Meserv mewed and sat on Holm’s foot.
T’Holly whirled his HeartMate away. Passiflora threw back her head and laughed.
They made a fine picture, a man and a woman in the prime of their lives: he looking down at her with open adoration, she returning all his love.
Holm fisted his hands and shoved them in his pockets. He wanted that. He wanted that badly. Looking at them, he knew the loneliness of his heart, and the yearning of his soul for that one special person. The longing permeated his being, not only heart and soul, but also his mind and body. Nothing would be right for him until he had his own HeartMate. Lark Collinson. He would get her, and keep her.
We will get her, Meserv said.
Three
Lark blinked at the bright late summer afternoon as she exited Primary HealingHall. She rolled her shoulders. Her four-septhour shift had become grueling when a D’Hazel’s noble, greatly-Flaired child had been ’ported to intake. The girl had tried to fly. It had been an exhausting, wrenching case.
Lark’s weary, shuffling feet caught on a crack in the pavement and she stumbled. Phyll mewed. She patted the new double bag she carried in reassurance. One side held the accouterments of her profession. The other section, with a meshed end, held Phyll, resting after helping her. Even a tiny spurt of energy from the kitten, when linked with her own, could yield incredible results. When she and her husband had linked, they’d been the most powerful Healing team on Celta.
Two guards wearing Hawthorn colors of purple and gold stepped from the shadows beside the fluted stone columns of the portico. One was her cuz Whitey, completely Healed of the injury he’d suffered the day before. The other man was vaguely familiar. They’d been sent by her father. Her fingers tightened on the bag. Anxiety fluttered through her.
Whitey nodded to her, but glanced at his timer, impatience on his face. The other bowed shortly, “T’Hawthorn requests your presence, GreatMistrys.”
It took a moment for Lark to recognize the large, solid man. A harsh white scar that twisted from his jaw to his once-broken nose jogged her memory. Cratag. The slash and the nose hadn’t been tended because Cratag had been in the rainforests of Brittany, the southern continent. He was a son of the Maytree branch of the Family who’d emigrated to Brittany several generations ago.
Lark swallowed to ease the tightness of her throat. A summons from her father. For a moment she thought of refusing, but stiffened her spine. No matter how weary, her father had issued a command and would expect obedience. To refuse would be cowardly and postpone the inevitable.
“Greetyou, Whitey,” Lark said. Despite the tremor of her nerves, she inclined her head to Cratag, in the manner that had been drummed into her. “Please don’t call me ‘GreatMistrys,’ I’m a GentleLady now.” She’d married a common man, flouting her father.
Irony flashed in Cratag’s violet eyes. “FirstLevel Healer,” he replied, using her professional title.
Her cuz Whitey shifted restlessly. “Listen, Cratag, you wouldn’t mind taking Lark to T’Hawthorn by yourself, would you? I’m—ah—late for an appointment.” He winked broadly.
With a casualness that belied her tension, Lark said, “I’m sure Cratag and I will be fine without you.” She glanced at her wrist timer. “I’m free for the rest of the afternoon.”
Whitey clapped Cratag on the shoulder. “Many thanks. You don’t need to mention I left to T’Hawthorn, right?”
“No,” Cratag said expressionlessly.
Whitey hitched his sword-blaser belt and took off at a lope.
“Shall we go?” Lark wanted to get any interview with her father over with as soon as possible.
Cratag gestured to the side of the portico to the huge, deep metallic purple T’Hawthorn glider hovering above the ground. She walked over, straightening her blandly pastel tunic over wide-legged trous and wishing for an elegant dress as better armor. She pressed her lips together.
At an intoned Word from Cratag, the door lifted open. Lark slid in and onto the padded silkeen bench, carefully placing her bag on her lap.
Cratag started to shut the door and move to the back, but Lark said, “Join me.” Company would be welcome.
After a brief hesitation, Cratag took a seat beside her.
“Glider, return to T’Hawthorn Residence,” he ordered.
The glider accelerated silently forward on the cushion of air beneath it.
“So, Cratag, how do you like being in Druida instead of Brittany?” Not only was she interested in the man, but she needed distraction from her mounting apprehension.
He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t think you cared much about me.”
“Of course I do. You’re Family.”
He matched her questioning gaze with a serious one of his own. “We’ve only met a handful of times. As for Family, T’Hawthorn’s your father, but you don’t visit.”
Lark caught her breath at this bluntness. Phyll stirred. Cratag wasn’t polite, as every member of a GreatHouse was expected to be. Even Whitey was polite when he deigned to speak to her. It didn’t matter, what mattered was the feud. “Tell me, Cratag, do you enjoy fighting?”
He ran his forefinger down his scar. “Not especially. A man does what he must. My Flair’s minimal, but my sword skills are useful. They’ve earned me a place in the GreatHouse, and a room in the Family Residence. I’m grateful.”
Lark wetted her lips. “And what do you think of this feud between Hawthorn and Holly?”
He shrugged heavy shoulders. “It’s not my place to decide what’s worth fighting for, it’s T’Hawthorn’s. I obey my orders.”
“I’m sure you have other skills besides fighting,” Lark said softly. “That’s not how we are raised on Celta. There’s good land and a career for everyone if a person is determined.”
“The daughter of a GreatHouse can say that. Someone with exceptional Flair who’s powerful herself. Others must use what circumstance gives them.” He looked straight ahead. “Land and wealth aren’t my goals. I want Family, to belong.”
“Yet this feud with the Hollys is dangerous, could very well cause your death. The Hollys are well known as fighters—the Hawthorns are planners and traders. A feud is a horrible thing. It could spiral out of hand, set the entire city against us, against both Families.”
He pinned her with sharp scrutiny. “Do you prophesize? Did you have a vision? Is it Flair speaking, Lady?”
She wished she could say yes, anything to stop even one Hawthorn from fighting, but she shook her head. She lifted her hands. “I’m a Healer. I’ve had no premonitions. I only know that mending bodies shattered by swords and blasers is horrible and unnecessary.”
Cratag hesitated, gave a slight nod, then returned his attention to the view outside the glider windows. “Speak to T’Hawthorn.”
When they arrived at T’Hawthorn Residence, Cratag ushered Lark into her father’s ResidenceDen. She sat in a wingchair of dark blue with dainty golden dragonflies, a Hawthorn symbol. She always chose that chair for any Family discussion. Gently she set down her bag containing Phyll. Just the thought of her Fam comforted her.
“Drink?” asked Cratag, standing in the small alcove that housed the bar.
“No, thank you.” After expending so much energy Healing earlier, she knew she’d need all her intelligence to match wits with her father.
“We have cinnamoncaff, caff, tea, cocoa, rootsweet,” Cratag offered softly. She wondered how much her nerves showed.
The door opened and her father entered. A stocky man, imposing in spite of his medium height, Lark had inherited her coloring from him. She had the same black hair and dark violet eyes. Time had carved the lines on his face deeper and the silver streaks of hair at his temples wider since the last time she’d seen him a few months ago.
And the moment he walked in, the mantle of GreatHouse FirstDaughter, his daughter, dropped over her, and she knew that this time, as always, she would not be able to escape that role. She suppressed an inner, angry sigh at herself, st
ood, and curtsied to the GreatLord, the Head of the Hawthorns.
“Be seated.” T’Hawthorn nodded and settled behind his desk. “Our feud with the Hollys will be escalating.”
Lark sank back down into the chair, keeping her face immobile and her hands folded gracefully on her lap. “I noticed the skirmishes increased.”
T’Hawthorn glanced at Cratag. “Whiskey. And pour yourself some.”
The sounds of clinking glass and gurgling liquid broke the silence. Waiting was something her father did best. Lark sighed inwardly. If this feud was one of sheer patience, T’Hawthorn would easily win. The main traits of the Hollys were impulsiveness and volatility.
But the Hollys were the premier fighters of Celta. Lark didn’t see how this situation could end without blood and death.
“Give Mayblossom some brithe brandy. She needs color,” T’Hawthorn said.
Cratag handed a short glass of whiskey to her father, kept one for himself, and offered a miniature snifter to Lark, liquid full to the brim. She closed her eyes and inhaled. Just the scent of it restored her a little. When she opened her lashes, she looked at the glass and rubbed her thumb over the etched primroses. The small snifter was one of a set that her mother’s mother, MotherDam D’Heather, had crafted for her father and mother’s wedding.
“I believe it is time for you to return to live here, your home.” His cool gaze measured her as he seemingly changed the topic. To discomfit her?
Lark pulled a quiet breath deep into her body. The issue of her independence hadn’t been raised between them for a long time. She wanted to state a blunt “No.” But the denial wouldn’t be accepted, and her father would comment both on her active disobedience and discourtesy. That would extend this tense meeting. “I am content with my life, and surely you know that I have applied for the position of Head of Gael City HealingHall.”
His dark brows lowered. “I do not think it appropriate that you move so far away from the Family.”
He meant so far away from him and his power.
T’Hawthorn stared at her. “Everyone needs Family. You should have the close presence of Family for comfort. I know you miss my mother, who’s been living in the country house.”
Lark bit her lip. True. Her father’s mother, Eshela, flighty and always bubbling over with good spirits, held a special place in Lark’s heart. The vague, rambling conversations she had with Eshela always lightened her mood.
“Eshela is now here,” T’Hawthorn said.
He must have ordered her home. Why? So Eshela would be another incentive for Lark to remain in Druida and make T’Hawthorn Residence home once more? Lark’s fingers grew stiff with tension.
T’Hawthorn sipped his whiskey. “I understood when the development of your great Flair demanded in-depth training and you had to live at the Heathers, away from T’Hawthorn Residence. But now you have reached the peak of your profession, with the privileges that such an attainment provides. You may choose your own cases, designate your worktime. And your Residence.”
“Yes, I choose my own cases. I choose to work at AllClass HealingHall as well as Primary HealingHall.”
He stared at her common tunic and trous, nothing at all like the elegant robes with metallic embroidery that women of her class usually wore, or even well-cut and bespelled silkeen that other FirstLevel Healers wore. He lifted an eyebrow. “The HealingHall at Gael City does not see many Nobles.”
“But Head of Gael City is an advancement for me. I doubt I’ll ever become Head of Primary HealingHall here in Druida. That position will go to my aunt, T’Heather’s heir.” Let her father think that ambition caused her to submit a request for the appointment, rather than any nebulous feelings of restlessness or dread of his subtle manipulations. T’Hawthorn understood ambition.
“You belong here in my Residence, doing your duty.”
Again she inhaled deeply, and back in her mind she started her well-practiced mantra of calm, and breathe, and serenity, and shield, and breathe, and acceptance.
“My first duty now is to my profession and the HealingHalls. I am content with my life,” she repeated, “and I will hear about the appointment in a few eightdays. I anticipate I will be moving to Gael City.”
“The Family is seriously feuding. I do not know if I can protect you,” he said.
She met his gaze, still something hard for her to do even after all these years. “You do not need to protect me. I am a Healer. That is protection enough. It is rare for a Healer to be deliberately harmed.”
He lifted his whiskey and sipped. “But it’s not unknown for a Healer to be accidentally hurt—or even killed.”
Between them stood the ghost of her husband, who had tried to help in a stupid Noble fight and had been killed for his compassion. She set her snifter on a nearby table.
Her father had not approved of Ethyn. As a FirstDaughter of T’Hawthorn, one who had never connected with a HeartMate during her Passages, she had been expected to marry well. She had been expected to make an alliance with another FirstFamily, to benefit her House. She had been expected to let T’Hawthorn make the decision of whom she would wed.
She’d disregarded all her Family’s expectations and had preferred shy and diffident Ethyn Collinson, who had enough underlying strength to overcome his impoverished upbringing Downwind and win the laurels of a FirstLevel Healer. His strong Flair had attracted her as much as his respect for her as a Healer and a woman. She had bloomed under his gentle care.
“With the additional strife between Holly and Hawthorn, Eshela will worry,” T’Hawthorn said. “It would ease her mind were you to reside within these strong walls.”
Calm. Breathe. Serenity. Shield. “I am sorry to disappoint her, and you, but my life requires more—flexibility than can be found here, and I may be moving soon. It would be foolish to move twice.”
He frowned. “You do too much. You are overextended and do not properly care for yourself. I have spoken with your MotherSire, GrandLord T’Heather, about this. He agrees.”
Lark’s pulse fluttered. T’Heather ruled Primary HealingHall. He could curtail Lark’s hours, rearrange her schedule, set limits that Lark would have to accept. Most important, he could deny her the appointment in Gael City. Lark needed to speak to him, soon. Another discussion demanding great effort and diplomacy. Effort she didn’t want to spare and diplomacy that she rarely valued anymore.
The shuffling of papyrus brought her from her thoughts. T’Hawthorn had turned over the top page of a report from the stack to the side. He squared the corners of the remaining sheets until they were perfectly alined. When his gaze lifted to hers, Lark was surprised to see real concern for an instant, before it was covered by his usual ruthless self-interest. Or the interest of the Family. Everything her father did was to benefit the Family.
“I have consulted with T’Sea’s FirstDaughter, who is foremost in emotional/spiritual insight. You must know of her.”
Lark worked often with Shwif Sea, and respected her. “Yes.”
“She states that, to her knowledge, no Heather woman has successfully lived more than three years alone.”
Shock froze Lark. Where had this come from? How could it be true? But with a quick scan of her memory, she realized she couldn’t bring to mind any examples to contradict him.
“The Heather woman’s emotional constitution, and we will agree for the moment that your character is more Heather than Hawthorn, is not suited to solitude. You’ve been on your own for over three years, and after the second, your mental, emotional, and physical health deteriorated.”
Slow anger built in Lark. The first two years after her husband had died, a husband her father had never acknowledged, she’d been filled with bitterness and resentment at her own class. As she became more balanced, she’d been better able to work and come to terms with her values.
He continued summarizing the report. “Spiritually, you have not participated in any FirstFamilies, NobleHouse, or even private Family Rituals for nine months. Over th
e last four years, you have celebrated full twinmoons with us only twice, and new twinmoons not at all. . . .”
“I am no longer a member of the FirstFamilies, GreatHouse, or NobleHouse Councils, so I don’t participate in their Rituals. I honor the holidays and Sabbat with close friends,” she said steadily, managing to keep her tone neither defensive nor angry.
She was still not so fond of Nobles to let her shields down and bond with them in a circle to carry out Council purposes, or to keep Alban feastdays with them. And to Lark, Family Rituals had never been as uplifting as they might have been.
Now she knew how much of a Hawthorn she was. Steel shot up her spine, steel strong enough to take any verbal and mental abuse and manipulation her father might use. “I do not find your report interesting or convincing. I am not only Heather, but Hawthorn. I am managing my life well and will not return to T’Hawthorn GreatHouse and your rule now, or ever.” She found her voice shaking and hated betraying the weakness. At least tears of rage weren’t streaming down her cheeks. She stood.
He rose from behind his desk. “Additional shieldspells will be effected on T’Hawthorn Residence, keyed for those Family members who abide within.”
“I understand,” she said stiffly. If she left now, she wouldn’t be automatically received by T’Hawthorn Residence.
He set relaxed hands on his desktop. “The feud will be financially draining. For the sake of the Family, I must use all funds, including your allowance, to pursue this new goal.”
She bent her head in agreement. “Of course.” She didn’t use his allowance anyway, she’d always banked it and never touched it, living on her noblegilt salary. But gilt was always an issue with T’Hawthorn, and the thought of a feud sent anger spurting through her. “The means to your ‘goal’ is a feud that will certainly lead to injury and death. I have vows to Heal, never to harm.”
He raised a brow at her louder voice. “I have not asked you to betray your vows.”
Heart Duel Page 4