Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  “C-c-calendula,” he gasped. “I know what your Flair is, and I have a mission for you!”

  His words buzzed in her brain then solidified into meaning. He knew her Flair! Had divined a purpose for her life.

  Knew her future.

  She nearly moaned with needy anticipation. She yearned to ask a dozen, a hundred, questions but the boy shivered with cold.

  She didn’t really want to touch him again, trigger any change in his variable eyes that meant he was seeing her future.

  On the other hand, a warmth bloomed inside her that she had a future—a good one. Ignoring her fears, she moved behind him and curved her hands onto his shoulders, holding tight. “I’m teleporting us to my sitting room on three. One, Marigold, two Muin T’Vine, three.”

  They were there, in the circular tower room with huge arched windows showing only the sky from this viewpoint. She settled T’Vine on a twoseat, drew a llamawool throw over him, and ordered him cocoa with a thick topping of white mousse from the beverage no-time storage.

  She said a spell for the room to heat. For herself, she took a mug of hot, strong, and sweet caff, wrapped her hands around the crockery to still the trembling in her fingers and warm them.

  Waiting for Vinni to take one sip, two, ready himself for talk was exquisite torture. Finally, after he had a brown and white moustache on his lip, and she’d finished her caff, she cleared her throat. “You were saying?”

  He drank again, and she refused to prod. Despite the fact that he was a boy, he was of far greater rank than she, one of the thirteen GreatHouses, the twenty-five FirstFamilies. He had power and status and wealth beyond her own.

  She was also more afraid of his words than plummeting into the ocean. She had hope now, and hope was a fearsome thing. If it crashed, she could shatter.

  Vinni wiped his mouth with a softleaf, burped discreetly. “That was close.” His eyes were wide and had returned to green brown. “I didn’t see that coming.” He shook his head, trembled under the cover. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a painful smile as his changeable eyes met hers. “I can’t always see the future when it concerns myself.”

  “A blessing of the Lady and Lord. Otherwise I’d suppose you’d go mad.”

  His face lightened, and he sighed. “You’re right.”

  Finally he pushed down the blanket. Color had returned to his face, and his freckles were lost against his skin and not light brown against stark white. Signet kept watch on his eyes, deciding she’d be a perfect coward and run if they started to change color with prophecy.

  Looking at her over his mug, Vinni slurped the last of his drink. She said nothing, and he grinned, his brown and white moustache dashing. “You’re a nice lady. Good news for you. I know your talent, GrandLady Calendula D’Marigold.”

  “Call me by my middle name, Signet.”

  He nodded. “I will since we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. You can call me Vinni.”

  She didn’t mind his rudeness, did mind his game-playing. Of course he couldn’t understand how desperate she was to know, could he? “Yes?”

  “I’ve set up an appointment for you with T’Ash and his Testing Stones,” Vinni glanced at the timer on his wrist, frowned. “In three-quarters of a septhour. This is taking longer than I anticipated.” He looked back up at her, hazel eyes keen. “You’re a catalyst, Signet. Being around you changes other people’s lives, and always for the better.”

  She sat, frozen. Catalyst. Images of her entire life flickered before her. Since her Second Passage at seventeen, she’d been losing friends. Because their lives would change and they’d move on. Did she only draw people to her because their lives needed to be changed and once that occurred they didn’t want her near anymore? Had no one ever liked her for her very own self?

  “Signet, listen to me!” Vinni demanded.

  She focused on him, much better than thinking hurtful and dreary thoughts. This had already been a horrible day. “A catalyst,” she said.

  He nodded again. “And we’ll prove it with T’Ash’s Testing Stones.”

  “Managing my life, like the GreatLord you are?” she asked.

  He winced. “Sorry, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll get you a Fam from D’Ash while we’re there.”

  “I’m on the list for Fams. Low on the list.” She’d thought an animal companion wouldn’t leave. Would it? How much would she change that one’s life?

  Vinni shifted uneasily in his seat under her stare. “I’ve arranged more than the appointment with T’Ash.” He paused, fixed his gaze on hers. “I desperately need a catalyst.”

  Cratag Maytree’s liege lord, GreatLord T’Hawthorn, called him into the ResidenceDen. Cratag knew by looking at the man’s face that he wouldn’t like what his distant relative and the head of his Family was going to say.

  So Cratag sat stoically and waited as T’Hawthorn went behind his antique desk, sat, intertwined his fingers. T’Hawthorn’s comfortchair put his head lower than Cratag’s since the lord was smaller than himself. Most people were smaller than Cratag. That didn’t undermine T’Hawthorn’s power or authority in the least.

  “I have had a request for your services,” T’Hawthorn said.

  Cratag’s mind went blank. “My services?” He was a personal guard for the T’Hawthorn Family, the head of their force. He cherished the fact that he was an important part of the Family. At least he’d thought so.

  Cratag gazed at his quiet lord, the man’s violet eyes, black hair, and impassive expression. Anxiety twisted Cratag’s gut. Was the man he’d sworn a loyalty oath to going to make him a merchant guard? He’d been a mercenary before, but he’d longed for Family, so had come north to offer his sword and blazer to T’Hawthorn.

  He’d made a place in the Family, especially with T’Hawthorn’s Son’sSon and Heir. Cratag wanted to stay with them. He didn’t want to go anywhere, do anything else. Had never thought he’d be asked to leave. He’d worked hard for T’Hawthorn, had fought, killed, been willing to die for the man.

  Now he was being shuffled aside. He kept his face a mask as T’Hawthorn went on.

  “I was approached by GreatLady D’Hazel. As you may or may not know, the Hazels keep no Family guards. The female side of that line is the strongest in Flair, and the title has passed to females. They haven’t settled their problems with dueling or feuds for generations.” His lips curved in a wintry smile. T’Hawthorn had needed Cratag’s fighting expertise because the lord had made a disastrous mistake in feuding.

  “I don’t understand,” Cratag said.

  T’Hawthorn rubbed his temples with thumb and forefinger. “I’m not putting this well. D’Hazel is in need of a guardsman.”

  Cratag’s stomach sank, he already knew where this was leading.

  “She went to the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon and requested the name of the best fighter from Tab Holly.”

  Cratag tried to visualize a gentle FirstFamily GreatLady at the Green Knight and couldn’t.

  “GreatSir Tab Holly gave her your name.”

  Cratag tensed. The Hollys were former enemies. “It’s the best salon—”

  T’Hawthorn waved a hand, cutting him off. The lord’s smile went a little crooked. “Our feud with the Hollys has been over for years, but I thought you held a personal animosity to them.”

  “No.” He hadn’t liked the idea of the feud, hadn’t liked fighting, but he’d known his duty and had been grateful to T’Hawthorn.

  “It’s past.” The lord’s nostrils widened with his deep breath, lines showed in his forehead. He’d lost his son. “You are a good guard, and you keep your skills honed. I would imagine that you would prefer to work with the best, and those fighters are found at the Green Knight.”

  Cratag kept his reply to a brief nod.

  “I understand.” T’Hawthorn sighed, leaned back in his chair. “D’Hazel has been neutral over the years, making very few, very shrewd alliances. If I supplied her need for a guard. . . .”

  All
iances. That was what FirstFamily politics and maneuvering was all about. Cratag knew enough about the noble class to understand that. Though he’d lived among the nobles of Celta for four years, he still didn’t know their ways. He figured that only those who grew up in those ways fully understood them.

  He didn’t want to go, wanted his rooms here at the Residence and his daily life with the Family, his mentoring of Laev, T’Hawthorn’s Son’sSon.

  T’Hawthorn said, “Of course, I would not force you to accept this temporary position in any way.”

  “Temporary? How long?” Not that this feeling of betrayal would go away even if the job lasted a week. All too evident that his life was not his own to command. “What’s the job?”

  T’Hawthorn hesitated. “Apparently D’Hazel’s information comes from GreatLord Vinni T’Vine, the boy prophet.”

  Worse and worse, a whole mess of FirstFamily nobles with “Great” in front of their names. No way out. Cratag sat and suffered.

  “The prophet convinced D’Hazel that her younger daughter should be fostered with GrandLady Calendula D’Marigold. D’Marigold’s household doesn’t run to guards either.”

  Cave of the Dark Goddess. D’Marigold. He’d met her once, participated in a ritual with her, had been attracted to her. That recollection almost distracted him from the feeling of being a tradable commodity.

  “Avellana Hazel is . . . fragile. There was a past threat of a kidnapping of the girl, and T’Vine believes her First Passage fugue may come very soon.”

  Cratag said, “Your Son’sSon, your Heir, Laev, is facing Passage, too. His second.” Cratag couldn’t keep quiet about this. He’d wanted to be here to help the young man of seventeen, a boy he thought of as a younger brother. Laev’s father had been killed in the feud. Passages could be dangerous.

  “I am aware of that,” T’Hawthorn said coolly. “But Laev has Grove and Hawthorn blood and is not much at risk.”

  So much for interrupting his lord. It had gotten Cratag nowhere. Nobles rarely listened to commoners.

  “Avellana suffered brain damage as a toddler. Her Family is worried for her. The Hazels are convinced that her survival of Passage depends on being with D’Marigold.” T’Hawthorn rubbed the line between his brows. “I don’t think it will be an arduous task, but you should know that the Household is a very small and quiet one, not like here.”

  “How small?”

  “Including D’Marigold, Avellana Hazel, and you, it numbers three.”

  Cratag just stared. “I’ll be alone with D’Marigold and the little girl.” He didn’t know what to think, but his pulse quickened at the recollection of the ethereal D’Marigold. She’d seemed like a legendary princess, unapproachable. Now he’d be her guard. The situation, all so mythic, appealed to him.

  “Yes, only three of you. The Residence is quite large, a beautiful estate bordering both the river and ocean. You will, of course, draw your salary from me, and I’d imagine that D’Hazel will pay gilt for your services, also.”

  That was nearly an insult, and grounded him from foolish flights of fancy. “Gilt is not why I came to Druida or why I offered you my sword.”

  “No. I know. But I’d like you to take this job.” T’Hawthorn raised a finger. “And not only for any alliance. We have a Family in distress.” Another ironic smile. “Through my own experiences, I’ve come to a modicum of compassion. Your presence at D’Marigold’s will ease minds. Celta is still harsh enough that Families perish. If you wish for a divination reading—” T’Hawthorn reached for his runes.

  “No.” Cratag’s jaw fle xed. “So I am to be a guard at D’Marigold’s, check out her security and increase it, watch the child, keep them both safe from any danger. Including trying to mitigate Passage for the little girl.” How he was supposed to do that he didn’t know. He’d never had enough Flair to experience more than a woozy few minutes of Passage.

  T’Hawthorn smiled briefly. “Succinct as always.” His brows lowered. “Keep them safe. D’Marigold has never impressed me as a practical woman, aware of FirstFamily politics or threats. She keeps very much to herself. Your decision, Cratag?”

  Always nice to be put on the spot, to make important choices with little consideration. “I’ll take the job. Tell me where and when to start.”

  T’Hawthorn consulted a sheet of papyrus on his desk. “D’Hazel, the boy prophet, T’Vine, and D’Marigold are all meeting at T’Ash’s shortly. I’ll have a glider take you there.” Since Cratag couldn’t teleport worth a damn.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, Cratag, thank you. You have been—are—a valued member of this Family and this household. If I haven’t expressed my thanks very often, please know that I have blessed the day that you came to us.”

  Warmth unfurled in Cratag’s chest, almost enough that he could swallow the lump of betrayal.

  He stood and bowed.

  T’Hawthorn did the same, another sign of respect.

  Cratag turned on his heel and strode to the door, left the room, and walked through the castle to the courtyard, where a manned glider waited.

  He was leaving a place he’d tried so hard to fit in to. He shrugged. By the time he returned, this feeling of hurt would be gone, worn away by the mission itself.

  The mission. He set aside the past to focus on the future. Anticipation surged within him. He’d see D’Marigold again. He’d never forgotten the feel of her fin gers clasping his, the fiz z of her energy as it passed through him around the circle.

  He found a smile on his face that faded when he realized D’Marigold, the princess, would have to live with his scars.

  Two

  Signet was seated in T’Ash’s octagonal ResidenceDen, sweating. The place was warmer than her house by the sea with the heat given off by people and animals . . . people who needed warmth to do their jobs. Family who cared that each other would be warm enough.

  The heavy gold curtains were pulled aside from the tall, narrow windows to show the gray day looking out over dormant lawn and bare flowering bushes. In the distance she could see the building housing T’Ash’s forge.

  She sat in an intricately carved wooden chair, with back and seat a plush gold, facing T’Ash’s big desk. The desk itself had a few cat-made nicks and scratches that had been stained to “disappear.” A large cat platform was near the desk.

  Each year since the first time she’d consulted with T’Ash, the room had a bit more furniture. Then it had been distressingly spare. Before he’d met his HeartMate.

  His fees had risen, too, but she’d only paid the fir st time. She was a challenge to T’Ash since his stones hadn’t been able to determine the form of her Flair.

  T’Ash himself was standing in the corner of the room frowning down at a fast-talking Muin—Vinni—T’Vine.

  More noise came from another room. People had teleported in. With senses heightened from nerves, she understood that they all had great Flair. A young girl’s piping voice sounded. Avellana Hazel, the life she was supposed to change, and change greatly, so the girl would live through her First Passage.

  The youngest, pampered incredibly Flaired child of a FirstFamily GreatHouse was in Signet’s hands, and she had no idea what to do to save her. If she failed, the consequences could be disastrous. No one would ever trust her. Sweat coated her palms. She wiped them on a softleaf. Soon she’d have to hold all of T’Ash’s egg-shaped stones. All of his many stones indicating type of Flair that grew in number year by year, none of them reacting to her.

  She heard Danith D’Ash welcoming the Hazels, and Signet relaxed a little in her chair. She wouldn’t have to meet them until her Flair as a catalyst—and what exactly did that mean?—was confirmed by T’Ash’s Testing Stones. Finally having a good Certification of Flair would be concrete validation.

  T’Ash coughed, and Signet swung her gaze from the door to the large man who’d seated himself behind his scarred but glossily polished desk. “You know what to do, Signet.” He smiled, and she thought he meant it
to be reassuring, but it only reminded her that of all the people in the Residence, she was the least in nobility and power.

  Vinni came away from the door where he’d been lingering and hitched himself up to a chair next to hers. “I promise, Signet, that you won’t suffer for this.”

  “Of course she won’t,” T’Ash sounded offended. “None of my stones hurt anyone if used properly. In all the times she’s tested, they haven’t harmed her.”

  “I meant the whole situation, T’Ash,” Vinni corrected.

  T’Ash snorted. Then his piercing blue gaze pinned hers. “I witness that GreatLord Muin T’Vine offers reparation for any harm that comes to Calendula D’Marigold as a result of his request that she foster Avellana Hazel.”

  Vinni looked surprised, but T’Ash nodded. “Always wise to ensure a man’s word is good.” Signet remembered that T’Ash had lived on the streets as a boy and young man, worse off than she.

  She wasn’t afraid she’d lose gilt or status, which didn’t mean very much to her. She might be shunned, lose more bits of her heart.

  Already her own life had changed—could it only have changed when she’d fallen so low?

  Now she knew how her Flair affected others, she’d figure out how to use it for good. If she thought about it, she should be able to make it into a business like others used their Flairs.

  Would the effect she had on people’s lives be less extreme if she were less emotionally connected to them? Still be for the better? So many things to think about.

  But Vinni had straightened at being called a man.

  “Now, Signet.” T’Ash opened a heavily carved box that contained only two of his eggs that measured the strength of a person’s Flair. He slid the box to the edge of his desk and, sighing, Signet picked up the clear crystal egg. As always, it felt neither cool nor warm. She closed her eyes and spiraled down into her center serenity. Her core seemed stronger, brighter . . . because she had hope. When she opened her eyes, beams of light shot out from the space between her fingers, as bright as a summer’s day on this relapse to winter.