Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  “Huh?” Tinne said, no doubt as surprised as she that Holm would invite a Hawthorn into their employ. He glanced at his brother, then his lips curved. He stood and picked up her hand and kissed it. “My thanks—Lark.” He glanced at his brother, hesitated, then said, “We would be pleased if you joined GreatHouse Holly. As you know, ours is a line of fighters, not Healers. We have no Family member who is capable of Healing. You would grace our halls.”

  Lark smiled at the charming compliment. “Quite impossible.”

  Tinne put a hand over his chest and sighed. “You have anything for heartbreak?”

  Lark laughed and shooed him out. He left with a bounce in his step.

  Holm took her hands before she could follow Tinne. A shudder rippled through Holm’s body. For an instant Lark imagined fear dawned in his eyes, then the odd expression vanished and he smiled as he cradled her hands.

  “Such power and Flair and beauty. T’Holly GreatHouse would honor and respect you, Mayblossom.”

  She stiffened. His palms were hard but gentle, his warmth and vitality astonishing. She tugged at her hands, but he didn’t release them.

  “HollyHeir . . .”

  “You know it’s Holm.”

  She tugged again.

  He waited an instant, kissed one of her hands, then the other. The press of his mouth held an emphasis of tender determination and sent a sensual tingle throughout her body she took as a warning.

  Slowly he released her fingers. “Merry meet,” he said.

  “And merry part,” she replied automatically.

  “And merry meet again.” He shot her a brilliant look. “And we will meet again, Mayblossom. Soon.”

  Her mouth curved in a bitter smile. “I hope not. The feud, the injuries, death.” A picture of her slain husband rose to her mind.

  Holm’s eyes narrowed. He grasped her shoulders and placed a short, hard kiss on her mouth. “We’ll meet again.”

  “I don’t associate with fighters,” she called as he strode from the room, squelching the intimate memory of those firm lips on hers and the unexpected rush of desire. She buried the new sensations under old bitterness, hurt and anger. “I despise fighting.” She yanked a cord for the Flair-technology spell to refresh and sterilize the room. Visualizing her bedroom, she gathered her Flair and teleported home.

  Voices mumbled, swords swirled and clashed with discordant blows. Holm fought Hawthorns, spinning, using sword and dagger. The flash of a blade thrust at him. He hesitated. Tinne fell. Holm riposted and pierced the Hawthorn’s heart.

  Screams hit his ears. Words he couldn’t distinguish. She drew his glance. Mayblossom Hawthorn, FirstLevel Healer. His HeartMate.

  He woke on a shuddering groan. Dew coated long grass a centimeter from his nose. He’d curled defensively in his sleep—but only small night animals and birds rustled around him.

  Not again! Sleep-teleporting again.

  The fourth time in two months.

  Holm staggered to his feet, his breathing a rasp. His arm ached all the way to his shoulder from his fierce grip on his dagger.

  The night’s chill breeze dried the cold sweat on his body. He shivered. He was naked. And alone.

  The horizon was eye-level. He looked up, past the branches of a huge ash tree, and found the bright starry skies of Celta dimmed by the light of two waxing twinmoons. Once again he’d ’ported to the crater north of Druida that held the ancient Great Labyrinth—a meditation tool.

  He didn’t want to meditate or recall being trapped in a blood-colored dream of fighting and death. Or think of the ragged shroud of the previous nightmare where he’d failed his brother. Tinne had sunk into the black sucking swamp of the Great Washington Boghole—a dream based on reality. Holm had floundered helplessly to save his younger brother, but it was Tinne who rescued them both.

  Holm suppressed the groan echoing in his chest, just as he’d suppressed the memory and ignored the dreams since the incident nearly three years ago. He’d hoped he’d banished those forever. He didn’t like thinking he’d failed, didn’t live up to the standards of a HollyHeir, which was his duty and his identity.

  His mouth flattened. No doubt his subconscious thought he needed to ponder some problems. He was at the center of the labyrinth, and it would take a septhour to reach the end where he could ’port out. A person could always teleport to the center, but never out from the center.

  He loosened his grip on his dagger and switched hands so he could wipe his sweaty palm on his thigh, wondering what he’d do if this plague continued into the windy autumn and snowy winter. Would he have beaten whatever caused the dreams by then?

  Stretching, he worked his muscles and steadied his pulse from the dream’s divulgence of his HeartMate.

  Holm wasn’t surprised. He’d known the minute he’d touched her earlier in the day. The dreams had primed him, her touch that morning had triggered the revelation.

  His thoughts unwillingly trailed back to the nightmare. His brother had died. He’d failed again. Holm rubbed his face.

  The labyrinth’s forcelines pulsed with rainbows of energy. He sighed and started the long walk out. Somehow he was sure that, as always, he’d fail to quiet his busy mind and find the core of serenity inside him that everyone said was there.

  The next morning Holm was called into his father’s ResidenceDen.

  “Please, sit, son,” T’Holly, Holm’s father, rumbled and gestured to one of the large, comfortable wingchairs stationed in front of his desk.

  Holm stared balefully at the chair. It represented all the reprimands of his childhood. When he became T’Holly and succeeded to the title and the estate, that chair would go.

  When Holm saw his Mamá perched on the side of his father’s desk, her hand in her husband’s, Holm tensed for an emotional blow.

  There’d been no “little talks” for long years. He was a man grown with ample responsibilities as the Heir of a GreatHouse. He should not be subject to any further parent-child discussions. He fulfilled every duty.

  Except one. There was one outstanding issue.

  He grumbled inwardly. He’d known someday this moment would come, but, as usual, they’d surprised him. He’d just run out of time. And he needed time. He wasn’t ready to start his wooing. She wasn’t ready.

  He respected his parents and had sworn a loyalty oath to T’Holly as GreatHouse Lord, but Holm’s mind sharpened as he sat. He must play this game of wills smoothly.

  His father cleared his throat. “Your mother and I have been talking . . .”

  Holm’s gut tensed. The worst news always began: “Your mother and I have been talking.” Whether it had been problems with manners, duties, his tutor, his psi power—his Flair—he’d always sat in this chair and heard those words. Though his father said the words, Holm knew who prompted the little talks. He stared at his Mamá. She didn’t meet his eyes.

  His teeth clenched in dread.

  His parents exchanged glances, then his father turned his pewter-gray gaze again onto Holm. “You’re thirty-seven, and while that isn’t the great age here on Celta as it was on Earth, it is time you married.”

  Holm would have given a great deal of gilt for a stiff drink right then. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to keep his face impassive. “None of my three Passages, the emotional storms that freed my Flair, indicated a HeartMate. I want what you have.” Maybe that would earn him a little more time.

  His Mamá’s turquoise eyes held sorrow. She moved closer to his father. “We know you don’t have a HeartMate, dear.”

  Staying expressionless and meeting her eyes was hard. But the stakes were too important for anyone except himself to know the name of his HeartMate. He hadn’t had time to strategize how he’d win Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson.

  D’Holly sighed. “Many don’t have HeartMates.” She nodded with determination. “But it’s time you wed. A fine marriage can be had with a good woman. Love can follow, I’m sure.” Her voice faltered at the end, since being a HeartMa
te, she couldn’t know personally. She swept her hand wide as if encompassing the city. “The Alders have a perfectly happy marriage, and my sister Nata loves her husband. . . .”

  T’Holly continued for his HeartMate. “We need to know the Holly line will continue. We need heirs. At least two sons from you.” His father was less than his usual diplomatic self. The fact that T’Holly found the topic distasteful didn’t stop Holm from resenting him.

  “A few daughters would be nice, too,” D’Holly murmured, flashing the charming smile Holm had inherited. “As many as you can engender.”

  A growl rolled from Holm’s lips before he could stop it.

  His father raised winged silver brows and looked down his nose. “We expected this reaction.”

  He tapped a crystal set into the desk. A calendar-moon holo materialized between Holm and his parents.

  The ResidenceLibrary spoke. “An appointment with the matchmaker, GreatLady Saille D’Willow, has been made for Holm, HollyHeir. The meeting was expedited for two days from now, on Quert. It is to be a full session, no gilt limit.”

  Holm winced at the expense. The globe spun faster until it disappeared in a flash of blue-white light.

  “We want you to be happy, dear, that’s why we’re sending you to the foremost matchmaker on Celta. D’Willow won’t have any difficulty finding you a suitable wife.” His mother sounded troubled but determined.

  “But you don’t want me to be as happy as yourselves, with a HeartMate marriage,” Holm said.

  His father snapped into rigidity. “If you had a HeartMate we would do everything in our power to welcome her to the Family.”

  Holm narrowed his eyes and let a faint smile play on his lips. “Would you?”

  “Of course,” D’Holly said.

  Holm lifted his brows. “By your Words of Honor?”

  T’Holly scowled. D’Holly furrowed her forehead. “Yes, by our Words.”

  “By our Words,” T’Holly echoed. “Not that it is applicable. D’Willow’s matchmaking ability is the best. She doesn’t personally see very many. If you do a good job courting, we could have a wedding this month.” He cleared his throat and handed Holm a sheet of papyrus. “Perhaps this will help D’Willow, and you.”

  Holm didn’t have to read the papyrus to know what was on it. “A list of eligible women from Families with whom it would be advantageous to form a close alliance?” he mocked.

  “Don’t take that tone with your father,” D’Holly said, in reflexive defense of her husband. “I’m sure several of the ladies listed are women you could come to love. I quite like Hedara of GreatHouse Ivy and am very fond of Gwylan of D’Sea.”

  Holm had heard such names before in the form of dropped hints. He stood. “Speaking of alliances, I trust that this appointment with the matchmaker didn’t also include an alliance.”

  “It’s a straight gilt payment,” his father gritted.

  “Good.” Holm went to his mother and lifted her free hand to his lips. “I will follow your wishes in this.” But he didn’t smile at her like he generally did.

  He’d go to the matchmaker. Better to keep his parents in the dark about his mate. A situation they didn’t know about, they couldn’t meddle in. He’d have to move quickly now. “I trust you will be satisfied with my choice of a wife.”

  They wouldn’t.

  Two

  Matchmaker GreatLady Saille D’Willow’s bright amber eyes were nearly lost in her fleshy face, but they were shrewder than Holm liked. She was massive. No wonder she never moved from her lavish suite. Great Flair made great emotional and physical demands, and overeating was a way some GreatLords and Ladies compensated.

  She sat back in her chair. Her voice, smooth and mellow, tugged at him to relinquish his annoyance at this forced appointment. “Just because you didn’t feel a HeartMate when you fought the death duels of your last Passage, doesn’t mean that there isn’t one for you in this lifetime. Sometimes there are possible mates that require certain circumstances to be met before they become the solid reality of a HeartMate. Souls must grow in compatible ways for a HeartBond to develop.”

  The GreatLady tapped a finger just below the deep red sticks. They had fallen in a dark and foreboding design when Holm had tossed them earlier. Each stick bore an incised gold symbol, gleaming in the summer light that streamed through large windows. The thin and ancient pieces of wood smelled musky, imbued with centuries of smoky incense.

  She continued. “Your Flair and subconscious have spoken. You have a HeartMate. You had to mature to meet her needs. I congratulate you.” Her smile showed small, even teeth, appropriate for the occasion, since every word nipped at him with stinging force.

  “HollyHeir, you are a young soul, with just a few lifetimes behind you. Hers is a much older soul, with more experience. You will have to fight hard to keep up with her. You must combat your own nature to fit it to hers. This is the first time you have reached a level where you can meet.”

  Typical, that he’d have to fight—and this time himself and her. Fights didn’t bother Holm, but he feared, deep in his heart, that they bothered his HeartMate a great deal.

  “In fact,” D’Willow said with a penetrating look, “you knew that, didn’t you? You know you have a HeartMate.”

  Holm tired of the way D’Willow spoke in portentous sentences, dissecting his character. He decided not to answer but to wait for another response from her. After all, she was paid five-thousand gilt a septhour to guide him. He lounged back in the chair and coolly met her amber glance.

  They sat some moments in silence. Finally D’Willow laughed. “You show promise.” This time her smile broadened. “But a few minutes’ patience with me will not equal the determination you will need to win your HeartMate.” D’Willow gathered the sticks and rolled them between her hands, ready to throw. “Do you want me to ascertain her name and locale?” The matchmaker nodded to the list of eligible brides that his parents had provided. “Perhaps it is one of these ladies.”

  Holm didn’t think the daughter of T’Holly’s worst enemy would be on the papyrus.

  Burning curiosity lit D’Willow’s eyes. She wanted to know who his HeartMate was. The GreatLady couldn’t reveal the confidential information, but in the shifting alliances of the Noble-Houses, she could act on it for her own benefit while he courted his lady. And it could take a long time to win his HeartMate, D’Willow was right about that.

  She shook the sticks between loosened palms. “I can discover your HeartMate for you—”

  “No.” He wouldn’t give D’Willow any advantage to exploit in the FirstFamilies’ political games. He surged from his chair and crossed the room to the door, laying a hand on the ornate handle. Focusing his gaze on the sticks, he connected with them and withdrew the energy he’d given them for the Divination. The game of wills he had played with D’Willow—him hiding his HeartMate’s name from her, and she wishing to divine it, or see him lose his temper, or both—soured. He opened the door.

  She spoke, “I’ll inform T’Holly that we’ve consulted, and of the results—a HeartMate for you. A formal report will be teleported to T’Holly’s collection box in the next few days.”

  Manners won. Holm turned and bowed deeply. “Merry meet.”

  “And merry part,” D’Willow said.

  “And merry meet again.” Now Holm smiled, showing teeth. “But should you somehow Divine the name of my lady and tell it to my lord and Father, I will remember that you did it against my wishes—for as long as I live, and when I become T’Holly.”

  Her face solidified until it was like a wax mask, bright eyes piercing him, but he knew she wouldn’t dare to mix in his affairs.

  Outside D’Willow’s gates, he stroked the scabbard of his main gauche strapped to his right thigh, pleased. A game was naught but a mock fight, and he had come out of that skirmish a winner. The matchmaker had looked frustrated that she would gain no knowledge of his affairs. She’d spend some of her expensive time speculating now, about the plan
s of the HollyHeir and the future of the powerful GreatHouse T’Holly.

  And she’d puzzle over who might be his HeartMate. She didn’t know the name of his HeartMate. No one did.

  Except himself.

  What the hell he was going to do?

  That night Lark stood in the graceful arch of the floor-to-ceiling window of her apartment and looked out at the large square courtyard. The scene was sketched black, white and gray in the twinmoonslight. Both moons had risen, Eire hovered just above the opposite side of the building, some five hundred meters away. Cymru moon shone brightly, a huge ball high in the sky. Their phases were always the same, and tonight they were both full, indicating that the month of Hazel had begun. The HealingHalls could be busy, and she was the Healer on call for AllClass HealingHall.

  She’d been too anxious to sleep. And too responsible to use Flair that might be needed to Heal to indulge in her usual pastime of tinting her walls.

  The full moons and fragile summer fragrances reminded her of the evening her husband, Ethyn, had died. A boy from the Downwind slums near the docks, he’d tested high in Healing Flair and labored hard to rise above his birth. He’d done it, studied and received FirstLevel Healer laurels, then been killed in a stupid noble street fight four months later. Tears welled in her eyes as the echoes of grief bruised her heart. Even more tears trailed down her cheeks as she admitted that she could no longer remember his face.

  Druida City held too many memories and too many family members who wanted to dictate her life. Even living here, in MidClass Lodge, had been a compromise. She’d wanted to stay in the small house in the common sector in southeast Druida. Both her noble Families wanted her close, so she chose the one middle-class apartment building, near to “Noble Country,” where the FirstFamilies kept their castle-like Residences.

  It was time to leave Druida. A fresh start was exactly what she needed, which was why she’d applied for the appointment as Head of the Gael City HealingHall, two days away by glider when Ambroz Pass was clear.