Samba gazed at the gleaming stones against the pristine white marble of the Opera terrace. All talk stopped as everyone stared at the circle of dazzling emeralds.
“Thief! Thief!” cried Uncle Bucus.
Ruis pulled his cloak around him, then saw Bucus was pointing at Samba.
“Samba!” Ruis hissed.
She started, then threaded through legs, hobbling people. She dashed in front of Bucus and spat at him. He kicked at her.
“Thief!” Bucus shouted again.
Ruis gritted his teeth.
Now Bucus rocked on his heels. “That cat. She’s a thief. I’ve heard she belongs to—” He snapped his mouth shut. Ruis knew then that somehow Bucus had found out Samba was Fam to his loathed nephew. In a temper, Bucus had almost revealed that Samba might lead him to Ruis.
Ruis had no doubt Bucus still wanted him dead. The hair on the back of Ruis’s neck prickled, yet he wanted to jump into the milling crowd and protect his Fam. He dared not. Certain death. “The cat’s a thief,” Bucus said.
“Is that so?” D’SilverFir asked coolly.
Ruis started. He hadn’t seen her arrive. His glance fixed on her, slender and elegant in a simple pale-green gown shot with silver. His thudding heart missed a beat, his breath lodged in his throat. She was the epitome of graceful breeding, everything a noble lady should be.
Bucus went motionless. “Judge D’SilverFir.”
Ailim studied portly, red-faced T’Elder. He obviously was hiding something, as well as scrambling his surface thoughts so she couldn’t read them. “You call a feral cat a thief?” she asked. But anticipation shimmered in her blood. She recognized the cat—the Fam—as the one that had bonded with Ruis Elder.
T’Elder’s eyes shifted. He knew the cat, too.
“Very well, I’ll set the guardsmen on the animal.” Ailim lifted a hand and sent a mental command to two uniformed men standing near the door. Catch the cat.
They stared in disbelief, exchanged glances.
“T’Elder wants that cat,” Ailim called above the renewed hubbub of the crowd.
Chuckles and laughs rippled around the Opera portico. The guards jogged after the cat. The feline stayed in the light of the night glows, weaving in and around people as if it were a game, fat and sassy and appearing thoroughly delighted.
T’Elder turned a deep red. “Stop the guards,” he choked.
Ailim lifted her brows. “Of course. Stop guardsmen!” Stop, she reinforced the order mentally. Everyone turned their attention to her. Damn. She’d overdone the mental call and drawn notice to herself. She suppressed a sigh.
We hear and obey, the guards replied, with a hint of panting in their thoughts.
Ailim nodded severely to Bucus T’Elder and his wife, who stood before her. “It is done. If you need my services, please don’t hesitate to contact me.”
A screech focused all notice on D’Birch. With one last ebullient run, the calico zoomed back past D’Birch, who stooped to pick up the emerald necklace. One black, orange, and white paw flicked an expensive comb from the woman’s hair. D’Birch tottered and the jewelry fell from her grasping fingers.
Holm Holly stepped forward to steady the lady. A circle of nobles gathered again to stare at glittering gems.
“Interesting,” Holm said. “I believe these were the subject of some controversy not too long ago. I rather thought the thief Ruis Elder was supposed to have taken these. Then again, T’Ash said the clasp was loose. . . .”
“They’re mine,” D’Birch said.
“Oh, indubitably.” Holm stooped and picked up the shining necklace. With a sweeping, elegant bow, he gave it to her.
A high-pitched yapping caught Ailim’s attention, and she looked over to see Primrose struggling in Cona’s hands. As a sop to Family peace, Ailim had let Cona carry the pup as the most fashionable “accessory” a lady could have this season. Now the “accessory” was making her liveliness known.
Friend. Friend. Play friend, Primrose squealed. She jumped down and tore past several clusters of nobles, all with pets. Let’s play! Play! Play!
Her invitation got immediate results. Kittens poked heads out of long sleeves and jumped nimbly to the steps, dogs started barking. One thin, aristocratic but stupid-looking hound took off after Primrose in a run. The air filled with animal sounds, the steps became a whirl of furry bodies.
Silky ears flying, Primrose bounded down the stairs toward the busy, deadly street after a supple calico tail.
“Primrose, stop!” Ailim sped down the steps, heart pounding with fear for the puppy’s safety in the street. She’d reached the last tread when a foursome of young dogs hit her ankles.
She pitched forward, arched to miss the gliders, but two crashed near her anyway. Their forcefields collided, sparked, promising death. She shut her eyes as she fell.
Jerking his light-bending cloak close, Ruis jumped, grabbed D’SilverFir, and dived, twisting, under the bumpledges of the glider vehicles. He grunted as he struck the ground.
The gliders’s forcefields, already weak from the collision, fizzled when his Nullness hit them. Their stands clattered down. The transports rocked back and forth above him, the flowskirts ringing the bottom of the bumpledges fluttered down, hiding Ruis.
He heard the hiss of emergency mechanics opening the doors. An argument started between the drivers.
Danger feathered up his spine. He’d saved D’SilverFir from death, but his discovery was a few seconds away if he didn’t get out of here, fast. “GrandLady,” he panted.
She didn’t answer. Her body was limp atop his.
Seven
Footsteps came close. “Hey, you blithering idiots,” Holm Holly said. “The opera is starting. Are you going to stand here and argue, or take care of this mess?”
Ruis should leave D’SilverFir, let the eminently noble Holm Holly rescue her. But he couldn’t give her up to another man, especially Holly, noble and charming and in need of a wife.
Ruis’s arms tightened around Ailim. All the nerves in his body went on alert. The feel and scent of her dominated his senses.
He had to protect her.
Holly and the drivers discussed what was to be done. Other nobles talked loudly and gathered their pets, scolding the animals. Ruis got an impression of confusion, with no one missing one small GrandLady new to society.
A cold nose pressed against Ruis’s cheek. Rumbling and “pprrps” told him Samba had returned. A chirrup. Good playing . Chase. Hide-and-seek. Slink and Evade. All good games. She snorted. Dogs are not as smart as Cats.
Harness jingling mixed with animal whuffling protests.
Riderbeasts. They don’t like Our smell. Come, now.
Ruis’s arms tightened reflexively around GrandLady D’SilverFir. He didn’t want to let her go.
He had to let her go.
She was a SupremeJudge. He was a condemned man.
She opened her eyes and gasped when she found herself nose-to-nose with Samba.
Samba sniffed her. Verrry nice smell. She can come with us.
“No,” Ruis murmured, releasing her and rolling away.
Too late. Her eyes met his and went wide.
“Look at this traffic,” a disgusted Holm Holly said above them, blocked by the metal of the glider. “And it’s taking far too long to be cleared. Hey!” he shouted.
D’SilverFir jerked her head up, banged it hard on the underside of the glider, and went limp once more.
Ruis cursed under his breath.
“Tinne, brother of mine, come help me ’port this mess to T’Furze’s Courtyard. He can sort it out later,” Holly called.
A young man’s laugh answered him.
We GO! Samba hit Ruis in the cheek with a sheathed paw. I’ll make more trouble. You play Slink and Evade.
Ruis grunted.
Samba shot out from under the glider to zoom around the Opera steps.
“It’s that damn cat again! Does anyone know who it belongs to? Or is it feral? Is it wearin
g a silver collar?” Holly shouted. More gasps and shrieks and shouts.
Ruis slid through the flowskirt and from under the glider’s far bumpledge, pulled D’SilverFir after him, lifted her into his arms, and crouched below the glider’s top. He muffled himself and her in his cloak, then drifted away like a shifting shadow.
Samba joined him. Are we going home? The angle of her whiskers showed she was very pleased with herself.
“No. We can’t take Lady D’SilverFir to the Ship.”
Samba grinned. We play hide-and-seek?
“Yes.”
My Sire, Zanth, has many hiding places in the City. Downwind—
“Nothing Downwind. She doesn’t belong Downwind.”
I don’t belong Downwind. Samba sniffed. Downwind smells. But I know a place near here. Clean and dry and pleasant.
The thought prodded Ruis’s recall, of a place that had once welcomed him, and where he hadn’t returned for many years since his Nullness harmed it and he had prized it so. “Follow me.”
Samba, ever curious, rotated both ears, flicked the tip of her tail and pranced to his side with a purr of approval. I will follow you to a new and interesting place. Fun.
Ruis and Samba hurried from CityCenter and down ever quieter streets. He worried about the too-limp woman in his arms.
After a few moments he stopped at a tall, crumbling wall of a GrandHouse estate. The Family had died out, an all-too-common occurrence on the yet untamed Celta. Like the Blackthorn estate, this, too, was reputed to harbor a curse.
Ruis knew better.
Potent illusions surrounded the property and the rumor of a curse guarded a natural wonder: the first Healing grove of the colonists. Many generations of Healers had been taught here. They had reinforced the first, ancient healing spells in the naturally curative spring and the protecting trees. But as the Nobles became more powerful, only the greatest of Healers were allowed in FirstGrove, and then, through secrecy and mischance, the location had been lost.
When Ruis had deciphered the ancient words on the ruined stones, he’d researched FirstGrove. It held a powerful gatespell, keyed to let the most wounded and desperate in.
His lips twisted in an ironic smile. The spell had no effect on him—none of the illusion spells, nor the gatespell, nor even the healing spells. But he couldn’t deny that he’d been heart wounded and desperate when he’d found it at fourteen.
D’SilverFir shifted in his arms, moaning a little.
Ruis cuddled her closer and made soothing noises, noises he was aware that he’d never heard himself and that were echoes of Samba’s to him. He only hoped that they translated into something that might reassure a lady.
When she settled, he felt triumphant. He found the pointed-arch door in the wall and showed Samba how to use the lever. The cat did so with great smugness. They walked through a maze of vine covered lattices, hedgerows, and tangled brush until Ruis ducked and entered the long leafy tunnel to FirstGrove itself.
He pushed past the last veil of vines and stopped at the beauty. The twinmoons had risen and gleamed three-quarters full on opposite sides of the sky. Cymru glowed dull gold, Eire a rosy pink.
Dark trees thrust into the sky, huge and sheltering the soft, mossy ground below. Unlike the other trees of Druida, they still held their leaves. FirstGrove lagged behind the year; it was still summer here. Some of the great trees were old Earth oaks mixed in with large boled trees native to Celta, and hybrids that had bred in this special place.
Ruis carefully lowered himself and D’SilverFir down to the thick, fragrant grass, close to the shallows of the spring.
Samba squealed, her green eyes bright. Verrrry interesting place. I go play. She trotted off, tail waving.
D’SilverFir groaned and raised a faltering hand to her head. Then she jerked upright. “I can’t feel I can’t read—” she cried in panic.
He thought of leaving her; he couldn’t. “My fault, I think,” he said, surprised at how low and rough his voice was.
She lifted glazed eyes. Blinked. Stared. “You!”
“Me.” He began to withdraw his arms from around her slender body.
She grasped his shirt. “No.”
Tremors ran through her. She was reacting to her close brush with death.
He kept her close and murmured into her hair. “No?”
She shut her eyes again and relaxed against him. “No,” she whispered.
“You’re a SupremeJudge and I’m condemned to death if found in Druida.”
Now both hands clutched at her head. “I can’t think. My head hurts.”
He sighed inwardly. She didn’t want to face facts. He’d been doing his best to ignore the deadly facts himself, but was always aware that each time he stepped from the Ship to roam Druida, he placed his life in danger. She turned her face into his chest and his thoughts scrambled as he tightened his hold on her. She trusted him. She liked being in his arms. The attraction he had felt, had thought she’d felt the times they’d met, was definitely mutual. His spirits rose.
“This is a healing spring, GrandLady. There’s a head-depression carved in the soft stone at the edge of the water. Would you like to try it?”
“A healing spring?” She opened her eyes. Her breath caught as she took in the loveliness around them. Fascination appeared on her face. Slowly she sat up. “Where are we? Where is the HealingHall attached to the grove and the spring?”
Ruis smiled. “We’re in FirstGrove.”
“FirstGrove.” She looked around the trees and the pool, the summer roses still blooming in autumn. “The fabled FirstGrove?” She sighed, her shoulders slumped, then squared, as if accepting all her usual responsibilities. Then she sat, spine straight, away from the curve of his supporting arms. Ruis reluctantly moved so they no longer touched. She released deep, unsettled feelings in him, brought a great yearning for a normal life. He suffered through it, gritting his teeth. He wasn’t normal and never would be.
“Why don’t we try the healing spring on your head?” He stood and held out his hand.
She stared up at him, and he saw a reflected flicker of longing cross her features, only to be supplanted by guilt and duty that made her thin her lips and raise her chin.
They both knew they were worlds apart, worlds that couldn’t ever be reconciled. But she placed her hand in his and he slowly drew her to her feet. He guided her a few steps to the pool and indicated the depression shaped in the marble, surrounded by a lacy stonework crown to direct the flow and ensure the patient could not drown. Water bubbled through the intricately and beautifully cut masonry, but would not touch her face.
She stooped and trailed her fingers in the spring. “It’s warm.”
He squatted and put the tip of his little finger in the pond for an instant. Then he stood and backed away. “That’s me. It should be hotter than this, but I’m in the vicinity.”
“Hmmm.” She eyed the water and stone crown. “Time in the Healing Spring couldn’t hurt.”
“And your head does.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked up at him and her face softened. “You are always taking care of me.”
He cleared his throat. “My pleasure, GrandLady.”
Her delicate skin flushed. She lifted her chin. “And it has been my pleasure, too.” Raising her hand, her fingers brushed against his face. “Call me Ailim.”
Ruis’s heart pounded. He wanted her in so many ways, so he stepped aside. “Let’s take care of your head . . . first.”
She reddened more but nodded, then winced. Moving warily, she went to the pool, lay flat on her back, and began lowering her head into the water.
“Wait. I’m going to the other side of the spring so the Healing spells and heat will return fully. I’ll keep a lookout.”
She was so dignified. Didn’t she get tired of being so proper all the time? He wanted her relaxed, smiling. He grinned at her and thought of teasing a little. “All you have to do is squeak and I’ll come running.”
She blink
ed, then her lips curved. “Squeak?” she asked, as if such a sound had never issued from her lips. Probably not—she must have been taught the dignity, decorum, and propriety expected of a FirstFamily Heir since she was a toddler.
He cocked his head. “Squeak. Why don’t you try it?”
She stared at him.
“I can’t hear you,” he said.
She started squeaking with low and short sounds, then as Ruis stood back, hands on hips, her squeaks became long and high, then with complete abandon.
He laughed.
She stopped, raised her chin. “I can squeak if I want.”
“You certainly can.”
D’SilverFir sighed. “At least here.”
“Don’t limit yourself.”
She shrugged and lowered her head into the pool. Small lines of strain smoothed as the water rose to frame her beautiful face. She wriggled a bit, breasts and hips moving in a way that made Ruis suddenly aware of her femininity and his very masculine reaction.
He nodded to her and flipped a hand in the direction he would be going. She smiled again.
Ruis set off around the pool, keeping the glittering silver threads of her gown always in sight. He reached the other side of the spring and stared at D’SilverFir. Her hands were folded, her sliver slippers pointed. Serene and ladylike, as always. Yet he sensed that if he had her truly alone and in an intimate setting, he could coax her to abandon herself to passion.
She adjusted her head and her pale braids rippled around her face. Her expression showed enjoyment.
He wanted to be with her, next to her, but here he was, across the entire pool. His mouth twisted. It was symbolic of their relationship.
A few moments later Ailim rose and started to dry her hair with a spell. Her fine blond tresses had been freed from their elaborate plaits in the form of Celtic knots and floated around her. When Ruis got within a few feet of her, the drying spell died, and her hair subsided back onto her head.
D’SilverFir put a hand to her temple, tilted her head, and narrowed her eyes. She was obviously trying to use her Flair. She shook her head.
Heart Thief Page 12
