Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  He grinned. No, he’d been too completely wrapped up in the physical to be coherent enough to reach for her mentally. A good thing. He suspected the punishment for melding them together in a HeartBond without her consent was dire.

  He tested the doors of the Green Knight, and accepted the small shock. Still barred from fighting. He’d have to swim.

  There were both advantages and disadvantages to being the member of such a physical Family. He hurt now, and would probably suffer for some time with frustrated passion until he could seduce his Bélla.

  But at least he’d be concentrating on the physical bonding, instead of impelling her into a HeartBond. No doubt it would take several extensive, heated sessions in bed with Bélla before he’d even think of progressing from physical consummation to the emotional, mental, then spiritual. In their bond he’d experienced qualities that drew him to her—her willingness to spend her energy to Heal, her compassion. And her sense of honor as strong as his own. Most of all he liked the deep serenity that soothed him. Serenity he could ruffle, passion he could ignite until all they’d think of was loving.

  Bed. Bélla. He tensed at the idea. How soon could he win her, even moving fast? He recalled now the news that she could be moving to Gael City. That was a problem, but it didn’t bother him as much as his own failings.

  He teleported home and to the conservatory.

  After many laps in the pool and a call to D’Rose to order a gift, Holm was calm and refreshed enough to satisfy his curiosity. He lay on a longchair with Meserv snoring beside him and contemplated the ever-expanding verdant flora.

  “ResidenceLibrary,” he said. “What is the punishment for telling a person you are HeartMates?” He fought his nature on this, trying to be patient.

  And he was scared. Opening himself to another, sharing all his thoughts, emotions, experiences, even for the short time of the HeartBond, was enough to daunt the bravest.

  The ResidenceLibrary spoke in somber tones with an edge of warning. “The punishment is a five-year courtship of the person or until the wronged one states in front of three heads of FirstFamilies that she or he accepts the HeartMate status—”

  “Puny Earth years or long Celtan years?” asked Holm.

  In even more disapproving tones, the ResidenceLibrary answered, “HeartMates, HeartGifts, and HeartBonds were unknown on Earth. They are Celtan phenomena.”

  “Ah.”

  “To continue, the wronged one must make a statement that she or he accepts the status, and repeat it five times.”

  “Repeat it five times? Why five? Five isn’t a magical number,” Holm grumbled. “Not good.” Not for an impatient Holly.

  A few seconds of silence passed, then the ResidenceLibrary said, “Laws of Celta, topic twenty-four: the origin and philosophy of HeartMate laws—”

  “Stop,” Holm ordered. The ResidenceLibrary obviously had a two-hour lecture in its memory. “What is the punishment for HeartBonding with a HeartMate without telling her?”

  “It is not known whether the HeartBond can be forced—”

  “Not forced! Ah, persuasion, seduction, uncontrolled passion—”

  “My interrupt feature is now engaged since the topic is Celtan law. It is not known whether the HeartBond can be forced,” ResidenceLibrary said in a volume that echoed off the glass panes. “However, punishment of a nonconsensual HeartBond is exile of the offending party from within eighty kilometers of the victim for a period of five years—”

  “After they have been HeartBonded? After they are mates and their feelings and minds melded?”

  “Correct.”

  “This is impossible,” Holm said, still feeling the semiarousal of his encounter with his Bélla. “I will never last.” The blue pool lapped and reminded him of something else. “Close ResidenceLibrary. HollyHeir addressing the Residence.”

  The atmosphere around him changed in an aspect he couldn’t define, and the voice of the Residence, deeper even than T’Holly’s, addressed him. “Here, HollyHeir.”

  “Please set the temperature gauges on my personal waterfall fifteen degrees cooler.”

  “Done,” T’Holly Residence said.

  Holm could not depend upon his control with Lark, and to push her would be to lose her—if not forever, at least for too long of a time for him to endure. He smiled grimly. It had reached the point where just a few hours spent away from her set an irritation humming along his nerves.

  To keep his control, he’d have to bolster it with meditation, autosuggestion, internal bonds. He sighed. The sleep-teleporting to the Great Labyrinth and the long walks out of the place had prepared him, but there was only one place he could set such strong ties in place.

  “Residence, is T’Holly scheduled for the HouseHeart this evening?”

  “No.”

  “I request the sole use of the HouseHeart as is my right as HollyHeir.”

  “You are allowed a half-day—fourteen septhours—in the HouseHeart every month. It has been thirty-four days, two days longer than a month, since your last use. Your request is granted,” rumbled the Residence.

  Holm stood, donned his sorbaroot robe, and picked up Meserv.

  The kitten whuffled. Meserv slitted open his eyes until sapphire gleamed.

  “You’re coming to the HouseHeart with me where we will cast some spells.”

  Meserv opened his mouth in a yawn that turned into a grin. Phyll helps Lark. I will help you, he said smugly.

  “That’s right.” Holm teleported to the main floor and the first door leading to the secured corridor which wound down three levels to the HouseHeart.

  The HouseHeart was a small room, carved from bedrock by the first colonists. Only six meters square, the room would still take a large Family to circle it with hands clasped. The colonists had come from large families. Earth had had a population problem—too many people. Celta had a population problem—too few people. It would take a millennium or two before the Earth colonists covered this planet in civilized cities and large towns.

  Under rich wall tapestries were marks of the chisels and machines that had come before Flair.

  A thick, sweet-smelling grass grew underfoot in the odd light that approximated Earth’s sun. There were holly bushes along one wall, with spiky leaves and red berries that looked nothing like any Celtan flora, tinted some essentially different hue of green. Tinkling chimes sounded at uneven intervals as a draft of air found and flowed through the stone conduit into the room. The altar of the Lord and Lady stood in the middle of the chamber, along with the most ancient ritual tools of the Family.

  Meserv walked across Holm’s bare feet to explore another wall—each had a symbol of the four elements: the holly bushes for earth; the air duct with chimes for air, as well as incense; the small fountain for water; and, naturally, a hearth fire.

  Holm had left his robe outside the final, most-bespelled door of Holly Residence and stood naked.

  He breathed deeply.

  Here he could feel the weight of generations upon him, all the previous T’Hollys, D’Hollys, Heirs, presumptive Heirs. For years the GreatHouse Holly had only two children per generation, though Holm had heard some of the other branches off the original Holly tree had a higher birthrate.

  “HollyHeir,” acknowledged the HouseHeart’s whispery voice, different from the Residence. No one knew who this particular Holly had been, or even whether he had been male or she had been female. To Holm, it was the spirit of the Family itself.

  “HouseHeart, I request a personal lock upon this Ritual. No information or report of this time may be made to anyone else, including T’Holly.”

  “You have never requested this before,” sighed the voice.

  “This is an extremely personal matter regarding myself and my HeartMate. As such, it should not be accessible to T’Holly.” Holm thought that sounded like a good reason.

  After a short silence the HouseHeart spoke. “Correct.”

  Holm let out the breath he’d been holding.

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nbsp; “A HeartMate!” The breathy voice warmed, almost lilted, the fire leapt, the fountain splashed, rich incense wafted, and leaves rustled. “That is very good. A HeartMate had not been predicted for this particular Holm Holly.”

  “I had to grow to meet her,” Holm explained.

  “Such a union is a Blessing of the Lord and Lady on the Family. You have done well.”

  The warmth of pride heated Holm.

  “I lack a little control around her,” he said.

  “Naturally.” The HouseHeart sounded amused. “We are all impatient. It is one of our charms.”

  “Speaking of charms, I need a spell to bolster my will, Words to remind myself of the final goal.”

  “Words will help, but they won’t prevent an impulsive action.”

  Holm sighed. “I know that.”

  “Sit, and pray to the Lord and Lady for the Words that will still your ardor and increase your determination to follow the HeartMate laws—not to tell her of HeartMates, not to seduce her into a HeartBond.”

  “That’s what I need.”

  He sat on the grass before the altar and used meditation techniques to sink deeply down into himself, where—somewhere—he was supposed to have a calm center. He’d never quite found it himself, except in FirstFamilies RitualCircles when he’d been linked with the group will.

  Slowly the words surfaced. When they came, he wasn’t surprised they were those that he’d tried to follow all his life, with an addition of one or two. Honor. Pride. Control. Triumph.

  Finally he wove them into a mantra. “My honor and pride will give me self-mastery over my sexual need. I WILL triumph by protecting my HeartMate from everything, including my own lust.”

  For hours he spun the spell, trying to anchor it within, as an unconscious curb that would check him when his passion ran hot. After a long time the HouseHeart gently nudged him to complete wakefulness, blessed him, and sent him on his way.

  He repeated his mantra at every step.

  After Holm left her apartment, Lark spent the rest of the evening mixing her own medicinal herbs, bespelling them, and placing them fresh in the no-time storage box. All to rid herself of reckless energy and unresolved sexual tension and avoid questions that nibbled at her mind. Grinding with the mortar and pestle was especially therapeutic. Phyll dozed on his kitten perch in the corner.

  Just as she packaged the last herb, her scrybowl jingled. “Here,” she said.

  “Lark Collinson?”

  “Yes.”

  “GrandSir Bunt D’Rose. I have a delivery for you.”

  “I’m uncoding the doors,” Lark replied.

  She went and opened the door. In a few seconds the legs of a man and a woman came into sight. Their torsos were hidden by huge bunches of flowers. Roses. Lark simply stood by the door, mouth hanging open, until one of them grunted an “Excuse me, please.” She stepped aside and watched them set six bouquets of a dozen roses each on three small tables.

  She cleared her throat. “Shouldn’t you space them out?”

  Bunt looked her up and down, raised his eyebrows, then exited, whistling. Lark turned to the woman.

  She scowled at Lark. “Four more deliveries, compliments of HollyHeir. Strict confidentiality spell invoked.” She left.

  Lark put a hand on the nearest wall and leaned against it, head bowed. Roses, the man sent her roses. How did he know she had a weakness for the blooms?

  The two human Roses trooped in and out, delivering flowers. The bouquets ranged the spectrum from pristine white to deep purple. Several arrangements held flowers that changed tint from stem to tip, other blooms were edged in contrasting colors.

  Scent hung heavy in the air, and Lark opened her tall, arched windows to the summer night.

  “That’s it.” The Rose daughter dusted her hands. She glanced around the room and shook her head. “You’re going to have to arrange them better, of course. There are bouquets in every room. Merry meet,” she ended abruptly.

  “And merry part,” Lark responded.

  “And merry meet again.” She dipped her head and left.

  Before GrandMistrys D’Rose could shut the door, Lark’s neighbor, Trif Clover strolled in. “I thought that was Holm Holly I saw leaving earlier. You know, of course, that Holm Holly is the most sought after man in Druida. He is supposed to be the best lover a woman . . .” Trif’s mouth dropped as she got the full effect of the multitude of roses. For the first time since Lark had met her, Trif was speechless.

  “HollyHeir being here means nothing,” Lark said.

  Trif Clover shot out a hip, put her hand on it, and stared at Lark in patent disbelief. “Oh, entertaining Holm Holly means nothing. I believe that!” She inhaled audibly, then looked a little dizzy as if the heavy scent of the roses overwhelmed her.

  Lark sighed and opened a few more windows to mix the scent of the ocean a few kilometers away with the verdant power of the flowers. Thinking that she’d have to craft some spell to circulate fresh air, but let the scent of the flowers linger, she closed the hall door and took a seat on the couch, watching her neighbor, prepared to be amused.

  The Clovers were not a restrained or shy Family. Particularly since they were the most abundant Family in Druida, multiplying just as humans were supposed to have done on Earth.

  Lark always felt more than a single decade older than Trif. She was a cheerful, exuberant woman, loved and spoiled by her middle-class Family.

  “I’ve heard that women have fought to have Holm Holly in their bed.” Trif glanced at where Lark sat on the couch and stilled, her eyes opening wide.

  Lark winced. She knew that look of Trif’s. A flash of the young woman’s uncontrolled Flair washed over her. Trif “saw” events of the past. From her expression, it was an event of the very recent past, like Lark’s passion with Holm Holly on the sofa. Trif hadn’t yet suffered through her third Passage that would give her the power to control her Flair. If she survived that Passage.

  Tremors shook Trif, and Lark hurried to steer her to an oversize chair. “Sit.” Lark summoned hot tea from the no-time and curved Trif’s hands around the pretty mug.

  “Drink,” Lark ordered, setting her fingers gently on Trif’s temples. Trif sidled back, obviously not wanting Lark’s exploratory Healing touch.

  Trif drank deeply and continued where she’d left off. “Yes. Women have fought to have him in their beds. Or on their sofas.”

  “I didn’t have him on my sofa.”

  “Oh, didn’t you?”

  “Not exactly,” Lark muttered, summoning hot tea for herself, in a matching cup, made by her sister-in-law, Painted Rock.

  Trif drank. “From what I saw, it was close enough.”

  “Trif!” Lark choked and set aside her drink.

  The young woman opened her eyes wide. “What? You don’t want to talk about it? Not surprising.” She sipped, her face serious. “Look, Lark, don’t you think it’s time you get on with your life?”

  Lark scowled. “I have gotten on with my life. Contrary to what most believe, the worst of my grief is gone.” Her breath hitched at the thought of the pain fading, along with the image of her lost husband. “Can you see me, me, with Holm Holly?”

  Six

  Trif narrowed her eyes. “Yes.”

  “What?” Lark threw up her hands and plopped back down on the sofa. “Do I look like a woman who’d have a fling with the ‘most sought after man in Druida’?”

  “Why not?” Trif cradled her mug in her hands, tilting her head. “You’re both firstborn of the colonist FirstFamilies, so you’ve known each other a long time. . . .”

  “Known of each other.”

  Trif shrugged. “So? You have a lot in common.”

  Lark shot her an impatient look. “Including the fact that our Families have been fighting for as long as I remember and I’m a Healer, and he’s a—”

  “Warrior,” Trif said.

  Lark jerked. “Warrior? Where did you hear that word? We don’t have wars.”

&nbs
p; Trif shrugged again. “I study the past. I have to, to try and make sense of my Flair. Old Earth had terrible wars.” She shivered. “I’ve had dreams, I’ve seen them. Our little duels are bloody and wretched, but nothing like—”

  “I don’t want to hear this,” Lark said tightly. “Fighting, maiming, wounding, killing. Large or small scale, it’s wrong.”

  Sighing, Trif leaned back in her chair and finished her drink. To set her mug on the sidetable, she had to push aside two vases. Then she shut her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, from the depth of her deep green gaze, Lark knew they were back to the topic of her love life. She grit her teeth. A love life she hadn’t had before that afternoon.

  Trif snuggled in the chair, making herself comfortable for a long chat.

  “Do I look like a woman who can handle an affair with Holm Holly?” Lark asked.

  Trif’s gaze sharpened. “I think you can do whatever you want. There isn’t a woman I admire more.”

  “But an affair—”

  “All right. Do you want me to say you don’t seem like a woman who has affairs? That’s true.” Trif stabbed a finger at her. “But why not take a chance? Why not enjoy yourself? What can you lose? Sounds like you already think the whole thing is doomed, so you’ve already shielded your heart.” She swept a hand around her. “It’s obvious you made an impression. And I think, if I want to recall that little scene I saw with my Flair, he made quite an impact on you, too.” She pressed a fist to her heart. “My, my, what moves, what fire! Don’t you want to explore that, just a little? Tell me true.”

  Lark’s body wanted to explore that much more than a little, to the utmost limits of ecstasy and beyond. Her mind lagged behind. The relationship between them was so complex. “Maybe.”

  “Maybe?” Trif wiggled her eyebrows. Her eyes brightened. “Let’s approach this another way. Say you’ve been on a restrictive diet for a long time. So you go into a café and order ice cream. Do you order a small bowl of whitesugar cream or do you order something exotic like dark cinnamon with whitemousse topping and nuts and cocoa sprinkles. . . .” She waved a hand, indicating complete decadence. Cinnamon was only grown on the starship Nuada’s Sword, and the rage for the spice had swept the city for the last couple of years.