Heart Quest

by Robin D. Owens

  Trif ’s mind spun, her lips felt numb. Her hand holding the flute fell to her side. She’d forgotten she was auditioning before the premiere composer of Celta. “Huh?”

  Greyku hopped down from the twoseat and bounced over to strop Trif ’s legs, purring loudly. We are getting what We deserve. Good. We are getting MORE. She sat on Trif ’s feet, sending off waves of smugness.

  The GreatLady shuffled a few papyruses on her desk, moved some music flexistrips around, and held up a sparkling orange sphere. “Yes, I thought I had a recording sphere on. We’ll have to work a little on that last song of yours. Obviously a HeartMate call. Not often done anymore, so I’ll set you to studying the form and listening to those which were known to be successful.” She set the orb carefully on a velvet pad.

  Flicking her tail against Trif ’s leg, Greyku said, She will show us how to get FamMan.

  Interesting notion.

  D’Holly touched the rim of a small scrybowl. “D’Holly to NobleCouncil Clerk.”

  “Here,” said a supercilious male voice.

  “Greetyou,” said D’Holly. “Please note that I have taken a student. Between Apprentice and Journeywoman status, to be under my tutelage for, um”—she tapped her fingers on her cheek—“four years. Ensure she receives the appropriate NobleGilt for expenses. She’ll be bound to the usual public performance schedule to earn it.”

  “Yes, GreatLady. GreatLady, I need the young person’s name.”

  “Trif Clover.”

  “Clover! That’s a Commoner name.”

  “‘Talent and Flair have no class boundaries,’” D’Holly said, repeating an old saying that wasn’t often true.

  Greyku sniffed.

  The clerk coughed. “Yes, GreatLady.”

  “Forward the first installment of her NobleGilt to…” D’Holly frowned, then snapped her fingers as if finding the memory. “Clover Compound, care of…” She glanced at Trif.

  “Pink and Pratty Clover,” Trif said weakly.

  “Done,” said the clerk in officious tones.

  “My thanks.” D’Holly inclined her head to the scrybowl, then turned back to Trif, rubbing her hands. “That’s done.” She looked around the room. “Now where would those Heart-Mate calls be?”

  “Near Journeywoman status?” Trif squeaked.

  “No doubt about it. Perhaps in that corner cabinet…emotionally Flaired melodies…”

  Trif ’s knees weakened and she staggered to a chair and dropped into it. Her flute rapped her knee and made her wince, so she set it aside on a table. Greyku crawled into her lap, making herself comfortable.

  All Trif could think of was that she was free of Clover Fine Furnishings at last.

  And that her parents would be calling to talk to her soon. Better go to Clover Compound. Teleport to Clover Compound, so she could recount the day’s extraordinary events and—She remembered her promise to Tinne Holly. Anxiety crept along her nerves, but a promise was a promise.

  D’Holly hummed as she set music spheres and flexistrips and history vizes in a bespelled bag; then she walked over to Trif and grinned down at her. “Lady and Lord, Trif, don’t look so shocked. You must have known you had talent.”

  “I made tunes.”

  “You compose melodies. As I do.” A shadow crossed her face. “Did,” she said in a lower tone. “I haven’t done much creative work lately.” She ran a hand through her bronze hair in the first nervous gesture Trif had seen.

  Clearing her throat, Trif petted Greyku and looked past D’Holly and said, “I, uh, my, uh. My family is building me a music room in my house in the Clover Compound. Could we possibly work there? So they, we, uh, could test the acoustics?”

  D’Holly stared at her. Trif rushed on. “And Clover Compound is built in a square. It would be good to know the acoustics of the inner courtyard too.” It was a lame excuse. She’d practiced there for years.

  The lady stilled in the act of handing Trif the bag, then slowly nodded. “I would be honored. Tomorrow morning at Mid-Morning Bell?”

  Far too soon. Her family would be up all night preparing the Compound for the visit of a FirstFamilies GreatLady. But Trif wasn’t about to say no. “Very good.” She picked Greyku up and placed the kitten on her shoulder, took her flute, and stood. Curtsying deeply, she said. “I am the one most honored here. I assure you that I will do my very best work for you. I’ll try very hard.” She had to confess, though. Lifting her chin, she said, “But I have to let you know that my Flair is erratic. It’s strongest and best controlled when I play, but still not reliable. And, and, my other gift is envisioning the past. All the way back to ancient Earth sometimes. I sometimes project. You might be caught in those moments too.”

  D’Holly’s brows had raised. “How fascinating.” She looked thoughtful. “Unstable Flair.” Then she patted Trif ’s free shoulder. “Well, you are very young, after all.”

  Trif wanted to grit her teeth, but made a deep curtsy instead. “Yes, GreatLady.”

  With a little snort, D’Holly said, “We can’t be formal in such a teacher-pupil relationship. Call me Passiflora.”

  “Yes, Passiflora,” Trif said faintly.

  Yes, Passiflora, Greyku said.

  Passiflora laughed and Trif warmed. She could give this woman something in exchange for her teaching. If anyone could keep Passiflora amused and laughing and strengthen her, it would be the Commoner Clover family.

  Seventeen

  When she returned to her apartment that evening, there was a strange atmosphere about it, and the slight tang of musk. She frowned and walked through the few rooms, but received nothing but impressions. She thought of asking Ilex to come by—and she’d decided that he was too important to be discouraged by his cold attitude—but she wanted to be very prepared before she saw him next. Besides, in her weary exhilaration, she wished to run to him with her fabulous news, but felt it would be one more instance of childish behavior.

  Greyku made guttural sounds and stalked around the apartment, sniffing, curling her tongue to the roof of her mouth in that extra sense cats had. Vertic Fox been here.

  Is that what the scent, the aura, was? Trif hadn’t ever noticed Vertic’s aura or scent, but she would have expected it to be different.

  Time to get ready for bed. Listen to old HeartMate music before We sleep.

  Since Trif had just told Greyku that was the plan for the rest of the evening, she smiled. “A good idea.”

  Too much go, run, bustle at Clover Compound, Greyku grumbled. She’d nearly been stepped on twice.

  They’d left her family marshaling everyone to clean and spruce up the Clover Compound. Some of the furniture in the showrooms would be moved to her music room and any area they thought D’Holly might grace. Trif had been sent off to bed so she’d be fresh and polished—or as polished as she ever got—by the time of her first lesson the next day.

  Trif glanced around her apartment and wrinkled her nose. Good fox Familiar or not, the odor needed to be banished, the atmosphere cleansed. Clearing her throat, she chanted two Couplets and all the windows in her chambers thinned to nothingness. There was a brisk breeze that held more than a touch of winter’s chill. She shifted her shoulders, placed her instrument bag on a nearby table, and pulled out her tin whistle. A lively tune would stir the breeze and whisk around the apartment with an air blessing.

  So she whistled a jig and set a couple of fallen autumn leaves dancing for Greyku to chase. A quarter-septhour later, the temperature of her rooms had fallen a good ten degrees, but her apartment felt cleaner than it had been for days—emotionally and spiritually too. She’d have to remember to do this more often.

  She went to stand under the waterfall, put on her night-shirt, joined Greyku on the bedsponge, then ordered the lights off and a flexistrip lecture on HeartMate calls on. This first discussion was demonstrated with only one example—a woman’s melody calling to her man, Trif noted with approval. It was ancient, bordering on the visceral, and without listening to any of the othe
r lessons, Trif understood how she could improve her own melody. As sleep beckoned, she grinned. She’d get him.

  What was she doing to him? Ilex stood, arms braced against the inside of the door to his apartment, head lowered. Only with great will had he stopped himself at this point. Every muscle in his body was rigid, and his shaft swollen and throbbing with desire.

  The melody drifting from Trif’s rooms sang in his blood, repeated over and over in his mind. The tune was both better and worse than the one Trif had played at the Maypole, luring him to her. It was better because it wasn’t her song, wasn’t crafted by her solely for him. It was worse because it was a very strong song and just her playing it called to him. Technically better, he supposed.

  He gritted his teeth and felt another bead of sweat roll down his spine. How was he going to avoid her in the future? He didn’t think he had the willpower. He’d have to leave.

  Eventually. Right now, he used every bit of his control to not touch the door latch.

  Then the music stopped and left him hollowed out, ears rushing with the sound of his own blood.

  No, he couldn’t go on with this. Pure folly to think that he’d be able to see Trif and not meet her, to meet her and not spend time with her, to spend time with her and not kiss her. All his little rationalizations had led to this slippery path. If he wanted to save her life—if he thought of her instead of the demands of his own body and heart—he’d leave.

  Even now, the knowledge that he was Trif Clover’s Heart-Mate was nearly an open secret. Chief Sawyr had known. T’Ash had guessed, but had said nothing to Ilex about it. Ilex had sensed that T’Ash had approved.

  It would have been a good match.

  If he weren’t so much older.

  If he weren’t doomed to die soon.

  A few panting minutes later, he was able to relax his muscles enough to push away from the door. He’d need another dip under the waterfall before he went to bed. Icy.

  The waterfall didn’t help much. When he went to bed, he was still semi-aroused, his body yearning for what his mind refused to allow. He slipped into sleep…a moment later, he thought he was in a shared dream.

  She reached for him and he drew her into his arms, groaning with relief. She was his and nothing would stop him from making love with her. Neither fear nor logic applied. Only sensation ruled this world.

  All too real sensation. He was there in her bed. In the flesh.

  They touched, bare skin to bare skin, all along their bodies. She slid against him, whimpering in desire, and his mind spun, but his body demanded her.

  Her breasts plumped against his chest, so soft and warm, increasing his passion. His cock pressed against her soft stomach, cradled so exquisitely, he couldn’t bear to move. Finally, his woman in his arms. His HeartMate.

  Her hands went to his shoulders, fingers flexing as if she tested him. He heard his ragged breaths and wondered—surely there should be music—but then her hands slid down his arms, curved around his hips, and all thought vanished. Her palms were smooth and warm, and wherever she placed them he felt hot, as if their energy pooled, mingled, merged.

  He bent his head and caught the scent of the soap she used on her hair and a whiff of woman readying for love. He groaned. Scent was not enough. His hands on her taut butt wasn’t enough. Taste might be.

  Reluctantly moving his fingers from the upper curve of her bottom to her chin, he tipped her face up. He couldn’t see her in the dark shrouded mists, not even the glimmer of her eyes, but he knew where to find her lips.

  He set his mouth gently against hers, exquisite softness again, then insinuated his tongue between her lips, raging to explore the secrets of her. Her taste exploded into him, fresh spring-shoots of the lightest citrus. He moaned and opened his mouth wide in invitation, as he set his hands against the smooth skin of back and butt, bringing her close. He needed to feel every bit of her.

  Her tongue probed inside his mouth and tangled with his, supple, teasing. She nipped his lower lip and he rolled atop her.

  Young, lithe woman. Vital under him, her breath sighing over his collarbone. He groaned in pure pleasure. Energy hummed from her to him, transferred by their skin, by the beat of their hearts, by the press of their hands.

  She arched against him, caressing his whole body with hers, and the world narrowed to his shaft and the incredible feel of her under him, the rich fragrance of her calling to him. Her legs parted and his sex slid between them, engorging more as he brushed her plump folds. She whimpered and he had to be in her. Now.

  He slipped fully inside her moist sheath. Stayed, again wringing all the sensation he could from this one instant. He lifted on his elbows, his pelvis pushing deeper still, and she cried out, clamped her legs around him. He moaned, but pushed his control to the limits. Too beautiful to end too soon.

  His hands found her breasts and he filled his palms with sweet womanflesh, nipples prodding the sensitive center of his palms. He was hers. In her. She in him.

  Flair flashing between them, his pleasure to her, her spiraling passion flowing to him.

  Entwined forever.

  Gently, gently, he squeezed her breasts.

  She screamed her ecstacy, pumped her hips, pushed him, and they rolled and she straddled him and rode him hard and pleasured herself and him and clenched around him and nothing mattered in the universe but her and he emptied his entire self into her keeping.

  She collapsed and he rolled them to their sides, hooking her leg over his hip so he could stay in her long, long. The scent of loving enveloped him, and he knew the moment was pure perfection.

  Idly, she stroked his back and the slide of her palm over damp flesh made him shudder, his body flash hard with a last surge of passion.

  My man, she whispered in his mind. My lover. My Heart-Mate.

  Sluggishly his brain sent a tiny warning. He ignored it. Yes.

  Love me.

  I do.

  Now?

  Forever, he murmured as sleep drifted closer. The last thing he heard was their blood singing the same song.

  Worry was gone. Fulfillment imbued him. He slept long and deeply and didn’t dream.

  Near dawn, Trif stretched and reached and felt nothing. She was cold. She wanted more.

  She wanted him, her HeartMate. Her own calling tune was so innate, so well known, that she needed no flute—could sing the notes in her mind and lure him that way. So she did.

  A moment later he was there, with her, and she turned to him, nearly in a dream, but more. He was here again, for real!

  The hot skin covering solid muscle was there. The textured roughness of his legs, his chest, the hair around his sex, moved along her, tingling her nerves into sparking awareness.

  Her lips that he’d explored so tenderly in the night, as if he’d needed the taste of her deep within him, felt swollen with desire. Heat unfurled from her core to fire pure need.

  Her body craved his within her. Her heart needed his touch. Her Flair needed his to steady it.

  Blood rushed through her and she let her breath out on a quiet moan. She wanted him, he was here…but where was here? Were they—she—just wrapped in an erotic HeartMate dream?

  His finger found the point of her nipple and flicked. Lust, for him alone, his touch, speared. She took his hand and trailed it down her body, whimpering as the masculine calluses roused her even more. His fingers went obediently to her swollen sex, stroked, circled, teased until she writhed.

  They plunged inside her, fiercely clever. She shattered.

  Before she could recover her breath, his shaft was in her and he began a long, slow thrusting. He filled her, withdrew bit by bit, surged again, until the rhythm drove her mad. Her panting mixed with his ragged breath. Their hearts beat fast and hard.

  Her hands found purchase, curving over muscular shoulders. She pushed, but this time he didn’t relinquish control of the lovemaking. Instead, he went slower still, his body moving in strong, powerful, implacable thrusts—sending her beyond
any pleasure she’d ever known, only the drive to ecstasy mattered.

  One…last…stroke and the universe splintered into a cascade of pure, true notes.

  He shuddered above her and groaned deep from his chest.

  The most beautiful sound she’d ever heard.

  The fog of orgasm cleared from her mind, her eyes focused in the dawn light and she stared up into the intense face of Ilex Winterberry.

  She blinked and blinked again, mouth dropped open in astonishment. Then all her feelings about him—the guardsman, and him, her HeartMate—struck her.

  “Ilex?” Her voice was a near-squeak.

  “Fligger,” he cursed and rolled.

  She hooked her arms around his neck, her legs around his waist, and they both made a sound of renewed pleasure.

  “Don’t leave me,” she said.

  “I must.”

  Anger surged to the fore. She slapped a palm on his shoulder. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me. I can’t believe you let me quest for my HeartMate, for you, for, oh, Lady and Lord!” Loathed tears of disappointment and frustration that he’d be so uncooperative stung behind her eyes, clogged her throat until her voice was thick. “You lectured me.”

  He hadn’t flinched at her halfhearted slap. He did at her words. Reaching for her hands behind his neck, he applied pressure to peel them away. She tightened her legs around his waist.

  “I want to know—”

  It hit them then—all senses—horrible shrieks, feline, followed by a female’s whispered cry. Terror. Chest constricting, breath dying.

  Dying!

  Mental, emotional trauma flooding them…to Ilex, then her.

  “Trif, I must go!”

  She released him. “Yes, go help!” she gasped.

  In an instant, he stood beside the bed. “Whirlwind spell! Cleansing and dressing!” he commanded, snapping his fingers. He shuddered under the onslaught of a scouring wind. Then his clothes flew onto him before her fascinated gaze.