T’Ash laughed. “Hard for a Holly to practice patience for a septhour, let alone an eightday.”
Holm ignored the truth. “—then the Ritual itself takes a full day, in the HouseHeart. When the twinmoons are no more than a septhour from waxing to full.”
“It’s just the beginning of Hazel, next full twinmoons and the start of Apple is more than twenty days away,” T’Ash said.
“Yes.”
“You’re sunk.”
“Yes. I can’t enter a time of purification when I’ll be fighting. Neither the Hawthorns nor my father will grant me that time. I can’t arrange for a full day in the HouseHeart for myself without requesting permission from my father. And Apple twinmoons is too long from now.” Holm smiled bleakly.
T’Ash stood and shook water from his long, tangled black hair, spraying droplets as far as Holm and Meserv. Meserv hissed at T’Ash.
He grinned, strode over, and tickled the kitten’s stomach. “You’re not much like your Sire or Dam, young Meserv. You’re lazy.”
No reason to exert self, Meserv said mildly.
Holm ran his own hand along the kitten’s plump body. “I think his twin got all his aggression—Phyll, Lark’s Fam.”
T’Ash rubbed a hand over his jaw. “You concentrate on dueling. Try not to kill any of her favorite relatives.”
Holm winced.
T’Ash picked up a towel and dried off. “The power of my HeartGift scared Danith. It was a detriment and set me back. Your Lark impresses me as a very sensitive woman. FirstDaughter of a FirstFamily, and great enough Flair to be named a FirstLevel Healer. Your HeartGift won’t need much power to impress her.” He grinned again. “And like you keep telling me, most women admire subtlety. So a subtle HeartGift, swirling with power, Flair . . . It could very well do the trick. You”—he leveled a finger at Holm—“practice your calligraphy.” Scooping up his clothes, he teleported home.
Later Holm followed T’Ash’s advice. His brush strokes looked better, more elegant and less wobbly. His hand was re-learning the motor skills needed for calligraphy as opposed to wielding a blaser or blade. He set his jaw. Tonight he’d create a piece and infuse it with all his power—as close to a HeartGift as possible.
He was inking his brush and considering the optimum time to arrive at Lark’s apartment when T’Holly’s viz appeared. The lines in Holm’s father’s face were more deeply incised than an eightday ago, but hope showed in his bearing and a gleam of battle in his eyes. Holm’s stomach tightened.
“All available residents to SparringRoom Three for a free-for-all melée.” T’Holly sounded cheerful. “Common bathing to follow, then a feast, then strategic planning for our feud, then a Ritual of Thanks in the Family Grove for the recovery of our GreatLady. Begin in ten minutes, count starting now!”
Holm stared at the space where his father’s visage had hovered. Damn! It didn’t look as if he could visit Bélla tonight. After what had happened that morning—an incident he hoped he and his father ignored and never spoke of—he must mend his Family ties tonight.
He gritted his teeth and dashed off a symbol. The ink glistened against the papyrus—bold and supple. “Your loveliness haunts me.” He admired the character. Instinctively he drew another. That one looked good, too. “May I linger in your thoughts.” Satisfied he could send her something of himself with his nightly rose, he ’ported the artistic papyrus with instructions to GrandHouse Rose. The ritual would give him excellent energy to make his HeartGift. He wondered what Bélla thought of calligraphy, hoped she admired it.
As he put away his brush set, it occurred to him that she might be expecting him that night, and a little distance—much as he hated it—might put her off balance. He grinned.
Doing a few stretches, he let his grin widen and go feral. He knew where he could release the sexual tension that prowled in him. He’d win that melée.
Twenty-one
That night Lark went wild tinting her walls. She’d seen a striking sunset as she’d weeded the flower beds in T’Horehound’s gardens, and frozen the image in her mind.
Just before darkness fell, the GrandLord had drifted near her work, and they’d shared an inconsequential conversation, as they had every night since D’Holly had fallen. Lark sensed the older man’s concern, but she hadn’t spoken of her own worries, and the gentle discussions soothed her as much as the physical work in his gardens. She’d scried Danith D’Ash and requested T’Horehound be placed on the waiting list for a rare kitten.
But that night was different. That night hope sang in her veins. The music would not be stilled. D’Holly would live.
Back in her apartment she was physically tired yet emotionally restless. So she tinted the long wall across from her red sofa to match the sunset and rippled the other walls with subtle bands of peach, pink, and coral.
Pleased at the effect, she lay on the couch and stared up at the ceiling of blue sky and white clouds.
The morning after her lovemaking with Holm, Lark had requested special spells and conditioning liquid from the Clover Family to treat her sofa and bedsponge to remove any trace of Holm’s scent. The new fragrance of the sofa was pleasantly reminiscent of good Celtan soil. She’d also given all the roses to Trif Clover.
When the white rose had come the first evening she and Holm were apart, she couldn’t force herself to give it to Trif. These roses came after their loving—their sex. The new flowers came after D’Holly’s awful wounding. Lark knew she shouldn’t keep them, but couldn’t throw them away. She compromised by putting them in a vase in a dim kitchen corner.
The jubilant news while in Nuada’s Sword that D’Holly could be cured almost mended the yawning hole inside her at her denial of Holm. There was still no future for them. Neither Family would be able to forget what had happened, the feud still flourished, but at least she wouldn’t be part of a Family that had committed the heinous killing of a GreatLady.
Lark repressed a tremor at the remembrance of Holm’s touch earlier that day. Simply the brush of his hand against hers had caused her blood to race with the pounding of her heart, had flashed visuals of their loving to the forefront of her mind. She’d had to spend energy to control herself, and resorted to her mantra more than once.
She’d been surprised and displeased with the huge cavity of emptiness and hurt inside her now their affair was over. She grimaced in a parody of laughter as she thought that it had truly been a onenight, or a oneafternoon.
The last few days had been horrible. The PerSuns had been a blessing, giving her the strength to go beyond her usual range. She’d pushed herself to the limits every day.
And in the night she ached for Holm and wept silent tears that his tender arms didn’t envelop her and never would again.
Lark whimpered and Phyll appeared. He leapt onto her stomach and changed her whimper to a grunt.
While you played in the gardens, Meserv and I played in a Ship. Very good place. Ship belongs to a Cat, Samba. She showed us many games. Phyll stretched out on Lark and she started petting him, noticing he grew larger each day and was becoming quite muscular.
He answered her general thoughts. I am strong, but not as strong as Samba. She is a big Cat. Fatter than Meserv. Meserv got sick after eating an earthplant in the Greensward. Tinne Holly petted us. He does not have one kid-ney. The Ship is growing him another. Do I have a kid-ney?
“You have two, as do all mammals.”
Dogs, also?
“Yes.”
There is a stupid dog on the Ship. We did not play with her. She is much smaller than Samba. Tinne is a good Holly, but not as good as Ours. When will Our Holm Holly come back?
Hope warred with reason. She shouldn’t want him to come back. He shouldn’t come back, for both their sakes. Pain wrenched through her. “He’s not coming back.”
Phyll snorted and jumped off her to trot into the kitchen and investigate his food dish. You still have a string between you, he said before munching his crunchies.
The e
vening passed with relentless slowness. Lark kept an ear tuned to the door and the scry, but the only break in her solitary pursuits was the delivery of the white rose. Curled around it was a piece of papyrus. Lark unrolled it and her breath stuck in her throat.
Calligraphy. Holm’s creative gift was calligraphy. What an odd, ironic thing.
She pivoted on her heel and swept into her bedroom. From the top closet shelf, she floated down a large, heavy package. With a Word, she banished the safespell that kept the glass clean and unbroken. Deliberately she sent the three pieces of framed calligraphy to hover around Holm’s that sat on the table. She took one pace back, two, then shook her head.
Her father, T’Hawthorn, held a Master’s Laurel in calligraphy. She suspected that Holm had never completed formal training, or tested for his laurels in the art, but it was obvious he was equally skilled.
But what a difference in style!
And what a difference in topic.
Her father’s was a classic, distinguished hand and his symbols: Duty. Obedience. Family. Even his signature and the Family sigil were constrained and stiffly correct.
Holm’s two characters showed grace and boldness. His note spoke of memory and yearning, radiated affection and passion and something more.
She banished T’Hawthorn’s pieces back to the closet and paced the room. “Your loveliness lingers in my thoughts.” Sincerity radiated from the papyrus. He truly thought she was lovely. She shook her head. “May I linger in your thoughts.”
She set Holm’s work on her desk under a paperweight by Painted Rock, one of her sister-in-law’s early works and the reason she took her name.
If Lark was as nervy and fidgety tomorrow as she was tonight, she’d fret away her restday. She would not let the presence or absence of that man affect her so.
She scried Painted Rock. Lark had progressed beyond loss and bitterness and tried to help Painted Rock do the same. There was one thing they shared, a love of solar sailing. Painted Rock wasn’t in, and Lark left a message in her cache. “I’m sailing tomorrow. If you want to join me, meet me at our cabana near ShipProws at ninebells. Love, Lark.”
Impatient with herself for fretting about Holm, she decided to meditate. If she sank into herself, her mind would ease and her nerves would calm. What would come, would come.
Phyll gave up his pounce-on-papyrus-ball play and trotted to her. We all have fine fate. Vinni said so.
Lark picked him up and nuzzled him. “Of course you do.”
You, too. And Meserv. And Our Holly.
Lark sighed. “If you say so.”
Phyll rumbled a small purr. I do, he said smugly.
She laughed and settled into her favorite position to meditate, Phyll on her lap.
I will med-i-tate, too. I med-i-tate good. Meserv falls asleep, Phyll reported virtuously.
Her amusement at her kitten steadied her mood, and she was able to take them both into a deep trance.
When she awakened the next morning, her restlessness was back. This would simply not do, obsessing over a man.
So she’d occupy her mind and body with something nearly as exciting. Time to solar-sail.
She went to her bedroom cabinet and got her flying outfit, a onesuit of layered and insulated material. It unrolled in her hands, feather-light and thin, but strong and warm for sailing in high air. Automatically her fingers checked the suit for tears, but found none. She smiled. The clothing, as with all her solar sailing equipment, was expensive and fashioned completely by hand, with only minimal Flair.
She prided herself on her sailing skill—no Flair, only muscle and timing and expertise. Lark checked the large front pocket that curved over her breasts and opened near her collarbone. It was empty. She gauged Phyll’s size and weight.
“Do you want to go solar sailing?”
The kitten knew she sailed. He’d found the suit in a cabinet drawer, and she’d been upset at his kneading it.
Phyll sat down and raised a back leg to groom. If Lady and Lord had wanted Cats to fly, the Two would have given Cats wings, he said as he licked fine bits of hair back into place.
Lark kept her smile to herself, then frowned as the cheerful melody of her scrybowl announced a caller. She went to the bedroom door and looked into the mainspace. The light that glowed from the instrument was Holly green.
Relief that he still cared warred with distress that she’d have to battle him—and herself—again. “I’m not going to answer, Phyll. I’m going sailing.” Stretching, she tested her muscles. Lately the most physical activity she’d had was weeding T’Horehound’s garden. Sailing sounded better every moment.
Lark slipped from her robe and donned her onesuit, stuffing her hair into the headcovering and tightening it with tabs. The sound of the scrybowl muted. She slid her thumb down along the rest of her tabbed seams to close them.
Phyll jumped onto the table that held her scrybowl.
Lark grabbed her bag and scanned the mainspace for anything she might need. Gilt, quickfood, and her Healing Tools were in her bag. A gleam of green caught her eye. The music flexistrip. She recalled the loveliness of the lilting music that she’d programmed to waken her. Music that held within it the very essence of solar-sailing—the swoops and the curves, intricate figures to soar through.
Now that D’Holly was healing, Lark could bear to listen to the music again. She plucked up the flexistrip and inserted it into her collar, pressing the tiny jewel to ready the spell.
You never let Me answer scrybowl. Can I answer now?
Phyll would delay Holm enough for her to leave. “Yes.”
Circling the scrybowl with an orange paw to answer the call, Phyll mewed. Phyll here.
“Good morning, Phyll. May I speak with my Bélla?” Holm’s voice caused a melting in her lower body, a softening of her knees. No, it would be a softening of her head if she continued to keep him in her life.
Phyll’s head circled as if following the water before it stilled. His gaze slid toward her.
Feeling her temper rise, she decided to spend her energy in teleportation to the last public carrier stop departing for the jutting rocks known as the ShipProws. She popped from her space.
Holm heard the distinctive whoosh of teleportation over the scrybowl and set his jaw. He hurt and tried not to show it, tried to suppress it. He shouldn’t hurt so, not over something so trivial. He felt as if he’d been ripped inside.
Phyll’s whiskers quivered. FamWoman gone sailing.
Holm was glad of the translator spell he’d set on his scrybowl, and the practice with Meserv. “Sailing?” Holm’s spirits lifted. His G’Uncle Tab had taught both Holly boys to sail well. Holm had a sweet yacht that would catch whatever craft Bélla rented. He knew she didn’t keep a boat. Surely she’d prefer dancing over the waves in a tip-of-the-pyramid craft instead of whatever miserable rental thing she used. He’d be charming. He’d even promise to keep the length of the boat between them—until she warmed up to him again. He’d dazzle her with his yacht and his skill.
An enlarged paw dominated the scry-vision. If it touched the water, the call would end. There were many marinas along the coast. . . . “Phyll, wait! Where did she go?”
ShipProws. The paw dabbed the water. Phyll hissed and Holm’s bowl went clear.
“ShipProws!” Holm repeated. The ridge of tilted sandstone rock to the south of Druida was an outshoot of the Hard Rock Mountains, named by the colonists for the upthrust triangular peaks that looked like starship prows. There wasn’t a patch of water larger than a pond anywhere near there.
He shouldn’t snoop into Bélla’s life any further. He should save learning about her from her own words, from the link between them, from his hands touching her body. For a moment the thought distracted him. When tension coiled in his loins, he brought his mind back to the fact that he wouldn’t even see her if he didn’t solve the little puzzle.
Holm paced up and down the length of his sitting room. He’d been ready to beg to see her.
A simple question to the ResidenceLibrary wouldn’t be prying into her life.
Showing up at a public place wouldn’t be too pushy.
He hoped.
He cleared his throat. “ResidenceLibrary, please define the use of ‘sailing’ in relation to the ShipProws.”
“The ShipProws are the center of personal solar-sailing around Druida,” ResidenceLibrary responded.
Holm gulped. Personal solar-sailing. Flying on gossamer batwings. Naturally he’d tried it as a child, but his Family preferred water to air and yachting together to personal solar-sailing. Wherever his suit and wings had gone, he didn’t know, probably to some cuzes, but they sure wouldn’t fit him now.
Throwing off apprehension, he made his voice as strong as his resolve. “Don’t we have a solar-sailing harness somewhere in storage?” He thought he’d moved a box or two from the storerooms that had been his new pool and conservatory to another area.
“Osmanthus Holly, three generations ago, solar-sailed. The equipment is in new Storage Room Six,” ResidenceLibrary replied with disapproval.
“Ah, I knew it.”
“The spells on the solar-sailing harness have deteriorated.”
“I have the energy to renew them.” The feast and the Ritual last night had energized everyone. Holm’s HeartGift had turned out surprisingly well and had also given him power. He hadn’t used the DepressFlair bracelet and hadn’t nightported to the Great Labyrinth. He was rested and ready.
Holm rolled his shoulders and left his rooms to walk long corridors to the other side of the bailey square. He considered teleporting, but decided to save his strength. Solar-sailing after so long might be a little tricky.
“The solar-sail wings are of an old design and substance.” ResidenceLibrary’s admonitions echoed down the hallway, surrounding Holm.
“Osmanthus did it. I can. I’m smarter and stronger than he ever was.”
“Osmanthus injured himself badly solar-sailing. There’s blood on the sails. Techniques have changed.”
Heart Duel Page 24