.

  He glanced at the desk. “My MotherDam had her own matchmaking divination sticks which she destroyed before I became the head of the Family. They’d been passed down through generations.” He shrugged. “I’d made my own, as Heir, but now I have the title, I need new ones—more Flaired.” One side of his mouth twisted. “GreatLady D’Willow’s sticks would never have fit my hands anyway.” Still, he considered the sticks, then a sudden, charming smile curved his lips and lit his eyes. “I think I’ll make two sets. One for my personal use, and one to replace those lost…Start a generational set of my own.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Yes, and you prompted it. Thank you.” He opened the door to the conservatory, and humid air rich with the scent of earth and flowers flowed out to her. The thought of a walk in a space that was still green pulled at her. She hurried through the door he held.

  They strolled along a path banked with flowers. T’Willow spoke first. “You know, my Family is matriarchal.”

  With a frown, Trif thought back to her grove study days. “Yes.”

  Not looking at her, T’Willow said, “My MotherDam, old D’Willow, was very displeased when the oracle at my birth announced that I was the strongest in Flair of all the generations present and should be designated as Heir.” He asked permission of a maroon and gold iris bloom, and the spear fell into his hand. “Irises were her favorite flowers.” He inhaled the fragrance, then gave it to Trif. “My compliments. The iris represents friendship. Also faith, hope, wisdom, and valor.”

  Trif sniffed, admiring the flower. “A lot to live up to.”

  “Yes. My MotherDam didn’t believe that men should have matchmaking Flair. She banished me to our country estate for most of my life, then did all she could to circumvent me as her Heir. That included sending Family treasures away as gifts.” He turned down another path that ended in a bench under a secluded arbor, and Trif followed. “But I had faith and hope that I’d assume my rightful place—use my Flair as I’d been destined to.” He smiled, but it was more wry than amused. “I had the wisdom to stay out of D’Willow’s sight.”

  “And?” There must be some meaning to this story.

  “When my MotherDam…left, the Family—most of them women—designated me as T’Willow and called me back to Druida City to lead the Family and practice our craft. I did not push, I cultivated patience. That which was out of my grasp eventually came to me. Many of my Family Flair tools and possessions have returned too.” He sat on the bench.

  “You don’t think I should go knocking on doors for my HeartMate with my charmkey.”

  “I think,” he said carefully, slowly, “that your HeartMate doesn’t want you to find him.”

  Trif stood, stupefied. “Why ever not?”

  “His reasons,” T’Willow said, and Trif didn’t know if that meant the GreatLord knew the reasons and wasn’t telling, or hadn’t sensed them. She did get the idea that T’Willow was more on her HeartMate’s side than her own.

  “He knows who I am?”

  T’Willow inclined his head.

  Stomping up and down the path, Trif muttered to herself, then came back and asked another question. “It seems to me that most men know their HeartMates before the women do, like me.”

  “Passages to free our Flair are when most people connect with their HeartMates. With many couples, the man is older than the woman. Therefore, he has experienced Passage before her, and has the time to search for her—if he is lucky enough to recognize her when they connect.”

  Mouth set, Trif paced up and back again. “My best friend is Lark Hawthorn Apple. I saw Holm woo her. He knew she was his HeartMate. He used a charmkey on her apartment.”

  T’Willow grinned, white teeth gleaming. “My MotherDam was consulted by Holm Holly, now Holm Apple, in that instance. She kept detailed records of the matter. Holm was not a HeartMate to Lark until he suffered through and overcame some difficult experiences. He grew and so became her Heart-Mate. Lark had weathered her Passages without connecting with a HeartMate and was not expecting one in this lifetime. Holm was focused on marriage and HeartMates when he met her. And often when HeartBonding Flair occurs, it has more impact upon men.”

  “Oh. So if I were older than my HeartMate, I might have connected with him earlier and figured out who he was.”

  “Correct.”

  “But I’m at a disadvantage because I might not experience the HeartMate Flair as strongly as he does.”

  “Correct again.”

  “I don’t like the rules.”

  T’Willow tipped back his head in a hearty laugh. When he was done, he said, “I wouldn’t worry. I don’t think he’ll be able to resist you, Trif Clover.”

  She kicked a little stone on the path into a flower bed. “That doesn’t help me now.”

  “Patience.”

  She wasn’t acceptable to her HeartMate. A sour taste coated her mouth. She didn’t think she’d tell anyone that, it was too demoralizing. And she needed to consider this information carefully.

  “Your Flair is for matchmaking. How come you can’t find this woman?”

  His jaw set. “I don’t know what spells my MotherDam used, but she hid my HeartMate from me. She bound the rest of the Family to silence. I. Can’t. Find. Her. I can’t even sense her.”

  Trif set her hands on her hips. “So what are you going to do about it? Sit and wait and practice patience?”

  “No, I am going to give you this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something. Opened his palm. Trif squinted, but saw nothing—except a slight haze of a round aura. “What?”

  “My HeartGift. Only my HeartMate and I can truly see it. Or, in this case, since it is a perfume ball I made, smell it.” He took a pouch from his other trous pocket and dropped the HeartGift into it and pulled the red strings tight, then held it out to Trif.

  She took it ging
erly. The pouch had weight, and bulged, the only indication that something was inside. Lifting the bag to her nose, she sniffed, sure that the strong scent of a perfume ball would be evident. All she smelled was the furrabeast leather of the container.

  When she glanced at T’Willow, he was standing and gestured for her to walk back toward the den. She turned and started down the path weighing the pouch in her hand. “What do you want me to do with this?”

  “Ah, that’s my price for this little talk, the information you squeezed from me.”

  Trif didn’t think he’d told her anything he hadn’t intended. “And?”

  “Take the HeartGift. I think my lady is middle-class like you or lower Nobility and here in Druida. I did link with her during my Passages, after all. My MotherDam couldn’t prevent that.” His tone was light but his mouth grim.

  “Go to the busiest place you know, and leave the HeartGift.”

  Sheer shock stopped her. Her mouth dropped open as she fumbled for words. “You’re sending your HeartGift, an intimate piece of yourself, out into the world?” She’d stopped emphasizing her words a year ago, but now and then fell back into the habit.

  T’Willow kept walking, but his shoulders hunched slightly. “I can think of nothing else to do. Eventually, she should find it.” He stopped and glance at Trif with a sardonic smile. “Or it will come to her. She will want it, be drawn to it, naturally.”

  “And she’ll accept it and in accepting it, accept you as her HeartMate.”

  “Those are the rules—the law.”

  “But to have your HeartGift out in the world. Being kicked around, fumbled with grubby fingers, maybe eaten by an animal, then eliminated or vomited up—”

  “Please.” He lifted a hand to halt her words.

  “Sorry.” She shook her head, and walked past him into his ResidenceDen once more. “As one of my uncles would say, you got balls.”

  “Yes,” he replied politely. “I do. And so does your Heart-Mate. Don’t think him cowardly.”

  She snorted. “He has to be, not to claim me.”

  But T’Willow had moved to the fountain, where the crystal had turned scarlet, the Willow House color, and shot off silver sparks. He stared at it, inhaled and exhaled a few times, and the sphere became a calm aqua blue. Smiling, he looked at her. “Truly hideous thing, isn’t it?”

  “Uh, yes.”

  He held out his hand. “Friends, Trif Clover?”

  She put hers in his. It was warm and strong, and there was no sizzle of attraction. He kissed her fingers, then went over to the sleeping Greyku, gently lifted the kitten, and gave her to Trif. “Yes,” said T’Willow. “I want one of these for my own.” As his gaze met hers, his deep green eyes were clear of the previous storms. “My creative Flair is perfumery, something that also runs in our Family, thus the perfume ball HeartGift. I have a small book of perfume recipes written by T’Ash’s mother, Jasmine D’Ash. Do you think that will be an acceptable trade to D’Ash for a kitten of no pedigree?”

  “Oh, yes. That would get you a kitten of the highest rank, and probably placed at the top of her list too. T’Ash has so little of his Family treasures, probably nothing of his mother’s. The fire, you know.”

  “Yes. I know.” He looked around the room. “Sometimes when I think my lot was hard, it’s best to consider others’ fates. I have great Flair, a beautiful home, a FirstFamily title.” He bowed. “Merry meet.”

  “And merry part,” she replied automatically.

  “And merry meet again.” He ushered her to the door, glancing down at the pouch hanging by its strings over her wrist.

  “I won’t forget to send it on its journey, T’Willow,” Trif said quietly.

  “Thank you.” His smile was dazzling, and his gratitude warmed her as she left. Too bad that they weren’t attracted to each other, that they weren’t HeartMates. A handsome, sexy, Nobleman, and for a FirstFamilies GreatLord he didn’t seem too weird.

  But he wasn’t hers. As she slipped back into the T’Blackthorn glider, she looked at the pouch again, sensing nothing. He was someone’s, but not hers.

  She wanted her own HeartMate. She needed something more than the charmkey. She had to revise her strategy.

  Eight

  For Ilex, the morning had continued badly. His night counterpart had reviewed the sensorballs, but had not been able to distinguish the same scent of incense that Ilex had, so had been unable to follow up on that. So Ilex had continued making the rounds of incense shops. Mid-morning, Ilex’s superior, Chief Sawyr, had stiffly informed him that Tinne Holly and his father, T’Holly, had visited the guardhouse and demanded to see Winterberry, who hadn’t been scheduled for duty yet. The GreatLord had requested all the files of the cases, and Sawyr had provided him with a large memory sphere containing much of their information. They still wanted to see Ilex.

  Grumbling, Ilex teleported to T’Holly Residence. Since he was part of a distant branch of the Family and had made a courtesy visit or two before, the shields let him through. The butler informed Ilex that the two Hollys were practicing their fighting craft in Sparring Room Two and directed Ilex there.

  When he entered, neither of the men looked at him, but in the next minute, each turned or took a fall to glance at him.

  Tinne flashed a wicked grin. “Come join us, Ilex.”

  He was tempted. His inner embarrassment at being caught near his childhood home had mixed with anger at Trif for continuing her quest. Also, he’d felt a spear of anxiety that his old House might betray him to her if she used her charmkey. He didn’t think so, he’d been gone from it a long time, but he didn’t know.

  Chief Sawyr’s bad mood had rubbed at him too. Sawyr was solidly middle-class and he didn’t like mixing with Nobles. He didn’t like them nosing into his cases, and most of all, he didn’t like them in his guardhouse. A few years ago, he’d convinced the rest of the guards that a special position should be created for dealing with the Nobles, and that Ilex should fill it.

  Ilex had grudgingly agreed at the time, and the last few cases had been sufficiently interesting—except for that humiliating incident with the fliggering grychomp.

  Before the murders. Before his HeartMate was at risk. And now he was wasting time pandering to Nobles instead of working on solving the case.

  Grunts from the Hollys brought his mind to Tinne’s offer. “I’ll watch,” he said.

  Sweat beading on his brow, T’Holly bit off a chuckle. “Black Ilex the pretty boy.”

  No one had called him that in decades, but the insult still worked. A red tide washed over his vision and his patience snapped. With a Word, he skinned down to his loinwrap and his uniform folded itself on a chest.

  He gauged the fight and when the other two men drew slightly apart, he pounced, hitting them both and rolling away, taking only light taps from jabbing hands and feet.

  The three of them wrestled with renewed vigor. Blood pumped fast and hard through his veins and his energy surged. It was good to fight. To release the tension of anger and fear and act, not think. To feel his hands sting as he hit flesh, accept the ache of landed blows.

  Tinne grunted, ducked Ilex’s fist, pivoted on a foot, and kicked out with a leg that grazed T’Holly’s ribs. “Never. Knew. You. Were. Called. Pretty. Boy. Or. Black Ilex,” Tinne sucked in breaths between words, than dived at Ilex and took him down.

  His body slick with sweat, Ilex twisted from Tinne’s hold.

  “Nobody calls me that.” He swept out a foot T’Holly couldn’t dodge and brought the older man down.

  They all escaped each other’s grasp and sprang to their feet, grinning—teeth showing, fierce with battle.

  Tinne’s head snapped back at a blow from his father, and he returned the favor, then shook his head, his eyes meeting Ilex’s. “He’s in a snide mood. Called me a snotty toddler.”

  Ilex was too busy fighting T’Holly, then Tinne himself, to answer. It was time to end this. He had business. Gathering his strength and focus, he sent Tinne ro
lling off the mat—the younger man was now out of the match.

  A few minutes later, Ilex pinned T’Holly, then rose and stepped back, panting.

  The older man looked aghast as if he’d never lost a fight. Ilex’s anger cooled and he felt the impassive mask he often wore settle over his face. He didn’t offer to help T’Holly up.

  Tinne stared at his father, then looked aside and grabbed a towel. He swiped it around his neck, down his chest. He was growing into his stature and musculature, Ilex noted. Tinne grinned. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the demon ‘love’ was riding you.”

  Ilex hesitated an instant in drying off, and Tinne caught his stillness and swore. “Oh, zow, not you too!” He shook his head in mock disappointment. “Another bachelor gone to marriage.”

  He should talk, he’d wed a couple of years ago. “I won’t be marrying,” Ilex said.

  Tinne glanced at his face and his own expression sobered. “I don’t think I’ll ask.”

  “Good.” The young man wouldn’t press, Ilex knew. Tinne’s HeartMate was wed to another man.

  T’Holly rolled to his feet and stood, shaking out his limbs, face dour. His heavy brows lowered as he stared at Ilex. “That should not have happened. I am the premiere fighter of Celta. I request a rematch. Now.”

  Ilex didn’t have time for this. His jaw flexed, but he kept hasty words inside his mouth, though they tasted bitter. “I would be honored with another bout, but not now. My time is not my own.” He made a half bow.

  T’Holly scowled. “I must insist.” Another smile with teeth, but this wasn’t in the joy of fighting.

  Reciting a Couplet, Ilex pulled water and air from the atmosphere to whisk around and cleanse himself and his underwear. He picked up his shirt and snapped it to remove wrinkles, locking gazes with T’Holly. “Holm Senior,” he said deliberately. “I won because this Residence, your Family, and you yourself are suffering under your broken Vows of Honor.”

  T’Holly stiffened, paled. “No.”