Vinni was silent for a minute. “I scared Fams and FirstLevel Healer Lark and had Holm HollyHeir fighting an illusion. All the Hollys and Heathers and Hazels heard the story right away and that means gossip went the rounds. I heard from every one of the FirstFamilies about how bad my behavior was, how I’d used my Flair inappropriately.” He rubbed his ears as if they still rung from scolds. “Mine was a stupid kid’s mistake.”
“Sounds like it,” Cratag said.
“I was only nine, a long time ago.”
Four years didn’t seem that long ago to Cratag.
Vinni sighed, and Cratag lifted his hand. The boy went to a chair and sat. “Could be worse,” Vinni said. “I didn’t actually hurt anyone, just scared them.” His jaw set. “Seemed the thing to do at the time,” he repeated. He glanced at Cratag, who wasn’t sure of the color of the teen’s eyes, but they weren’t the regular hazel. Cratag ignored the frisson along his nerves.
“My Flair didn’t settle down for another year or so.” Flames flickered into being in the fir eplace, mesmerizing, and Vinni watched them. “Could have been worse. Only a little while later Laev wounded D’Holly, wasn’t it?”
That had occurred to Cratag. “Yes, unlike your error, that isn’t a teasing matter, so we don’t talk about it much.”
“Just one of those past events that will haunt Laev the rest of his life. Another stupid kid’s error that was nearly fatal.”
“Yes.”
“When we’re together, the other boys and I during training, we don’t talk about it much, either, but we all know, even the Clovers, now. We pretty much all know stuff about each other.”
“A community is like that, whether it’s FirstFamily circles in Druida or a small village.”
“Huh.” Vinni stared at the flames and Cratag moved a chair closer to Vinni’s and sat. Vinni smiled at him, a boy’s smile that Cratag realized he wouldn’t see anymore from Laev.
“Past events that loom large,” Vinni mused. “I don’t think of those often. I think mostly of the present and the future.”
“Your gift,” Cratag said.
“Yeah, until a past mistake comes back to bite me on the ass.” He rolled the words, man-words not used much in his household of older ladies. Then his shoulders shifted again as he sighed. “Could have been worse, could have to deal with something like Laev’s. More than just the FirstFamiles, most of the nobles will always remember Laev’s blunder.”
Cratag wondered how Laev was doing, if that mistake would haunt him during his Passages. From what Cratag understood of the dream fugues, he was certain of it, despite all the mind Healing and counseling they’d had. Again he ached to be near his “younger brother.” But the boy next to him was shivering a little now and needed his care, as did the young girl in the sitting room. It was good to be needed.
“Residence, increase the heat by five degrees.”
The air warmed immediately. “Thank you,” Cratag and Vinni said in unison.
“My mistake was stupid, Laev’s was worse, but . . . poor Antenn.” Vinni frowned.
“Antenn Blackthorn?”
“Right. His biological older brother murdered some FirstFamily lords and ladies. Burned them up.” Vinni shuddered. “That’s how I became T’Vine; old D’Vine died then. Antenn won’t ever be allowed to forget that. Not even his fault.”
“Rough,” Cratag said. He’d heard stories of that event, but it had been before he’d arrived in Druida.
“Yeah. Being known for a stupid sea monster illusion is not so bad.” Vinni sounded more cheerful. He glanced at Cratag and said, “Thank you for listening.”
Another boy he was growing close to, forming a friendship with. Cratag nodded. “Anytime,” he said and meant it.
Vinni met his eyes and nodded back.
A knock came at the door. “Enter,” Cratag said.
Hanes opened the door but didn’t come in. He carried a sleeping Avellana on his shoulder. “I’m putting Avellana to bed. Then, T’Vine, we should return to T’Vine Residence.”
Vinni stilled, his face went expressionless.
Hanes said, “You asked if we could stay tonight because you sensed an upset coming. That’s happened. Let’s go back home.”
Now Cratag froze himself. He’d missed whatever previous byplay there’d been between the two, and didn’t like that. Something in the air stirred his own instincts.
When Vinni didn’t answer, Hanes pressed, “Did you see anything else happening tonight?”
Vinni closed his eyes, they moved under his lids, then he lifted his lashes. “No.” But he sounded uncertain.
“We’re leaving.” Hanes didn’t catch the boy’s hesitancy or ignored it. The bodyguard looked at Cratag. “We’ll teleport.”
“Of course,” Cratag said. Maybe Vinni hadn’t had a vision, but just a hunch. Cratag would have trusted one of Vinni’s hunches as much as his own.
Vinni stood. Cratag thought the youngster suppressed a sigh. At being young enough that he had to mind adults against his own judgment? Vinni matched Cratag’s gaze and said mentally, privately. Please always call me “Vinni.”
Yes, Cratag replied.
“Goodnight, Cratag.”
“Goodnight, Vinni, good dreams. Goodnight, Hanes.”
“’Night.” Hanes smiled. “D’Marigold has retired.”
So much for more sex. Cratag couldn’t envision himself tip toeing across the room back to Signet’s bed. She needed rest, too. They’d all been through an ordeal. She’d actually drawn the monster away from Beadle. So brave. Cratag didn’t want to remember those sweaty, terror-filled moments, but didn’t think they’d fade anytime soon.
“Your Fam is snoozing on his pillow with the Residence singing lullabies to him, too lazy to move,” Hanes said.
Cratag smiled. He followed Vinni to the door and watched as they entered Avellana’s suite to put her to bed and came back out. Hanes marched, and Vinni trudged to the teleportation room. The door closed behind them. Cratag didn’t hear them leave, but after a minute there was a distance between him and Vinni, and himself and Hanes, that hadn’t been there before.
Deep quiet descended, and the flames in the fireplace had gone out by the time Cratag turned back to the room, as if the Residence believed Cratag wasn’t interested in the warmth.
Or as if it knew he’d walk the halls once more.
It was going to be one of those nights that he didn’t sleep. When memories would haunt him in the dark hours.
Eighteen
Memories would come.
Cratag stood briefly under the waterfall and changed into his oldest workout clothes, soft from many cleansings.
He went down the hall, paused outside Signet’s door. If she was awake and tense . . . but she wasn’t. The bond between them was already strong enough for him to know she was asleep and dreaming . . . in color. He rarely dreamt in color, or recalled his dreams.
Then he checked on Beadle. The sitting room was dim but not dark, and Beadle was curled up asleep—n ot laying on his back with his vulnerable belly showing. Cratag sensed he slept lightly. The Residence was singing to him . . . or sending low, crystal notes of sound through the room that Cratag knew were meant to soothe and Heal.
He examined the state of the shields around the tower, all sturdy, impenetrable. The drapes closed out the darkness and spring cold. Cratag shut the glass doors to the hallway and stooped to make sure the one bottom pane that was a pet door opened and closed freely if Beadle needed to bolt.
Then he walked through the house, to ease himself—listening to the sound of the surf, appreciating the light of the stars and moons sifting through the many windows.
The Residence, of course, was too courteous to remind him it could protect itself and its inhabitants. He hesitated outside Signet’s meditation room. She’d given him permission to use the room, but his brain rested better when he was on his feet and moving. Besides, he could feel her vibrations lingering in the room, as if the essence of her sli
d along and sank into his skin. It made him want her more. Not tonight. Memories and melancholy hovered.
The after-battle letdown had arrived.
So he paced the Residence for a circuit until the floor creaked under him—a signal that the house wanted him to stop his wandering—then reluctantly retired to his sitting room.
For the first time since he’d arrived, he went to the built-in bar and looked at the bottles. There was some very good scotch that had obviously belonged to the previous inhabitant and was older than Cratag was. He contemplated it; he’d never had such a quality drink. Then he shrugged. He didn’t think the Residence or Signet would miss it. So he poured a shot and tasted. It went down smooth and warmed his belly.
He glanced around the room, opened the drapes. Though he wanted the fire, he also wanted the night sky. He took the chair he’d angled close to the window that looked toward the Marigolds’s sacred grove. Sometimes he thought he could feel a slight emanation from the place, and if he closed his eyes and focused, it would smell rich and green and extraordinary.
Green like a farm would be. His people hadn’t had a sacred grove, hadn’t been farmers but shopkeepers in a small town . . . if they’d had a farm he might still be in the south.
And his sister, Estiva, might still be alive and not buried in a mass grave.
Their family would have had a house instead of four rooms over the shop. She’d have stayed for him, and he’d have taken care of her, made a place for her.
Instead she’d run off with an adventurer, a feckless man who hadn’t cared for her when she’d gotten a fever and dragged after him, then died.
But Cratag had found her grave and later found the fliggering bastard and challenged him to a duel. He rubbed his shoulder and the old blazer scar. The guy had been fast and sneaky, but he’d also been in a whole lot of pain when Cratag had left him curled up from a low-level blazer shot to the balls. Would think a great deal longer before he ran off with another woman, Cratag hoped. And wouldn’t be able to sire any more fliggering sons like himself.
When Cratag had held his fearful cat in his arms, he’d recalled the joy his older sister had had, the excitement in her eyes and her smile the last time he’d seen her. He was thirteen and too young and strong and needed in the shop to leave.
Estiva had just had her Second Passage and was an adult and in love. Cratag had known the man was no good, but she hadn’t listened, and had gone away. She’d kept in touch with scries to him as they wandered, and he’d seen her joy fade and worry come to the back of her eyes. As the year passed before he left, too, he had seen her age. He’d hated it.
Estiva had been the best part of his childhood, had made life with their dour parents bearable. He should have been able to protect her. Why hadn’t he been born first? If he’d been older . . . such was life and fate and destiny, and he didn’t like it.
She’d been gone more than two decades now, and he still felt her loss.
He hadn’t recognized Beadle’s innocence and joy until it, too, was gone.
Things trickled through his fingers when he wanted to grab and hold on.
He dragged in a deep breath and stood and focused his gaze, all his senses on D’Marigold Sacred Grove. Wonderful. Peaceful. He stayed in the moment until his emotions were as serene.
Then he thought back to his conversation with Vinni, and his own mistakes. Could be worse. He’d made mistakes but they were long ago and beneath the notice of any noble. Now he was known as T’Hawthorn’s Chief of Guards.
That was good.
For a second time that night a scream split the air. His hackles raised. Vinni’s and his own hunches had come true. This night would not stay quiet.
A horrible yowl echoed through the Residence. Signet leapt from her bedsponge, fumbled on clothes.
Rhyz, Avellana’s Fam, shrieked, Passage is here!
Signet raced to the door. Despite her hurry, it opened to show Cratag just outside. In his deep, calm voice he said, “I’ve learned a little about Passage, the full dream fugues are usually presaged by some short bursts of disorientation.”
Signet whooshed out a sigh. “Yes, you’re right. A few minutes or a septhour or so of chills and fever before the real intensity of a full-out dreamquest. And Passages are usually three long fugues.”
He nodded. “You’ll be the expert in this situation, like I am with security. Let me know how I can help.”
Another wash of relief. She wasn’t alone, and she had gone through these herself. They’d been nasty, but only a little dangerous.
But when they got to Avellana’s room, the worst was confirmed. The child’s body was convulsing in a seizure, and Signet sensed this was no precursor, but the real thing. It would be septhours before they came through this.
If they did.
Do not worry, I am here, Du said. I will help.
And I. Rhyz spit at Du. She is My FamGirl. His claws were hooked into her nightgown.
Avellana went limp, but her small chest rose and fell with hard breaths.
“Avellana!” Cratag snapped, demanding a response.
The girl said nothing, made no sign she was aware of any of them. Signet slid onto the bedsponge, gathering Avellana’s sweaty body close and recalling her own Passages. “Residence, prepare to heat and cool this room as necessary . . .” Signet met Cratag’s gaze. It was serious, but full of confidence in her. That buoyed her.
“I understand,” said the Residence. A moment later a small, freshening breeze wafted through the room, carrying the scent of the sea mixed with other herbs that soothed.
Cratag sniffed. “Smells like old BalmHeal Residence.”
“BalmHeal Residence is the authority on how a Residence can help Passage. I consulted it,” D’Marigold Residence said. The curtains lightly slapped the wall in punctuation. “I transferred a goodly amount of funds.”
“Fine,” Signet said, settling herself back on large pillows that propped her up, moving Avellana. Signet sat around the girl, legs outside the child’s, bringing the girl’s torso back on hers, lining her arms along Avellana’s.
Rhyz crawled into Avellana’s lap, and Du stretched out along Signet’s left thigh.
Beadle trotted in through the door they’d left open, stropped Cratag’s ankles in greeting, and tilted his head. I have never seen Passage. This will be interesting. He hopped onto the bedsponge, lying along Signet’s right thigh, revving his purr until his body vibrated against her leg. More support.
Once again she met Cratag’s eyes. He nodded and sat on a chair higher than the bedsponge, between the door to Avellana’s sitting room and the bed. Guarding them.
Avellana began to tremble.
“Rhyz?” Signet asked.
I cannot feel her, he said mournfully. I cannot reach her. She has gone beyond me.
Signet’s body tensed, and she had to make an effort to relax. Then she nodded, leaned back against the pillows, and closed her eyes. She followed the link she and Avellana had made between them these last few days, plunging down into Avellana’s mind.
Down into darkness seething with red flashes. Down too deep. Avellana was avoiding Passage, and if she didn’t integrate her great psi talent with the rest of herself during these dreamstates, she would die.
Avellana! Signet called.
No response.
Signet stopped, as eerie, distorted voices and images battered against her. Feelings of helplessness overwhelmed her, a child’s helplessness. Fear and dependence on others to care for you—for Avellana. Little control of her own life.
Signet couldn’t go on. If she did, she might lose herself and be unable to aid Avellana. But she couldn’t feel Avellana’s essential spark here. The brain, memories, but not the mind or spirit. Avellana, hear me. Come to me.
There was a whimpering sigh.
Avellana, we must work together! Your Passage is here. This is Signet. I will help. Pray the Lady and Lord that her Flair had already been helping. This was not a normal brain pattern. Wh
y hadn’t they thought to include visits from Healers to monitor Avellana’s progress, Signet’s catalyst Flair? Had she missed something in her study of Avellana’s medical records that would have helped?
Too late now.
Avellana, come to me. Signet tried to make her mind-voice serene yet compelling. It is time for your Passage to free some of your Flair. To determine your psi power and the strength of it. Your Flair is very strong, Avellana, but so are you. So am I.
I’m afraid. In the distance, Signet thought she saw a small, blurry ball of light.
We can face your fear together. And Signet’s own.
Outside is Passage, that sounded like Avellana’s regular voice. It is scary and ugly. I am ugly.
We will face your Passage together. Passage is an essential part of growing up. And you aren’t ugly. You are unique.
You know my brain patterns aren’t normal.
Rhyz was there, his bond with Avellana stronger than Signet’s, a thick rope of gold looping down toward that little spark. The cat snorted. Everyone knows your brain is different. You are unique. He used Signet’s words. Come to Us, Avellana. Think how much fun We will have with your new Flair. More ’porting for sure.
Another plaintive cry. It is scary out there, and it hurts, too.
Rhyz and I will be here with you. Signet had gathered her Flair, now she released the bonds on it and the puffballs streamed down to Avellana. An instant later the child giggled. What are these?
They are manifestations of my Flair, Signet said.
They are beautiful. They are sticking to me, like a pretty robe!
They will help protect you. Signet sincerely hoped so. Could her Flair actually change the synapses in Avellana’s brain? Forge new paths so she could function more normally? That was what everyone hoped.
That was the outcome Vinni T’Vine, the prophet, saw.
But she couldn’t think of that, since Avellana’s self flew toward her Fam and Signet. She just had enough time to see that her Flair balls had positioned themselves near Avellana’s Flair—which Signet also saw in balls—helping or replacing those dark and damaged, mending the tiny filaments, sending energy down them until they sparked at the end. It wasn’t complete, didn’t appear as if all the damage would ever be healed, but it looked like some new puffballs of Avellana’s own might be sprouting.
Heart Change Page 17