Heart Duel

by Robin D. Owens

  Holm knew he couldn’t escape ResidenceLibrary, not even turning corners and loping down the hall, but the action felt good. Any action that would bring him to Bélla felt good.

  A mew sounded in his mind with an image of Meserv sitting with ears perked. Solar sailing? Flying? Zoom like Samba on her Saucer? I want to go, too!

  Holm laughed and ’ported the kitten to his shoulder. “We’ll go and impress Bélla and Phyll.” He scratched Meserv’s cheek.

  “Osmanthus,” the Residence warned in tones of doom.

  “I have greater Flair. I can teleport to safety in an emergency. As for hurting myself, I’ll be with a Healer.” With luck. He’d ask if he could join her, of course, no need to cause those white flashes of hers. If she missed him as much as he missed her, she’d want to see him.

  This time he wouldn’t slip up and make a fool of himself like he had on the beach. The memory caused his neck and face to heat. This time he’d dazzle her. Everything he knew about solar-sailing would come back to him.

  If she wanted to see him. He gritted his teeth. As much as he longed to spend time with her, if she refused his company he would leave—perhaps work his restlessness out on sea sailing. But how he yearned for her!

  By the time the public glider reached ShipProws Town, Lark’s blood was buzzing with anticipation. It had been far too long since she’d experienced the complete freedom of solar-sailing. She treasured the long septhours of gliding as she angled her gossamer wings to Bel to power her flight, the skill of using thermals and cross-winds to soar in elaborate patterns that were the hallmark of the craft.

  She hummed as she walked to the primary-colored cabanas where she and Painted Rock kept their gear. Her cabana was bright red. She snapped the security spell off with a Word, opened the door, and stepped inside, shivering at the cool air that preserved the molecular wings. They hung in ethereal swathes. A few molecules thick, they shimmered with a lure of the only unrestricted septhours Lark had ever had.

  She frowned briefly. Ethyn had never wanted to fly. He said he’d worked too hard to become a Healer ever to endanger himself. She had sailed less and less when she was wed to him, preferring to spend time with him and his hobbies.

  “Lark? Lark?” Painted Rock called. She ducked into the cabana and closed the door.

  Lark turned to her with a smile that faded. Painted Rock’s tall, thin frame looked even more emaciated, her eyes more haunted. Her suppressed emotions over Ethyn’s death could not be allowed to continue. Though not a mind-Healer, Lark knew enough from her studies that ignored emotions generated unhealthy results both physically and mentally.

  Lark, herself, had been angry and bitter and grief-stricken, but she’d been open about the emotions and worked through them until they were in her past. She was sure Painted Rock never acknowledged her feelings—pushed them aside and hid them until they dammed up to eat away at her. Lark sighed. She could only do her best, try and link with Painted Rock, and hope the inner wound was ready to be lanced.

  Brushing Painted Rock’s mind with gentle encouragement and love, Lark stepped to her and hugged her tight. “I’m glad you came.”

  Painted Rock’s brooding eyes searched her face. “I’ve been thinking about what you and that Nobleman said. I do wish you happiness. But I don’t think you can find it with him,” she ended defiantly.

  Lark shrugged and kept her smile. Though the words hurt, they only echoed what her own reason told her. She took Painted Rock’s hands. They were icy. Lark warmed them with a two-word and squeezed her fingers. “Let’s not discuss that. Let’s sail!”

  They put on their wings, then checked in with the Solar Sailing Society and listed where they’d be sailing and the septhours they’d be in the air. They went to a high jutting hill where the up-drafts would lift them into takeoff. They’d chosen a less popular area with trickier crosswinds and were the only sailors in the vicinity. The better to bond again, Lark hoped.

  Running and laughing, they jumped off the cliff and were borne into the blue, blue sky.

  Lark reached for the connection between herself and her sister-in-law, and for the first time in years, Painted Rock allowed it. Lark thumbed the jewel to start D’Holly’s music and amplified it to Painted Rock to increase their joy. Using little Flair and the skill they’d learned together, they began with simple patterns and alternated the progression of each series until they swooped in the most intricate designs.

  They soared together, reveling in the freedom of the wide sky above verdant Celta. Exhilaration passed between them and they grinned, but Lark sensed a huge black mass of emotional pain in Painted Rock. After this respite Painted Rock would return to that darkness—black grief and hurt that blocked her artistic talent to a trickle, causing even more despair.

  For a while they sailed in silence, Lark trying to loosen and smooth Painted Rock’s awful tangle of feelings. Then Lark’s probing neared Painted Rock’s deep hurt, and she found a great thermal flow, waved to Lark, and let the wind take her up and up.

  Lark accepted the retreat with resignation and relief. Now she could truly enjoy herself. Concentrate on nothing but the moment and her own sensations . . . the soft chill of the wind against her face, the sight of playing hawks a kilometer away, and most of all the freedom to dip and sway and dance in the air to D’Holly’s music. She cruised level, horizontal winds—soaking in the serene sight of lush fields and groves. Letting the greenness of healthy growing plants soothe her.

  Half a septhour later Holm touched her mind with a gentle caress. Bélla.

  Exactly what she needed to complete a perfect moment. Yes, Holm? The link must be very strong if she could hear him so well when he was in Druida.

  Phyll told me where you were. May I join you?

  She hesitated. Painted Rock was near, and troubled, but Lark had tried her best this morning to help her sister-in-law, and Painted Rock had flown away.

  Lark wanted to play again with Holm. To enjoy time with him. She circled wide around lush fields as she considered. The last week or so had been hideous—mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting. She deserved to have fun—and fun with Holm. She hovered in the bright blue sky, tipped her hand and spun gracefully on her wings. Here she was in her element and he would be at a disadvantage.

  Brilliant, sparkling air flowed over her. Holm would add to the pleasure of the day, it was as simple as that, would gild the memory with gold. If Painted Rock appeared again—so what? Lark deserved some lovely times and memories. She couldn’t live her life anxious about Painted Rock’s problems which mirrored the fear and bitterness she’d left behind.

  She swooped and still Holm did not press her for an answer. Good. She smiled. Yes, Holm, you may join me.

  Then he was there.

  His appearance startled her and she stared, hardly believing her eyes. Her mouth hung open until the wind dried it and she snapped it shut. He was obviously a beginner, augmenting his natural grace and balance in flight with Flair—and the rig he wore! A regular airstream circled her around the area as she studied him. Material wings! He flew with wings made of tissue-thin material, but material none the less, looking frayed with age. Incredible that he managed so well.

  Even as she watched, he naturally learned how to shift and balance, use wind and solar power more and Flair less to sail. It amazed her.

  A high cat-shriek of glee accompanied him. Again Lark stared. White whiskers twitched and a small red tongue darted out from an orange face as if tasting the air. Meserv hung in a holly-green pouch on Holm’s chest. Lark laughed. In this one thing, Meserv outmatched his brother.

  The link between herself and Holm had snapped open as soon as he’d appeared and now she sensed his pure exultation at mastering a long neglected skill. Too far away to match gazes, his mind-emotions touched hers in a light caress backed by excruciating tenderness that made her breath catch in her throat.

  Then he began to climb in ever-narrowing circles around her. Caring welled within her as she w
atched him and the emotions pulsed up and down their bond, layering, deepening, becoming complex and intimate.

  He wooed her. Drifting in close enough to flash a grin or wink, then drawing away. Even with his antique equipment he was more graceful soaring than any man she’d ever seen.

  He danced in the air, and tempted her to angle her wings and dance with him, in the teasing game of courtship. All the while the link between them ebbed and flowed with intense, unspoken emotion. There was affection, desire, and even more, a yearning of the heart and soul.

  Her pulse raced harder as he dived past her, pulled from the dive, and spiraled upward again—she gasped, but she’d watched hawks air-dancing too often not to know the male mating flights.

  The man enchanted her.

  He maneuvered close, within a long wingspan, and their tie throbbed with sensual images, the delight at hearing his mother’s music, the scent of her that wafted to him, calling him.

  It was as if the world was brand new and they created it by swooping and dancing. A wave of a hand birthed a spray of moons, the glide of a body seeded the planet with verdant growth.

  Lark, how could you invite him, too? Painted Rock cried betrayal. Zooming in on a fast crosswind, she darted between them.

  Holm was too inexperienced to handle the backwash of her wings, her stop, more rushing air as Lark compensated. His wing-edges dropped, feathered the air wrong, and he careened into Painted Rock. She plummeted into Lark. They tangled and fell.

  Twenty-two

  “NO!” Holm cried. He hadn’t the Flair to save them all. No! Not to fail a loved one again.

  Painted Rock freed herself, but they continued to plummet. Holm reached mentally for Lark, but she was concentrating and didn’t bond with him. An updraft whirled Holm away, then sent him falling.

  The women struggled to right themselves with skill, using wind and sun to control their fall. Both still dropped.

  With effort and technical moves that amazed him, Lark set Painted Rock on a wobbling but safe downward descent. Lark pinwheeled down. Out of reach.

  Then she reached for him,’ported midair to him, and pulled him close. Her sheer willpower, strength, and soaring knowledge augmented by judicious Flair pulled them from their dive. Holm sent her energy, but she returned it to him, steadied him, and fixed ’porting coordinates in her mind.

  Port! she ordered.

  He did, teleporting Meserv home before landing hard and rolling. When he caught his breath, he looked for her.

  She still flew, angling down to where Painted Rock huddled on the ground.

  Talons of fear, anger, guilt, and complete failure sank into him with cruel sharpness.

  Painted Rock had landed physically safe and emotionally broken. Lark slipped off her harness and ran to her.

  The woman had collapsed into a weeping heap, finally releasing all the pent up hurt and grief and fury at her brother’s death. Lark sat down and put her arms around her, cradling her as she wildly sobbed, comforting her with gentle noises, stroking hands, and a mindstream of warm understanding. Several meters away Holm strode to them, fear and anger spiking his aura, as well as a dark smudge. Obviously the incident had stirred up deep feelings in him, rousing an old, suppressed problem. She didn’t know how she’d cope with two of them tugging at her heart. Both needing her and unwilling to admit their hurt.

  Others ran to them, including GentleLady Southernwood, the head of the Solar Sailing Society.

  Lark said, “Shhh, Painted Rock, it’s all over, and we’re alive and fine. Time to set aside your grieving and live.”

  “He was the best of us. The best of me. He saved me from Downwind. He made me an artist.”

  Lark smoothed Painted Rock’s hair. “Ethyn was a good and kind man,” and why hadn’t Lark loved him like the man who stopped near them now? Oh, Lady and Lord, she loved Holm! Disaster. “Painted Rock, Ethyn could not make you an artist. You have the talent. You are creative. Allow yourself to express whatever you feel and grow.”

  Holm’s precise movements radiated control of roiling emotions. He crouched beside them, but didn’t touch Lark. Didn’t want her linked further to whatever he feared most, she thought. But he said, “Can I help?” in a low, calm voice. There was no hope for it. She was well and truly in love with him.

  “I’m s-s-sorry,” Painted Rock gulped. “I’m s-s-”

  “Shhhh,” Lark rocked them. “It’s over and we’re fine.”

  A starburst page burst near Lark. “STAT,” PrimaryHealing Hall broadcast. “Two down in Hawthorn-Holly street fight, mortal wounds. Bergamot Square.”

  Painted Rock rubbed her wet face and pushed Lark away. “Go!”

  GentleLady Southernwood helped Lark to her feet.

  Another page showered sparks. “Holm!” T’Holly’s voice rang out. “Coordinates here! Come. We need your fighting arm. Bergamot Square!”

  Holm’s tormented gaze met hers over the wide gulf that had opened between them.

  Her mind fought with her clutching heart. She wanted to link with him, hold him, love him. Healing bag in hand, she ’ported.

  With a sweeping glance, Lark saw T’Holly and his men, swords drawn, defending one corner of the square. The GreatLord was planted in front of Tinne. Hunting cats growled and paced.

  Winterberry, the Council guardsman, led a contingent of guards herding a less cohesive group of Hawthorns away from where two bodies lay. One in Hawthorn purple, the other in Holly green. T’Heather already stooped over the still men.

  Lark ran to them. Healers were too late. She looked down in horror. Her cuz Whitey Hawthorn lay with his head half-severed from his body, his jugular ripped open, blood puddled under his neck.

  Her gaze went to the other. A Hawthorn dagger protruded from Eryngi Holly’s chest.

  They both smiled as if fighting and dying had been the best sport they’d ever had.

  Horror skittered through her. She caught her breath on a sob. Her heart ached for the loss of both of them—both had been strong and vibrant and young.

  Holm ported into the square near T’Holly. Holm reached for her, but she sent grief and anger to him.

  Her lips trembled as she said to T’Heather, “Eryngi Holly. No more than an eightday ago I Healed a fatal wound of his. Now he’s dead.”

  T’Heather rose awkwardly to his feet and met her eyes. His anger matched hers. “Yes.” He augmented his voice with Flair so it bounced off the brick walls of the buildings surrounding the square. “A waste of Healing energy and lives. A private feud or dueling is one thing—reprehensible but sanctioned by our laws. Street fighting, leaving dead in the squares, is another matter. The NobleCouncil will hear of this and rule on the issue.”

  T’Holly gestured Holm to take his place and strode to them, sheathing his blade, a large hunting cat with him. His voice, too, carried to all corners of the square. “I did not start this feud. I did not recently escalate it. But the fighting has sorely wounded my HeartMate, and no apology has been forthcoming. Let the NobleCouncil consider that.”

  Wild fury lived in his eyes and was outlined in every strong sinew of his body. With a display of Holly strength, T’Holly reached down and gathered up the fallen Eryngi, cradling the dead man in his arms. “By the Cave of the Dark Goddess, I will end this feud. The cost to the Hawthorns will be dear.” His eyes burned as he surveyed the clump of Hawthorns. T’Holly jerked a nod to his men. They ’ported away in silence.

  Lark narrowed the bond between herself and Holm to the merest filament, but knew despairingly that it was still too strong to cut. What would cut that thread? And how shattered would she be were it severed?

  Lark’s father, T’Hawthorn, walked to her slain cuz.

  “Lark, you are needed at home.”

  To her surprise, T’Heather curled a large, warm hand over her shoulder. Strength, determination, and comfort flowed from him to her. “I think it best that Lark remain at MidClass Lodge or move to T’Heather Residence. A Healer is not to be involved in a feud.”


  T’Hawthorn scowled. “Will you recall Garis Heather and Vera Aloe from my home, too?”

  Her MotherSire’s nostrils flared in distaste. “You have contracted with them. That is between you and them.” He shook his head at Whitey’s body. “Lady and Lord knows you will be needing them if you continue with this foolhardiness.”

  Blood rushed to T’Hawthorn’s pale cheeks. He stood stiffly.

  T’Heather studied him. “There will be a Major Healing Ritual for D’Holly in GreatCircle Temple in two days’ time, on quarter twinmoons. Will you show your willingness to end this feud, and attend, to Heal instead of kill?”

  “No.”

  “Let this feud go, Huathe,” T’Heather said.

  Her father’s lips thinned and whitened. With a wave of his hand he summoned a floating pallet for Whitey. “No.”

  Without further word or glance at Lark, her father marched away, the other Hawthorns straggling behind him.

  Cratag crossed to Lark and T’Heather and stopped a moment. Lark saw a slash in the leather over his right biceps. “Let me Heal that.”

  He intercepted her hand and squeezed her fingers while ducking his head. “The T’Hawthorn Healers can take care of it for me. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said, and dropped her hand. His eyes held troubled concern. He bowed to T’Heather. “I am sorry for all of us.”

  Pivoting on a heel, he easily caught up with the rest.

  “I don’t know what to do. What am I going to do?” The words escaped Lark. T’Heather slipped his muscular arm around her shoulders. His mind touched hers and knew her desolation.

  “We will need you for D’Holly’s Healing Ritual. After that . . . I will speak to the committee in charge of selecting the Head of Gael City HealingHall and ensure they decide soon.” His tone indicated that there’d be no doubt Lark would receive the position she’d once longed for so much.

  She’d thought of making a new life, becoming a new woman. She had partially gained her goal. T’Heather’s support of her independent living had given her the respect she so wanted from all her Family.