Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  “Thank you. Later.” He went from the lush HouseHeart to his Spartan mainspace, landed hard—he’d been off-balance for the last couple of days—shook his head, and strode to a comfortchair to line up all the things said and unsaid that morning.

  * * *

  But the Turquoise House is your friend; you should want to gift him with a stone!” Artemisia protested to BalmHeal Residence. She sat on the window seat in her bedroom and looked in the direction of the first sacred grove made by the Earth colonists when they’d arrived on Celta. “Why don’t you want to donate a rock for his HouseHeart?”

  “Upstart,” BalmHeal Residence sneered, deep in his grumpy-old-man persona. “We’d be tied together forever.”

  She raised her brows. “That assumes that every rock on this estate belongs to you.”

  “They do!”

  “And you can feel each and every bit?”

  “You want to take it from my best grove.”

  “That’s right. A grove established several years before your walls and the oldest of your foundations. If anything defines this place, it’s the groves and the Healing pools.”

  All the open doors of the Residence slammed shut. There was a short cry from Artemisia’s mother.

  “Be careful,” Artemisia snapped.

  “No one is careful of me or my feelings,” the Residence rumbled.

  “That is not at all true.” Artemisia sighed in exasperation and donned patience. She’d had to learn it as a Healer, and it usually came in handy more with the Residence. “We love you. The Turquoise House deeply, deeply admires you. He is thrilled that you would so condescend to allow him to have a pebble for his HouseHeart.”

  “A pebble! Who does he think he is? He believes he can store data and think in pebbles! Rude upstart.” The shutters on the wall outside the window clacked shut, then open.

  It wouldn’t be wise to inform BalmHeal the upstart already worked with pebbles. “I suppose you could, perhaps, donate a large stone, then? Perhaps even a dressed one, like one of those in the outside storage area?” She put a wheedle in her voice. The Residence liked that.

  “And you will be staying away from me.” This time the shutters clapped over the window as if to hold her in. “A whole eightday.”

  Eight

  Yes,” Artemisia said. “I’ll be away from you and my Family and the estate for a week. That’s the term of the project. None of us anticipates the experiment will take that long.” Her voice lowered. “The FirstLevel Healers think it will take Primross no more than five or six days to throw off the sickness.” She heaved a sigh for the Residence. “Too bad we couldn’t bring him here; you are the best HealingHall in all of Celta.”

  “Yes.” The slats of the shutters opened and she could see the green of verdant summer outside the window, the swathes of lawn, the glitter of Healing pools, the tall tops of trees. Familiar, exquisite, beloved.

  “That young House has no occupants?” BalmHeal asked.

  “No. And it’s empty, white walls. Pitiable.”

  A groan of the wood of the window seat under her was disconcerting.

  “It is, perhaps, lonely?”

  “Maybe,” she agreed.

  “It knows nothing of abandonment, of loneliness.” Back to sneering. That was the issue. BalmHeal Residence had been abandoned for centuries, so long it had nearly died. The estate had welcomed the desperate, but few had gone to the House, even fewer passed its shields and inside.

  Artemisia hauled up another sigh, let it out noisily. “I was not exactly asked.” She rubbed the molding around the window up and down, shiny because of her habit.

  “You could always stay here, always.”

  An old argument. “Outside I can meet a man and have children for you.”

  The Residence wanted children. Might not want the man. “Tiana will most likely live outside for several years.” Artemisia pressed her palm on the window glass. “So my children are the ones who might tend to you.”

  Her door latch depressed and the door opened. BalmHeal Residence knew she hated that, but she said nothing.

  “The new young House may have a rock from the summerhouse.”

  “Not from the oldest grove? Ple-ease?”

  “Very well. A largish stone from the summerhouse. A pebble from the sacred grove.”

  “Thank you so much!”

  “You will be back this evening?”

  “For dinner, I promise.” She raised a hand.

  “Your pillow is on its way to the youngster,” BalmHeal said.

  “Not my favorite.”

  “No.”

  “Thank you.” She ran through the door, closed it behind her, and patted it, then took off for the summerhouse that was not really on the way to the sacred grove, which was in the far southwestern corner of the estate. She was pleased with herself for cajoling the Residence and being able to fulfill TQ’s dreams. And pleased with the Residence for being so generous. It, too, was Healing well, emotionally. But slowly.

  * * *

  Arranging the four stones in TQ’s HouseHeart had been an experience Garrett prized: the welcoming ambiance of the place, TQ’s comments, Artemisia’s easy presence. This time there had been no blood or reason for her hands on him, a disappointment. He’d enjoyed the HouseHeart, held to that even after the details of its location had begun to fade as he went up the steps. There had been steps?

  By the next morning, the conversations he’d had in the HouseHeart were still clear, everything else was dim, superseded by the nightmares that had plagued him. His clenched gut was ample reminder that today he’d have the Iasc sickness introduced into his body again.

  One small reassurance was that when he’d contacted Primary HealingHall to check on Opul, he’d been told the youngster had passed the danger point and was recovering.

  Garrett’s blood had kept the kid alive, had helped. Maybe Garrett’s advice, too. If his blood and advice could help the child, they’d carry Garrett through. He dreaded the time between now and then.

  The Healers would be studying him and maybe they’d find a cure for the sickness. That’s what this whole damn thing was about.

  He didn’t say a shaving spell. Why bother?

  This morning he arrived at TQ early. He preferred to be the first on the scene, especially if he might be ambushed. Though the ambush had taken place two days ago.

  The front courtyard was shadowed, showing only a few patches of sun, yet still looked welcoming. TQ radiated cheer, but no pleasing atmosphere could chisel away Garrett’s irritation and discomfort.

  He prowled the courtyard, the curving irregular flower beds bright with colorful blooms, the verdant bushes, the staggered trees. All charming.

  Cats streamed from the back grassyard to surround him for scritches and pets and rubs.

  We like this very much, said the leader. We are pleased to be back here. He lifted his nose. Though We had to show the three local cats who den here that We were tougher. A twitch of whiskers. They do not want to become part of Our gang. They wish to always stay here.

  One of the reasons that the cats were so useful to Garrett was that they ranged the whole city, saw and heard things that humans paid no attention to or missed.

  TQ cracked open the front door. Only three crept close to the stoop. One was an orange tabby mother and her kitten, who was beige with the dark brown spots of a hunting cat.

  The tom standing next to Garrett made a disgusted noise. Smells bad and scary.

  And that was before the sickness.

  No human smells, no Fam smells, no cloth or wood or metal smells, another cat said, waving her white tail.

  The kitten, smaller than the front step, mewed a question that wasn’t formed enough for Garrett to understand.

  Not inside today, the mother
said decisively. Not soon.

  The kitten mewed defiance and his dam picked him up by his scruff and trotted away from the door. She studied Garrett with narrowed eyes and came over.

  Treats? Treat for Momcat and Kit?

  All the cats perked up. They could smell the jerky bites in Garrett’s trous pockets. His feral mob moved into the pattern of status, a fluid thing that changed from day to day as to which had the best hunt in the night.

  He passed treats out—left a small pile of three in front of the mother and kitten.

  Like! the kitten said, seething with excitement. The mother snapped her paw on the treats and broke them into smaller bits. The kitten snarfed them up, then jumped onto Garrett’s boots and looked up at him with wide yellow eyes, purring with enthusiasm.

  “What if I had to run?” he asked the kitten.

  With you!

  There was a small creak as TQ’s door opened wider. Cats scattered. The little one tumbled off Garrett’s shoes and tried to catch up with the ferals, his dam behind him. A few seconds later, all indications of life were gone from the courtyard, though Garrett sensed where they watched in the bushes of the back grassyard. He had no doubt they’d crawl out to sleep in the sun as the morning drew on.

  TQ remained quiet. At least the House was giving him a little privacy, now.

  The realization that soon he wouldn’t have any privacy crashed down on him, wiping out the lift the cats had given him.

  When he strode into the House, his footfalls thudded softly. Too much emptiness to cover the noise, so he moved more carefully even though there was no one to hear. Good practice.

  He glanced in the mainspace and saw the camp chairs he didn’t think would hold his weight, and the table. He searched his memory for the way to TQ’s HouseHeart. Nothing. He’d given his permission for his recollection to be dulled, but he didn’t have to like it.

  Only four rooms would be minimally furnished, and when done, TQ would raise the heat and incinerate the furniture.

  Garrett would have the master bedroom, the attached sitting room would be an observation room, the opposite connecting room would be full of medical supplies and a waterfall, and Artemisia would have the far bedroom.

  She should have had a suite and help, but he’d said nothing.

  Just live through the fliggering time again. All the times of the sickness, the slow, the hot, the hurt. The shudders. Worse than the three dreamquests that freed Flair, Passages. At least with Passages you got an acceptable payoff, an increase in magic.

  The last payoff he’d gotten with the sickness was the girl he loved dead.

  “Greetyou, GentleSir Primross,” Artemisia said. He tensed at her soft voice. She’d crept up on him when he was brooding, and that wasn’t good for a man who was supposed to be offering observation and investigation services. But he was so used to blocking her from his life.

  He turned, not bothering to smile. She appeared as if she hadn’t slept well, either. She held herself tight, her arms close to her body. The duffle that floated on an anti-grav spell beside her looked a lot like his own. Somehow he’d expected larger and less practical.

  Her clothes were a dull brown. Probably masked vomit, urine, shit, and blood. His stomach pitched. As the damn Healers had instructed, he’d eaten a good breakfast. Actually, he’d eaten the meal Lark Holly had had sent to his apartment.

  Artemisia shifted her feet, cleared her throat gently. “Shall we go to the bedrooms?”

  That surprised a crack of laughter from him and she flushed.

  He swept a hand toward her. “Lead on.” On the way, he breathed deeply and rolled his dread and discomfort up into a tight ball, shoving it into a crevice in his gut. The sooner this was begun, lived through, survived, and done, the sooner he could get on with his life.

  TQ opened the door. “Greetyou, Artemisia. Greetyou, Garrett.” He sounded subdued.

  “Greetyou, TQ,” they said in unison, entering the sitting room where the other Healers would observe him. The decontamination shields and forcefields weren’t raised yet.

  Artemisia went through the bedroom and into the dressing room. Drawers opened and closed as if she checked her equipment. Garrett stripped and put on loose sparring pants. They were stained, gray tinged, and raggedy, and he didn’t care if they were destroyed. He had three more pairs in the same shape.

  Every fliggering person who would come to look at him, and he reckoned the great T’Heather would do that at least once, were Healers and used to nudity. In general, Garrett, like the rest of his culture, wasn’t bothered by nakedness. But now being nude equated with being vulnerable—at the mercy of the Healers and the sickness. He’d start out clothed and in control, at least.

  He folded his clothes into his duffle, unsure if he’d see them again, left out the other soft pants, then set the bag beside the bed. “TQ, I like my duffle. If you can decontaminate it without destroying it, I’d appreciate it.”

  “So noted,” TQ said.

  Garrett sank into a luxurious permamoss bedsponge set on a cheap wooden platform. His hand rubbed the soft cotton sheet.

  “I have scanned Artemisia’s pillow. It is of odd composition,” TQ whispered.

  “In what way?”

  “The feathers inside are down from Earthan geese.”

  Garrett’s brows rose. “There aren’t many Earthan geese. The SecondLevel Healer doesn’t seem wealthy enough to buy down from the starship.”

  TQ hesitated. “That is not what surprises me. The shell of the pillow is rough cotton and it has spots of different properties.”

  “Like what?”

  “Mucus, a little blood, and more salt.”

  “Snot, nosebleed, and . . .” He could imagine her, the cool and calm Artemisia Mugwort Panax, crying into her pillow. The idea twisted his heart.

  “And?” TQ prompted.

  “Tears,” Garrett said uncomfortably.

  “Oh, of course.”

  “Surely your other occupants—”

  “They preferred permamoss or foam or gel pillows with daily cleansing spells.”

  “Oh.”

  “It is interesting that Artemisia likes feathers.”

  Garrett shrugged.

  She came to the doorway between the bedroom and the dressing room, frowning. “It’s WorkBell.”

  “Time for the experiment to start, then.” He stood.

  “The FirstLevel Healers aren’t here.”

  “Then they’re late,” Garrett growled. “Let’s get on with this.”

  Nine

  Artemisia looked at him with large green eyes, nodded, and disappeared back into the small room. As usual, he watched her fine ass.

  She returned, hands at her sides and hidden behind folds of her tunic. He still knew she held a vial with a propel-spell top. She walked close to him, and he scented her on a quick inhale that fogged his mind. Her own sweat—she wasn’t as calm as she seemed—and the inherent fragrance of her, woodsy like deep green forest shadows. And an herbal smell that he’d never scented before teased his nose like hidden secrets.

  “Focus on the mural,” she said.

  He blinked. “What?”

  She gestured to the opposite wall.

  His gaze went to the mural that had flickered on with her words, showing a view of the Great Labyrinth’s bowl in full, green summer. The image cycled through the seasons, then the labyrinth faded to a jagged-toothed view of the Hard Rock mountain range. He flinched.

  “I haven’t even touched you yet,” Artemisia said.

  His yearning body had noticed. “I don’t like mountains.” He tensed again at the revealing words.

  “I don’t imagine you do,” she murmured.

  The wall blanked, flickered on to a rush of waves against a rocky beach, mat
ching his inner turbulence more than the serene scenes. Then showed a great blue river. “Too fast,” he said.

  “Hmm?” she asked, glancing at the observation room door. Ura Heather and Lark Holly had teleported there and raised decontamination spellshields.

  But TQ had figured out what Garrett had meant and the mural halted on a scene of an ancient grove. Looking at it relaxed him. The trees were tall and old, some gnarled. Some he didn’t recognize and deduced the grove had a mixture of Celtan and Earthan and hybrid trees.

  Had to be a sacred place.

  Maybe even the first Healing Grove established by the colonists on Celta. There were rumors it was a secret sanctuary for the desperate, a hidden garden. He didn’t know where that was. Hadn’t spent time—much—looking for it.

  He hadn’t seen anything like the place and wondered how TQ got the holos. Slowly the shadows deepened from late afternoon to evening dusk.

  Artemisia set the vial against his neck, said a Word, and plunged the fatal sickness into his body.

  Artemisia saw Garrett’s amber eyes widen, but he didn’t flinch or yelp.

  “Is it done?” asked FirstLevel Healer Heather from the sitting room.

  “Yes.”

  “Good job,” Lark Holly said.

  Artemisia braced her hand below his elbow. “Lie down now.”

  He sent her an irritated glance. “Doesn’t work that fast.”

  “This was a concentrated amount of the sickness,” she said.

  “I got a dose of the original, the most virulent.” But he sat on the bedsponge. Artemisia threw the vial into a decontamination container, then moved to stack and arrange his pillows.

  “How long did it take for you to feel the effects the first time?” Lark Holly asked. Her voice hissed from being behind the Flair and tech forcefields.

  Garrett scooted back. Artemisia began to lift his legs onto the bed when he frowned at her. “A few septhours.”

  “You can’t narrow the time period down?” asked Heather.