Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  She’d been called to Heal that horrible day when a Fire-Bombspell swept the Council Chamber, a spell that consumed flesh and couldn’t be stopped. Though she’d focused on minimizing the deaths, draining her Flair recklessly to save and Heal, she vaguely remembered a pair of shabby men who’d helped carry the wounded, lay out the dead. Holm and Tinne Holly.

  Holm gasped. For a moment they both remembered the slaughter in odd, disjointed images from different angles; the carnage, the smell of burnt flesh and urine and blood and death. The helplessness to stop the plague. Grief.

  They had shared that experience.

  Lark covered her face with her hands. Holm led her back to the sofa to sit within the circle of his arms. “I’m sorry.” Her voice came out muffled.

  “You had cause to reproach me,” he said. “Both before and after that little expedition I’ve been as arrogant and complacent as you accused. From now on, you’ll scold me and remind me of my flaws, but you’ll also know that I, too, have experienced deprivation. Adversity did me a deal of good.”

  Lark felt his large hands on her shoulders, then they inched down, slow and caressing, to her elbows and up to her hands. He lifted her palms from her face without much effort.

  “Your emotions are not flash-white. I can hold you, and comfort you and—”

  An appointment globe appeared. “HollyHeir reminder. Quarter-septhour notice. The five new cuzes have been welcomed to the Residence and chosen rooms. Your first session as Master for intermediate training is due to start in Sparring Room Two in quarter septhour: lessons in coordinating defensive sparring and unusual techniques.” It clicked a bit. “After the training, you are allotted a septhour to refresh and review the legal affairs of the House before your quarterly meeting with Legal Adviser T’Yarrow.” With a flash the sphere disappeared. Holm winced. “I hate that thing.”

  Lark smiled. “You have a busy day.”

  “An appointment with T’Yarrow,” Holm grumbled. “Guaranteed to last all afternoon.”

  “An Heir’s duty,” Lark said.

  He snorted. “Only because Father argued with T’Yarrow, and used that as an excuse to hand over the dry stuff to me.”

  Rising, Lark opened the door for him. He stood slowly, his steps to her equally leisurely. When he reached her, he shut the door and framed her face with his hands. The bond between them tugged, vibrated, as he tested it.

  “You can feel that, can’t you, even though we aren’t consciously linked? It’s not something I’ve ever had with anyone else, with anyone else, and I’m not going to walk away from it. I want to test that bond. Experiment,” he whispered as he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Even before his lips touched hers, her heart hammered hard in her chest, anticipating the swirl of feeling that would envelope her. The desire to be with this man in every way could become an addiction. She’d have to be careful. Then his mouth closed over hers, caressing, and her mind fogged. His lips opened hers, his tongue sliding against hers, probing. She shut her eyes. The taste of him was all that was masculine and vital, another thing that could become addicting.

  He groaned and his hands glided down to pull her hips against his rigid flesh. She moaned at the feel of him, reminding her that she was a woman and the intimacies of passion she could share with him.

  His hands squeezed her hips a final time and he tore himself away from her. When she opened her eyelids and her glance met his, the light of desire turned his eyes silver.

  “I must go.” His voice was thick. “It’s a good thing I have five young men who’ll work the tension from me.” He wrinkled his nose. “Sparring Room Two, it’s only slightly less scented with sweat than the others. Meserv,” he called.

  The kitten ambled from the bedroom.

  Holm stooped and picked his Fam up. Holm’s index finger stroked the top of the kitten’s head and Meserv purred. “Petting Meserv also helps to keep me sane. Still, this breakfast was worth my suffering.”

  His stare pinned her as she stood, the current between them charged with sparking energy. “You know that however complicated this situation is around us, I will not be deterred in seeing you. You know that the attraction between us is more than simple lust, there is the bond. You have accepted me into your life.” He dipped his head in courtesy. “That is great progress. Blessed be.”

  “Blessed be,” Lark echoed, still shaken from the force of the truths he’d just spoken. Before she could think to say anything else, he disappeared.

  For a moment, Lark considered returning to bed, but knew it would be futile. As she tidied up the mainspace and kitchen, she thought of the gifts he’d given her that morning: fabulous music, exquisite pastry, a minor spell, spine-tingling kisses, soft caresses, a strong link she could rely upon. He’d listened and tried to understand her, then given her the most important gift of all, acceptance of her feelings and herself as herself. Respect.

  During his recital of his trek she’d sensed the hurt—a pain like the sore mass of spasmed muscle. It centered around Holm and his brother and the Great Washington Boghole. She could help there, if she dared and he allowed. She knew enough about Holm by now to understand that some things he’d push to the back of his mind and expect them to vanish or resolve themselves without effort. If they were together, she could help him Heal that hurt—

  Her hands twitched as her blood still hummed with the energy they’d raised between them. She couldn’t sit at home and rest, but walking the beach would only remind her of Holm. There was only one thing to be done—she’d go to T’Horehound’s garden and practice her primary creative skill, and make a gift for Holm.

  Twelve

  A few moments later Lark wandered in T’Horehound’s huge estate garden, nerves calming. She’d chosen to live at MidClass Lodge for the large courtyard garden, but after a few months, she’d been frustrated at the lack of floral variety she needed for her art. She’d approached T’Horehound, a close friend of Culpeper, and T’Horehound had graciously given her leave to use his garden. She hadn’t been there since the start of summer and wondered why she’d been so overcome by work that she couldn’t take the pleasure of simply rambling the paths.

  Now she studied the plants with an eye toward her craft, a basket on her arm. Even as she touched one plant, then another, testing the fragrance they left on her fingers, Lark called herself a fool. Getting involved with Holm Holly was stupid, foolish, idiotic.

  Then she reassured herself. She might be able to get away with a passionate affair with Holm Holly. A short lusty fling. If she was very, very discreet, her father would never find out and use the knowledge against her.

  She heard kitten whufflings and saw Phyll leap from a leafy bush to attack a stray twig on the path. Flipping it into the air, he let it fall and pounced again, tossing it, pouncing, catching it in his claws, and finally chewing it.

  Wistfully she plucked a strand of flamingbells and carried it to her nose, inhaling the scent that reminded her of Holm’s. Perhaps she could indulge herself this once, without thought of Family, or Family interference. Her father would intervene, completely, finally, and even fatally, if he found out she bedded Holm Holly.

  She placed stems in her wide basket and continued on, choosing blooms and requesting the plant’s permission to pick, then gently severing the flower, and in thanks saying a simple spell to Heal the plant and send it energy to grow.

  By the time she reached the work arbor, she’d convinced herself that the foolish act would be ignoring Holm’s offer and turning him away. No woman in her right mind would refuse sex with Holm Holly. She grinned. From all accounts, he was perfect in bed—at least that had been the rumor for years. Just thinking about rolling around on bedsheets with him made a low ache settle in her core and her blood simmer.

  Yes, keeping their association on a quick, physical basis would be just the thing. She dismissed the fact that with touching of minds, with simply speaking to each other of weighty matters, they had passed the point of being simple bedmate
s.

  As for making this gift for him, it wasn’t truly a gift—more like a test. Would the fighting Holly accept a floral headpiece from her? Would he wear it?

  She had no doubt he was solid in his own masculinity and self-worth. The only real question was whether he’d accept such a personal gift from her, a gift made with her own hands for him alone. Would that be more than what he might want from her? It was a risk.

  She smiled again as she recalled their last kiss. No, he wanted more. He yearned for ecstasy, just as she did. Surely something so hot and tempestuous would flame high, then burn itself out. It couldn’t possibly last. It would be secret.

  That sent an additional thrill through her. A secret. Something for herself alone, shared only with him. If she was careful, she could even keep Trif guessing.

  How delicious. A forbidden affair. Something else to give spice to the idea. A secret, forbidden, flaming fling. The words made her lips curve further and her fingers fly in crafting the wreath, intertwining the stems, angling and showcasing certain blossoms, and the cluster of Holly leaves that meant “foresight” in the language of flowers. As much as she needed foresight, she didn’t seem to be able to act on reason.

  She pulled silver seagem beads from her tunic pocket and threaded them through the whole, then stepped back and admired the effect. Almost perfect—just a twitch or two here and there . . .

  “Perfect,” a cool voice said from behind her, “as always. You have a true gift, my dear.”

  Lark turned to see T’Horehound standing in a shaft of sunlight, holding a quietly purring Phyll. A tall man with gray hair, his body was almost attenuated in its thinness. He wore a long simple robe the same green as his plants.

  “Greetyou, T’Horehound,” Lark said. “Thank you, as always, for letting me use your garden.” She reached out and corrected a drooping alstroemeria.

  A smile touched his mobile lips. “And I thank you for your thanks.” He nodded toward the flowers on the worktable that she’d culled from her pickings for T’Horehound’s own wreath.

  He looked at her wreath and sighed. “I see that it is no use in continuing our standard conversation with a request that you wed me, or my Heir, or my Heir’s Son. You have found another mate, again and at last.”

  Lark blinked and frowned in confusion.

  T’Horehound gestured to the wreath for Holm. “Look at the flowers you wove for him, my dear Lark. They include two-hearts, deep red carnations, blue violets.”

  She stared, noticing her choices, now. Blood drained from her face and hands, making her fingers clumsy, then still. “No,” she whispered. “No. It cannot be any more than a simple romp.”

  T’Horehound lifted his thin gray eyebrows. “My dear Lark, you are not the woman for a simple romp. I know it. You know it.” He indicated the headpiece again. “I’m sure he knows it.”

  The GrandLord’s brows lowered in concentration. “He must. The style you have woven is for a Nobleman, of taste and elegance. A passionate man. A man of honor who will not bruise something as fragile as these blooms or your heart.” T’Horehound raised his eyes to meet hers.

  Lark stuck her bottom lip out and jutted her chin. “I could be a woman for a quick tumble. If I wanted.”

  He smiled, showing even teeth, then shook his head.

  She lifted her chin one centimeter more. “I could. That’s what I want.”

  T’Horehound’s laugh matched Phyll’s cat-chuckle.

  Lark grabbed the rest of the flowers and started weaving them efficiently, almost automatically.

  “Another thing,” T’Horehound said, rubbing the side of Phyll’s muzzle. “If you have any influence with D’Ash, my dear, I would like you to put in a word for me. I wish for one of these.” He lifted Phyll and examined him as if he were an infinitely amusing and precious object.

  “I’m sorry,” Lark said. “I received him from young Vinni—T’Vine.”

  A shiver coursed down T’Horehound’s long body. “Thank you, no. No need to mention my whim to that boy. I would rather not meet him.” T’Horehound lowered Phyll to his paws. Her Fam gamboled over to her.

  T’Horehound studied her for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I will leave you to your work, my dear. Merry meet.”

  “And merry part,” Lark said.

  “And merry meet again,” T’Horehound said, strolling down a stone path bordered by weeping sylvias and soon lost from view.

  Lark finished her offering for T’Horehound, then scowled at her wreath for Holm. Ruthlessly she plucked the ferns and flowers signifying love—almost a HeartMate love, and she knew she had no HeartMate—from the circle and set them aside to weave a small headpiece for one of the T’Horehound children.

  Now she prowled the garden, studying and selecting blooms that spoke of desire and passion and brevity, and not of eternal love. She mixed anemone and asparagus fern—expectation and fascination, added An’Alcha and yellow iris for passion, jasmine for sensuality, poppies for evanescent pleasure. Around it all, she inserted fluffy and fragile celtan momentaryflora. The flower she used the most was different-colored tuberoses—dangerous passion—as a warning for herself.

  Bel rose high and wafted heavy scents of the garden to Lark as she worked, creating three other wreaths besides the one for Holm. The pure pleasure of the mingled fragrance satisfied her since she’d been breathing roses for days. Her fingers slowed and her eyelids drooped until she finally halted. When she stood back to admire her offerings, she smiled. They never matched her perfect vision, but sometimes letting her hands work unconsciously provided interesting and appealing results.

  Before she could think better of it, she sent the wreath to Holm—a challenge, a test, and a message.

  At the desk in his sitting room, Holm breathed deeply of the incense he’d commissioned and just received. When he’d contracted for it, he’d told D’Ivy that he wanted a scent for self-control. She had blinked, then made some comment on the spiraling feud with T’Hawthorn and the ever impulsive character of the Hollys. Holm was sure the stuff would work just as well for sexual self-control. As he caught the smell of sage, overwhelming the plantain and echinacea, he repeated his now well-known mantra and tried to sink deeper into meditation.

  Half a septhour earlier he’d finished individually tutoring his cuzes in advanced swordplay. The group included Eryngi, now back to normal after his great Healing, cracking fewer jokes and paying more attention to his footwork.

  Spread on Holm’s desk were new annotations for their wills from T’Holly, Tinne, and Tab. Holm was to review and seal them as a witness and give the documents to T’Yarrow.

  Just looking at them made his jaw clench and teeth hurt. His heart beat in a heavy rhythm. One slip of the foot, one moment’s inattention, and any one of them could be dead. How could he keep his father, brother, and uncle safe? How could he save them? He didn’t want to fail in this, too.

  His fingers stroked his favorite bauble, a baroque pearl, and he thought of Bélla. Was she dreaming her own dreams or had his nightmares impinged on her through their connection? Dreams of fighting and the feud, she’d said. His lips thinned. They’d been her own dreams last night. His had been of failure.

  When he’d awakened in the Great Labyrinth again in the deep of night he’d been trying to save Tinne from suffocating in the boghole, sinking himself—and had failed, as a brother and as HollyHeir.

  Before that awful dream had been one about the first time he’d nightported. There’d only been that one small episode in his life, when his Aunt Leea and his Blackthorn cuzes had succumbed to the deadly virus and he’d been so devastated he’d sleep-ported to their estate. The estate that stank of corruption and death. A Healer had ’ported him to his parents’ suite with instructions for grief treatment. The rest of the winter he’d spent hours with a mind-Healer.

  Now he’d be HeartBound to one of the greatest Healers on Celta. She’d probe at those dreams if he let her. But he didn’t want her to know of his imperfections and f
ailures. The long walk out of the labyrinth hadn’t yet calmed his mind, taught him how to reach the still central core of himself. He shook his head. A minor issue, especially compared to winning the feud and wooing his HeartMate.

  Finally his glance focused on the wills. He wanted to set them flaming with a twitch of his finger—denying the possibility of death. Instead he scanned the papyrus and made notations of the changes, sent copies to the ResidenceLibrary and to a sealed file in the Guildhall.

  The incense and the soft gleam of his pearl worked on him. He cheered a little. He’d definitely made progress this morning with Bélla.

  A knock came, and his Mamá cracked open the door and peered inside. When Holm met her glance, she smiled and traipsed in.

  Holm pushed the smoking brass incense burner to one side. “You looked pleased.”

  “I am. Work went wonderfully well.” Her dimples flashed. “The muse gifted me last night and today with several compositions. I’m ahead of my commissions and will be dropping them off this afternoon. It’s a beautiful day for walking. I saw you training with our cuzes outside.”

  She scanned his rooms. “Though it’s quite comfortable here. You’ve furnished your suite with elegance and style, I hadn’t noticed.” She sighed. “And not to your father’s taste.”

  “They are my rooms.”

  “Of course, and I’m glad you have your new conservatory. That was well done of T’Holly.”

  She came and stood next to his chair, ran her fingers through his hair, as she’d done so often when he was a boy. “I’m afraid I was wool-gathering last night during dinner, and not paying you as much attention as I should.”

  She hadn’t been as sharp and quick with questions as usual, and he’d been grateful. He took her free hand and lifted it to his lips. “You are the Holly’s treasure. You give us joy, and we’re glad you practice your art among us. We prize your music and creativity.” Why did smooth words flow from his mouth for every woman except his Bélla?

  Passiflora patted his cheek. “All my men make me feel cherished.” Holding his gaze, she spoke: “I wanted to tell you how proud I am of you. How fine a person you are. You are my son, and a man, and soon to give your heart over to another woman. It’s a moment that must be recognized.”