Heart Change

by Robin D. Owens

  Signet shrugged, still smiling. “I have enough gilt for my own and the household’s needs. Gilt isn’t important. I’m glad to have people here with me . . . us.”

  Cratag didn’t open his mouth again until he knew he wouldn’t sputter. “First, take the GreatLady up on her offer to immediately update your Residential shields.”

  “That’s an enormous expense, and I don’t need—”

  Lifting a hand, Cratag stopped her. “It’s security that D’Hazel needs to be calm in her mind—and me, too. You, too, if you think about it. We’re going to be protecting Avellana. And after that—what of all the pretty objects in this pretty house? Wouldn’t you miss a few . . . or a few dozen? Don’t know why this place hasn’t been burglarized before.”

  “Most of our objets d’art are quite unique, people would recognize them,” Signet said stiffly, then added, “and no one comes here. We’re the last noble estate before the river, and the land is cliffs down to the river and to the ocean. I have walls, and the greeniron gate and shields. The Residence would warn me of intruders, but no one pays any attention to me.”

  He grunted. “Isolation is great for thieves and you’ll be fresh gossip by this evening, I guarantee that.”

  “Me?”

  “T’Hawthorn sending me, his chief of guards, here. Avellana coming here. Adopting three Fams . . . lots of good juicy gossip.”

  She frowned. “My Testing at T’Ash’s was filed with the NobleCouncil Clerk, publicly available.” She lifted her chin. “Very well, point taken. I’ll accept the security spellshields being updated.” She turned away, but Cratag caught her arm. His jaw hurt, and he realized he’d been clamping it tight.

  “You owe it to your Family to make the most of this opportunity.”

  “I am the last of my Family, and I doubt we’ll continue,” she said simply, then repeated. “The gilt is not important. Having people in the Residence is important.” A lovely flush stained her cheeks. “Being valued is important, and D’Hazel and T’Vine have already given me that.”

  “For now. What happens if Avellana doesn’t survive her First Passage?”

  Signet’s blush faded and took even more color from her. She stood straight. “I will do my best to ensure that doesn’t happen.” Her face set. “Just being with me will . . . I hope.”

  He didn’t understand everything that was going on, didn’t have to. “I’ve sat in on hundreds of negotiations with T’Hawthorn.” As an intimidation factor that sometimes worked. He knew this part of noble life, if nothing else. “Don’t sell your services short. Don’t sell yourself short, either. You’re a beautiful, greatly Flaired noblewoman. You’ll marry, have children. Take advantage of this opportunity.”

  She huffed a breath. “I hear you.” Spine straight, she turned and walked back to the room. He followed.

  D’Hazel had returned to her chair, and Signet and Cratag took their own.

  Signet smiled at the GreatLady, and Cratag was glad to see the curve of her lips had taken on an edge and her eyes a keenness. He’d overstepped his bounds in speaking with her, hoped he hadn’t disgusted her. Much harder to adore a woman from afar when she disliked you.

  Signet cleared her throat and said, “I accept the immediate upgrade of the Residential spellshields by Lahsin Holly.”

  D’Hazel nodded. “Good. I’ve made the appointment, and GreatMistrys Holly will be here in a couple of septhours.”

  Sitting even straighter, Signet said coolly, “That will be the payment for boarding Avellana. My personally helping her through her First Passage, doing my extreme best to ease her . . . with my Flair, will cost one golden favor token to be redeemed upon demand by my Family of yours anytime in the future.”

  A stunned look came into D’Hazel’s eyes. Cratag swallowed his pleased and surprised exclamation. Golden favor tokens were the stuff of legend—promising aid up to the life of the head of the household. But then, the life of the child of a household was in the balance now. He’d had no idea Signet could be so tough.

  “Since the price is so high,” Signet continued in a voice that held a hint of breathiness, “I will only claim the golden token after Avellana returns to her home after her First Passage. I will take a silver token now for being her companion, which I will exchange for the gold later.”

  “There is no price I wouldn’t pay for my child’s life,” D’Hazel said.

  “Of course not,” Signet said, appearing to soften.

  “Don’t,” Cratag muttered, hoping she heard him.

  Listen to the big man, Du advised. The cat hopped up onto Signet’s lap. She waited a few seconds. “Agreed?” she asked.

  “Agreed.” Then D’Hazel looked at Cratag. “T’Hawthorn has taught you well.”

  “I just advised the lady to bargain, not on the terms.” Cratag smiled. “Now, I want to know exactly what you’re expecting of me and Signet.”

  D’Hazel lifted her hands and dropped them. “I want Avellana to be safe, to suffer no accidents while she is here. She is a very curious—”

  “Precocious,” Signet said.

  “—girl. She always has been.”

  “What about enemies?” Cratag asked pleasantly.

  “I don’t have any.”

  He raised his eyebrows and stared at her.

  She flushed. “None who would be so cruel as to harm a child.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I have few, but strong, alliances. Male heads of households who would duel or go to war beside me. And no one wants to make a precedent of harming a FirstFamilies child.”

  That sounded straight. “What of this kidnapping threat?”

  Signet gasped and protectively gathered Du close. She was bonding quickly with her Fam, too.

  Beadle rumbled from where he’d sprawled on Cratag’s feet.

  D’Hazel’s eyes flashed. “Avellana was briefly a target of those mad Black Magic Cultists. The last died some time ago on that island they were banished to,” she ended with satisfaction.

  “How terrible,” Signet said.

  “Not likely to occur again,” Cratag said.

  “No, craziness like that comes along rarely, thank the Lady and Lord,” D’Hazel said.

  “But one of the murderers escaped,” Cratag said. “It’s a good idea to strengthen the spellshields here.”

  “Ours have already been replaced,” D’Hazel said. Her fingers tapped the cloth arm of her chair. “I haven’t thought of that man for a long time. I doubt he would return to Druida.”

  Cratag shrugged. “It’s my job to keep villains like him in mind. It would be well if he was not forgotten.”

  “I’ll ensure the Clerk of All Councils schedules a yearly reminder for all councils, perhaps on the anniversary of—-” she stopped.

  “Yes,” Cratag said, “the anniversary of which of the six deaths?”

  D’Hazel’s mouth tightened before she said, “The anniversary of the conviction of the murderers.”

  Nodding, Cratag said, “Good enough. So, we are to keep Avellana safe from her own adventurous nature and mischance. No specific threats?”

  “No.”

  “And what else?” he pressed.

  Pain came into D’Hazel’s eyes. She stared at Signet. “Vinni has convinced me that Avellana will weather First Passage if she is here with you. Your specific Flair will help her somehow.” Again she raised helpless hands as if it were a common gesture when it came to Avellana. “No one knows how her damaged brain will handle Passage. Please, both of you, be there for her. Help her through Passage.” It was a plea.

  Cratag snorted, bringing the lady’s gaze back to him. “Precious little I know about Passage. I’ve never had an intense one. But I will guard them both during that time.” He considered the matter. “And how does Vinni T’Vine figure in with Avellana?”

  The women gave him the look that said that they’d expected him to know something they did, have some knowledge—noble knowledge—that he didn’t.

  “Avellana is Vinni’s HeartMate,”
Signet said.

  The words rolled around in his mind for a minute before he truly understood them. “Who said?”

  “Vinni,” the women replied in unison.

  “And he knows? How?”

  Signet looked uneasy, D’Hazel glanced away. “However Vinni knows anything, I believe,” D’Hazel said. “He saw it in a vision, or multiple visions.” Then she smiled sweetly at him. “You could ask him.”

  Grunting, Cratag said, “Most of you folks are uneasy around the young GreatLord, because he’s a prophet, afraid of what he will tell you.” The women pokered up, but he’d seen the reaction around Vinni T’Vine often enough. T’Hawthorn’s Son’sSon, Laev, trained in fighting with Vinni, and Cratag always took Laev to the class and back.

  He went on. “But I don’t have much Flair, just enough to work our machines. He probably doesn’t see much of my future.” Cratag stood, and Beadle flopped over from his feet to the floor and protested with a mew. Cratag already knew his Fam was not one who vocalized much; one good thing about the guy. He picked him up, bowed to D’Hazel and Signet—an equal bow. D’Hazel was of greater rank, but Signet was his hostess for the next while. “I need to settle my affairs at home—at T’Hawthorn’s. I will return this afternoon. GreatLady D’Hazel, I will do my extreme best to ensure Avellana takes no harm in any way and survives her Passage. She’s an interesting little girl. Signet, until later. D’Marigold Residence, please inform T’Hawthorn’s driver I’m ready to leave.” He wanted to see Laev, talk to him.

  “It is done,” the Residence said.

  “Good, and thank you. Please be aware of security.” He aimed the words at the Residence but a look at Signet.

  “Of course,” said the Residence.

  Signet nodded.

  One last bow, thank the Lord and Lady. “Ladies.” He strode to the door, holding his plump Fam. The door opened.

  “One moment, GentleSir Maytree. Your price?” D’Hazel asked.

  He met her gaze coolly, his gut tightening again. “I thought you’d negotiated it with my lord, T’Hawthorn.”

  D’Hazel inclined her head. “Very well. But as an aside, I wouldn’t discount Vinni’s Flair when it comes to you.”

  If his gut squeezed any more, he’d get a bellyache. “Noted,” he said, and left.

  I can ’port, said Beadle. But I can’t ’port both of us. You are too big.

  “Don’t think we’ll be moving around much,” Cratag said. “We’re stuck here.”

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  Six

  Cratag brooded on the way back to T’Hawthorn’s Residence, mostly about Signet D’Marigold.

  The more he was in the lady’s presence, the more he felt as if there were faint waves pulsing from her. He knew it was a foolish idea, but he couldn’t shake it. Perhaps all nobles gave off emanations of Flair, and he was just too dull to feel them. Maybe he was more attuned to D’Marigold because . . . because he was attracted to her. So, he acknowledged it. That didn’t mean anything, wouldn’t change anything.

  Being careful of his speech and his accent and his manners around so many nobles wore on him. He was beginning to know D’Hazel and was sure that Vinni and Hanes would accompany Avellana back to D’Marigold’s, probably by glider this time. There was a limit to how often even powerful people could ’port.

  Everyone should be safe enough in the bright light of the sunny afternoon. The clouds had blown away with the strong wind, and the day turned from shades of gray to blue and yellow.

  Beadle was stretched out on Cratag’s bed, snoozing with all four paws up and white furred belly exposed, while Cratag stood staring at his closet and the many clothes for different purposes he’d somehow accumulated in the past four years. When had he acquired four sets of tunic and trous ritual robes? A couple even had fancy braid.

  Well, yeah, he recalled the damn white on white brocade that was a bitch to clean, spells or no, that he’d worried about getting blood or food on. T’Hawthorn, as Captain of All Councils, had led a Winter Solstice ritual at GreatCircle Temple, and Cratag had been his bodyguard.

  He’d seen D’Marigold at that ritual, too, hadn’t he? He snorted. He might hide his feelings from everyone else, but it wasn’t wise to hide them from himself. Of course he had noticed her. He’d looked for her every time since he’d held her hand and linked with her during D’Holly’s Healing circle.

  Staring at the white ritual robe, he recalled that he’d had a fizz of excitement when dressing in it—because he was sure he’d glimpse D’Marigold. She always participated in the important quarterly rituals at GreatCircle Temple. He snorted at the memory. He’d still had a summer tan and had thought the white would look good on him, maybe attract a female—D’Marigold’s—eye. Instead when he put it on, he saw the white was the same color as the scars on his face. It was the last time he’d cared about the ritual robes that T’Hawthorn gave him.

  She’d seen him that night, he recalled. She, too, had been dressed in white, and it had accented her pale coloring—her light blond hair, her summer blue eyes, her pale skin, with the hint of rose in her cheeks. She’d looked like a winter goddess.

  Disgusted with himself, Cratag packed some old sets of work clothes, a couple of newer tunics and trous, several sparring robes, a set of generic purple with gold trim ritual robes—T’Hawthorn’s colors—which looked like hell on him, and a set of more fashionable clothes he wore for dressy. Underwear. That should be enough.

  Another bag for his weapons—sleeve and ankle knives, some throwing discs, his tri-blazer case, and some long daggers—and he was ready. He exchanged his regular sword with his best, buckled the belt, and settled the sheath at his hip.

  There was a rapping on his door, Laev’s knock. Did the young man know that Cratag was leaving? What did he think?

  Cratag opened the door, and Laev flung his arms around him in a hug, surprising both of them. Hawthorns didn’t often display affection. Cratag hugged Laev hard, feeling how he was filling out from boy to man. Laev seemed to be sending off waves of emotion. Strange. Definitely a strange day.

  Though they’d often talked in Cratag’s room, now it seemed dark and cramped as he recalled the bright and spacious suite he had at D’Marigold’s. A view of gardens tipped with light green spring growth instead of a paved and walled courtyard.

  Laev stepped back, and Cratag let him go. He searched the face of this young man he’d raised as much as the Hawthorns had. Cratag had spent time with the boy since they’d first met, when Laev’s father and T’Hawthorn had been busy with the business of planning, then fighting a feud.

  Cratag had comforted Laev in those dark days when all thought D’Holly would die—and her HeartMate, too, the great warrior T’Holly—from a wound the boy had given her. Laev had lost his head during a street melee, forgetting what little Cratag had taught him, and injured the woman with a poisoned blade he’d found.

  Cratag had been the one to convince Laev to do what was honorable and go to D’Holly’s Healing. Though with the loss of Laev’s father, T’Hawthorn and the boy had developed a closer relationship, Cratag believed he was the one to whom Laev told his hopes and fears and dreams. He loved Laev like a son—or a younger brother.

  At thirty-four, Cratag would have had to be very promiscuous in his southern village to have a son of seventeen.

  “I hear you’re leaving us for a little while,” Laev said, his words rushed.

  Cratag frowned, gestured to his bags that took up most of his bedsponge, then said, “We’ll speak of it in your rooms.”

  Laev nodded jerkily. Cratag narrowed his eyes, lately the boy had been clumsier than usual for a young man coming into his growth. “Or maybe we should see whether you’ve learned those fighting moves Tab Holly has been trying to teach you.” Fighting was the best lesson around for coordination.

  Grinning, Laev rubbed his hands. “Now you’re talking.” He glanced at Beadle. “You got a cat!” Laev went over and rubbed the feline belly. Beadle didn’t eve
n open his eyes, but purred.

  Warmth suffused Cratag, he found himself puffing out his chest. “A Fam.”

  “A Fam!” Laev’s eyebrows rose. The only Fam in Residence was T’Hawthorn’s haughty Black Pierre who didn’t deign to notice anyone else. Laev cocked an eye at Beadle. “Good thing you’re not staying, Black Pierre would eat him for lunch.”

  Cratag grunted. “Thought we were going to spar.”

  “Right,” Laev swung around and was a mite off balance.

  They strode to the nearest workout room in the castle, only a few doors down. As far as he was concerned, two sparring rooms were too few, though one was a converted ballroom and good and large. He frowned. D’Marigold Residence must have a fighting room—probably called a salon—wouldn’t it?

  Soon they were in the minuscule locker room, changing into gear. Laev wrinkled his nose. “Smells in here.”

  “Not enough ventilation,” Cratag said, as always.

  “Did I tell you? After my Second Passage, as a gift, FatherSire will let me remodel the HeirSuite! We’re going to put in a sparring room. New.” Laev rubbed his hands again, not a usual gesture for him.

  This was the first Cratag had heard of a remodel or a new sparring room. His expression must have given him away, because the young man’s excitement dimmed. “It’s the same design you and I talked about a while back.”

  Cratag nodded. “Good, and I’m glad you’ll have it.”

  “We’ll have it,” Laev said.

  “Yes.” Cratag stowed his clothes tidily in his locker and set his hand on Laev’s shoulder as they walked into the room. Laev’s shoulder twitched with nerves, and Cratag squeezed it comfortingly . . . standard gestures between them that settled them both.

  They stepped onto the mat and bowed to each other. “Fifth fighting pattern,” Cratag said. Laev’s class was working on that one at the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. None of them had mastered it.

  An intensity came to Laev’s eyes, and Cratag readied for the attack, the kick and leg spin. But Laev shot a short jabbing blow instead. Cratag countered, and they fought. As always, Cratag modulated his strength. He took some kicks, a fall or two, and gave back as good as he got, teaching with technique Laev could observe.