Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  Noise came from the hall off the open door. Several teens passed. One glanced in and squealed. “A kitten!”

  Lark thought the girl was Linga, of the Family’s Montain branch. Like most GreatLords, T’Heather liked as many relatives around him as he could persuade to live with him. The Residence, built for huge Families, was yet a third empty.

  But T’Heather and D’Heather bound their Family with ties of love, not the chains of cold duty T’Hawthorn preferred.

  The youngsters tumbled into the room, immediately surrounded Phyll, and dangled ribbons or rolled spell-balls. Phyll cast one smirking glance at Lark, to assure himself she was untroubled, then turned to accept adoration.

  Cinerea laughed at D’Heather’s pout when the kitten played with the younger ones. “Come, let’s talk a bit,” Cinerea said, taking her seat again. With a wave of her hand, an elegant silver pot appeared and decanted hot cocoacaff. Lark found herself inhaling and appreciating the rich cocoa scent touched with a whiff of bitter caff.

  “Do you want cocoa with your cinnamon sprinkles, Lark? Cinerea teased, knowing Lark’s taste as well as Lark knew Cinerea’s.

  Lark smiled more naturally at her cuz.“Yes.” This wasn’t the Hawthorn Family, she reminded herself. Cinerea liked her. And Cinerea, as a Heather, would stand beside Lark. If Lark had problems, Cinerea wouldn’t discuss them outside the Family, and if Lark asked, wouldn’t discuss them with T’Heather or D’Heather, either.

  Lark lifted her chin. Despite her father’s opinion, and despite the report T’Hawthorn had commissioned from GreatMistrys Shwif D’Sea, Lark was fine. Perfectly fine.

  Defiantly she took the seat next to Cinerea. Let her cuz scrutinize and discreetly probe as much as she wanted. Lark was fine. And she was a FirstLevel Healer, as only two other Heathers were. Let them all remember that, too. They needed her. Celta needed her. They’d all know that.

  Lark took a mug of cocoa topped with a mound of cinnamon sprinkles melting into it. Gingerly Lark sipped the hot brew, allowing her relatives to observe her and their gentle surface mind-touches to skim across her as they checked her health.

  “You are rested and happy,” T’Heather finally said. “Yet it would trouble us less”—he touched D’Heather’s arm—“if you would move here into T’Heather Residence.”

  Nine

  T’Heather expected to be obeyed. Her wishes were less important, as always, than his.

  The old bitterness at her class and their preoccupation with their own concerns seethed through Lark. T’Heather, a GreatLord more generous and less hide-bound than most, still could initiate potent spells with a Word, issue a command and expect his will to be instantly enforced. He’d never had to struggle for a decent life or to fulfill his Flair and destiny as her lost husband, Ethyn, had done. T’Heather had only to ask and what he wished would be given to him.

  He’d never truly accepted Ethyn, and when Ethyn had died, Lark sensed T’Heather had felt that a blotch on the Family tree had been removed. He’d respected FirstLevel Healer Ethyn Collinson, but never knew or appreciated the man.

  And Ethyn, after all, wasn’t Lark’s HeartMate whom the Family must accept. Ethyn had been merely a husband. That an association with such a lower-class man was now gone relieved T’Heather.

  Lark fought the tide of resentment. Negative emotions had dictated far too much of her life since Ethyn’s death. Her feelings must be accepted as part of the grieving process, but denied any further power to taint her future.

  She noticed their concerned looks and forced herself to smile, reminding herself that these people cared about her. Perhaps they hadn’t shared her grief, but they ached for her loss. And they were asking as opposed to using intimidation to bend her to their will, like her father.

  “Yes,” her MotherDam said, “please come and stay here.”

  Lark sighed. “I can’t. I wish to remain on my own at this time.” Part of that wish was an increasing need for the company and pleasure Holm Holly could give her. She didn’t want to try and explain that connection with anyone.

  T’Heather frowned. “You will promise to be very careful. As a Hawthorn, you could be a target.”

  “The Hollys would never harm a woman or a Healer.”

  “Not intentionally.” He changed the subject.

  “T’Hawthorn has spoken to me about you.” T’Heather paused. D’Heather leaned her head against him as if giving him support. For an instant, Lark wished for that sort of bond with Holm, then pulled her mind from foolish notions to concentrate on the danger of the moment.

  T’Heather sighed. “Your father is displeased with you, Lark.” He waved with his other hand and a papyrus decorated with seals appeared on his lap.

  Lark’s heart beat hard.

  “He sent me this report on you by Shwif D’Sea.” T’Heather shot her a look from under lowered brows. “Did you ever personally consult with Shwif?”

  “No,” Lark replied with a dry tongue.

  T’Heather shook his head. “Still, the conclusions are interesting. When I considered it, you are the sole unpartnered adult female of T’Heather Family. And no T’Heather woman ever lived her entire life without a mate.”

  Lark forced her mouth to stretch in a brief smile. “I am over the worst of my grief,” she said softly, “but three years isn’t considered a long mourning period.” A corner of her mouth quirked in amusement. “I wouldn’t think you’d worry about my single life for another year or two. And I am a Hawthorn. Hawthorns are made of stern stuff.”

  A thought struck her. She caught her breath and her hand came to her throat. She tried to master the dismay her face might have shown. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “my father wishes to use me in another alliance. I will not be bartered. I didn’t allow it before, and I will not allow it in the future. Not by T’Hawthorn”—she sucked in a deep breath—“and not by you.”

  Now T’Heather’s eyebrows raised. “I don’t recall any alliance I need badly enough to promote a marriage tie,” he said with arrogant unconcern. Then he looked down on his HeartMate. “Do you know of a man—” he started.

  D’Heather looked up at him indignantly. “Of course I know of a man who would be good for our Daughter’sDaughter, I know several. There’s—” Her words disintegrated into a mumble as T’Heather put a firm hand over her mouth.

  “Matchmaking isn’t one of your Flaired skills. Leave it to the Willows,” he said.

  D’Heather just giggled behind his palm, her eyes dancing bright above his hand. Then she plucked it away. “We are concerned for you, Lark, but you are a strong, lovely, sensible woman, and we trust you will follow your head and your heart.”

  Lark didn’t want to think about following her desires. A vivid image of Holm Holly in her bed came to mind.

  “You will find your own path, in time,” D’Heather continued, “and we will give you that time.”

  “Thank you,” Lark said, breathing easier.

  “There is one thing that bothers me a bit.” Now Cinerea spoke. “You haven’t been attending either T’Hawthorn or T’Heather rituals. . . .”

  “I’ve been at every Healing Ritual the NobleCouncil has called,” Lark pointed out. “As for the other Rituals, I’ve been celebrating them with a friend.”

  Odd that as she spoke the words, she thought of Holm and the small ritual that evening, and not of herself and Trif and the many rituals they’d celebrated together.

  She definitely thought of Holm as a friend. How strange to think of such a virile man so, a man who had such an amazing effect on her senses. And strange, too, that she knew he thought of her as a friend. She wondered idly how often he had friends as lovers or made lovers friends.

  When she felt the brushing of minds against hers, the touch of emotional fields gliding past her own, Lark knew she’d been silent too long, lost in reverie. But when she looked at T’Heather and D’Heather and Cinerea, she found only smiles.

  T’Heather touched D’Sea’s report on his lap and sent it
away—probably to his desk in his ResidenceDen. He eyed her. “As Captain of the Healers of Celta, I am formally notifying you that you should take each and every restime due you, from now on. You are working too hard. Furthermore, I will be observing you to ensure you don’t overdo. A person who ignores her own health is not one I’d care to see as the head of Gael City HealingHall.”

  Lark understood the warning. “I’m afraid we’ll all be working hard soon. The Hawthorn-Holly feud is heating up.”

  T’Heather shrugged large shoulders. “Skirmishing between those Families has been going on for thirty years.”

  “It’s going to get worse,” Lark replied.

  T’Heather sat up straight, staring at her. “You know this?”

  Lark’s mouth thinned until her lips hurt from pressing them tight. “Yes. We’d better prepare Primary HealingHall and the Healers for emergencies. Fights. Blood.”

  Everyone stilled.

  T’Heather tapped his fingers on D’Heather’s thigh. “I’ll speak to the FirstFamilies Council about this at their meeting.”

  “That’s next month,” Lark said. “That might be too late.”

  He stared at her. “There’s something else you must know. T’Hawthorn hired two of my best journeymen Healers—your cuz, Garis Heather, and Vera Aloe. They will be living in T’Hawthorn Residence. A precaution for injuries from this feud, I see now. Yet I’ve given my word on this, and the young ones are eager to go. He’s paying them top gilt and for their last year of training sponsored by the NobleCouncil.”

  “Generous,” Lark forced out around the lump in her throat.

  “I don’t like it,” T’Heather said.

  At that moment the wave of teenagers and children surged back into the library. Linga held a limp Phyll.

  “We seem to have tired him out,” she muttered, not looking any of the adults in the eyes.

  “Really, Linga!” D’Heather scolded.

  “Sorry, Dama,” Linga muttered.

  Lark stood and took her seemingly boneless Fam wrapped in rose, purple, and white ribbons. She chuckled. “It’s been a long day for both of us. The days ahead may be even longer.” Cradling Phyll in one arm, she hugged and kissed D’Heather, Cinerea, and T’Heather. D’Heather and Cinerea both stroked Phyll until he purred, and even T’Heather gave the Fam a pat.

  “Stay in touch,” D’Heather said.

  “I’ll be keeping an eye on you,” T’Heather said.

  “Blessed be,” ended Cinerea.

  Linga grinned and walked over to Lark, sending a look at a male cuz of about the same age. “Here, Cuz Lark, we’ll give you a boost home.”

  Taller than she, her two young relatives framed her on each side, then glanced across Lark, still smiling.

  “Ready?” they asked.

  “Ready.” Lark grasped Phyll firmly.

  “We know the coordinates of your mainspace. One, and ready, two and set, three and go!” They cheerfully propelled her home. Lark landed just inside her door with a little “Whoof!”

  She smiled. She’d passed the mental examination. The people who could influence her career and her life would leave her in peace—for now.

  Her smile faded as she realized the only reason she’d been relaxed and serene enough to pass their scrutiny on the physical and emotional planes was the simple fact that she’d spent a few golden hours with Holm Holly. A shiver traced down her spine. If she’d had to answer the questions raised by that wretched report of her father’s yesterday, or even this morning, she might not have managed. Then T’Heather would have demanded she return to live with the Heathers or the Hawthorns, unpalatable options.

  He’d have seen it as providing her safety and support, but for her it would be a demotion. He held her future in his hands.

  The outstanding question remained. An issue she’d ignored until now, and something both Families would watch her for. No Heather woman has successfully lived more than three years alone.

  She’d be under constant scrutiny. How often would she be tested? How long would she be allowed to live independently? When would her Family insist she return to one of their Residences? Was the report right? Bouts of loneliness had become more frequent and more intense. Phyll mewed sleepily, calling her back from nibbling worries. She dismissed the issue, yet felt it sink to lurk at the back of her mind.

  The emotionally full day crashed down on her. She checked securityspells and glanced at a timer. The Heathers ate early, it was barely mid-evening. More civilized Families would be just sitting down for dinner.

  She wondered what Holm was doing, thought again of the link between them, and didn’t know if the thin thread still spun between them, or if she imagined it. She remembered how he’d looked at her body, with hunger and intent. Recalled how he felt next to her emotionally, strong and supportive. Thought of his lips upon her own, persuasive and tempting.

  She set out a small dish of snack food for Phyll, then undressed, washed, spell-cleaned her mouth, and fell onto her bedsponge.

  Sleep swooped down upon Lark like a huge, dark bird, and in its deep-piercing claws it brought blood-filled dreams.

  Holm chewed his Barbq Furrabeast, barely noticing the tangy taste as he contemplated the painting on the dining room wall he faced. The artwork was fully two meters by three and featured several dead animals hung around or laid out on a table to be prepared for dinner, a topic some long past Holly considered appropriate for the formal dining room. Holm thought the “still life” might be enough to rob a sensitive person of an appetite, or convince him to become vegetarian. He wondered how he was going to hide the thing if his Bélla ever came to dine. On either side of the painting was a geometric pattern; a circular one made of daggers, and a diamond shaped one of throwing stars.

  His mother gasped and everyone looked at her.

  Her own stare fixed on the darkening shadow of the bruise only partially covered by the wide collar of Holm’s shirt. “Oh, dear Holm, you’re courting,” she said, a luminous expression adding to her beauty.

  His father sent him a wicked glance. “More than courting, looks like.”

  “Grandbabies!” Passiflora D’Holly exclaimed.

  Grandbabies! The melodic word from his mother reverberated through Holm’s brain. He shuddered. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Bélla certainly wasn’t ready. He glowered at his Mamá. “I told you, she’s not going to be easy to win.”

  His mother applied herself to her meal with gusto. Holm noticed that her chair faced a view of the gardens.

  “You said she is a Healer. That’s a little problem. . . .” She frowned.

  “A large problem,” Holm said again, hoping he could control the conversation. He didn’t want to reveal Lark’s name and spoil his parents’ good mood. Further, they’d interfere and that could ruin everything.

  His father shrugged and grinned. “His wooing will take a little longer, then, and be all the more fun for the fight.”

  “A Healer,” Tinne said quietly, his eyes narrowing. He stared at Holm, then dropped his fingers to his thigh, as if remembering his recent wound and the Lady who mended it.

  Holm caught his breath, shook his head infinitesimally at his brother.

  Tinne’s mouth twisted in irony. “I think Holm’s right. It isn’t going to be easy getting a Healer to wed a Holly. Especially when the Hollys have no intention of changing their penchant for fighting.”

  Their father looked surprised. “Why should we?”

  “Healers often have a dim view of bloodshed,” Holm said.

  “We only shed blood when necessary,” T’Holly said virtuously.

  Everyone laughed. “Oh, yes,” Holm’s mother said.

  G’Uncle Tab looked at Tinne and Holm with considering eyes. “An’ it won’t be easy t’get a woman t’move inta T’Holly Residence, neither,” he said. Tab lived over The Green Knight and preferred his solitary ways. That he took dinner with them tonight was a singular pleasure they all appreciated.

  “There is nothing w
rong with T’Holly Residence.” T’Holly leapt to the defense of his position, as always.

  “It’s damp an’ gloomy. Only good housekeepin’ spells keep it from a-molderin’,” Tab said, sharing a glance with Holm, who was grateful for the canny old man’s diversionary tactic.

  Holm waved to the painting he’d been considering. “Not to mention our decorations.”

  “That painting has hung in that spot for the last two hundred years!” T’Holly said.

  His HeartMate turned her gaze on the thing, as if observing it for the first time in a long while, and winced. “It is a little depressing, ” Holm’s mother said.

  “Then there’s all the weapons,” Tab continued. “The Great-Hall—”

  “Our armory!” interjected T’Holly.

  Tab quashed him with a look. “Weapons in patterns are fine for the fightin’ salon, but hundreds of swords an’ shields an’ blazers an’—”

  “Poignards and shortswords and spears—” continued Tinne irrepressively.

  “—and throwing stars and slings and knives—” Holm added.

  “—all arranged in designs on every wall of T’Holly Residence, might give even a woman less kindly-minded than a Healer a qualm or two.” Tab nodded shortly.

  Holm’s mother blinked as if realizing again how much of the decor of T’Holly Residence celebrated fighting. “They are very attractive patterns,” she said weakly, obviously having not looked at the components of the figures for a long time. She lifted her chin. “Besides, T’Holly Residence is a very masculine house, and so it should be.”

  T’Holly sent her an approving smile before he scowled at the rest of them. “It hasn’t been changed in decades, and I like it that way. It shows a sense of tradition, of regard for our ancestors, of—”

  “—a lack of grace an’ style an’ beauty.” Tab speared his fork at T’Holly. “This GreatHouse has been male for so long, any feminine softness has up an’ disappeared. My FatherDam’s Dam hung some pretty tapestries along the second-floor corridors. Where are they now?”