Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  “I had other things on my mind. Leave the sheet at the bedsponge foot. It’s the hottest month of the year, and I’m going to be hotter still.”

  “I will monitor your status as well as the heat and humidity in each room and adjust the temperature accordingly,” TQ said.

  Artemisia had figured Garrett would be a terrible patient. She went to the dressing room and got a fluids belt that fastened low around a patient’s hips and was bespelled to draw out toxins, urine, and digested food from his body to pockets.

  He grimaced and held out a demanding hand. “I know how to put it on and start the spell.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to take off your trous?” asked Lark Holly.

  The tiny unprofessional note in her voice—amusement?—had Artemisia looking at her mentor. Lark winked and Artemisia’s spirits sank. The older Healer had noticed Artemisia’s attraction to Primross. Right now he was hale and virile, hard to consider a patient. It was the height of unprofessionalism to want to see his body.

  His chest was wide and beautifully muscled, with no scars and sparse dark blond hair. His skin color was the same as his face, tanned and darker than her own paleness.

  “No, I do not want to take off my trous.” He angled his chin toward a stack of raggedy garments. “I have more when these go bad.”

  He meant when his body soaked through them with sweat.

  Artemisia’s gaze met Lark Holly’s. The threat of failure hovered over them. If Garrett Primross died, the Healers participating in the project would be infamous for decades.

  “How many sheets did we order?” asked Ura Heather, as if supremely sure that nothing would go wrong.

  “Three sets per day,” Lark Holly said.

  Heather grumbled, “So many, so expensive, and all to be destroyed.” Artemisia was sure the woman didn’t notice any personal cost but knew to the last silver the expenditures of Primary HealingHall.

  Primross slipped the belt under his trous and grunted. Artemisia knew the belt and spell didn’t hurt but felt odd. With cool and steady fingers, she checked the belt. “Fine.”

  Garrett pulled the tab of his waistband snug, then stacked his hands behind his head. His stare fixed on the wall mural showing the Great Labyrinth.

  “TQ has several vizes of walking the labyrinth, one in all four seasons.” Artemisia waved. “Summer, please.”

  The rocky outcroppings of the labyrinth seen in early spring transformed until the bowl was covered by greenery.

  “Too short,” Primross muttered.

  “What?”

  “The person who vized this path is too short,” Garrett said. His gaze cut to her. “You?”

  “Yes, last year,” she admitted.

  “I have a viz in the autumn provided to me by Tinne Holly,” TQ said.

  “Closer, but still not my height,” Garrett said. His muscles flexed. “I like the sacred grove better.”

  Of course he’d noticed the image of BalmHeal grove that Artemisia had provided the artist. “Not a place I’ve seen,” Garrett said.

  TQ showed the trees and the glen, the ancient pillar and small slab atop it.

  “I don’t know that grove,” Ura Heather grumbled.

  Artemisia saw understanding in Lark Holly’s eyes, but she said, “One of the FirstFamilies estates, perhaps.”

  “Hah.” Heather’s brows stayed down.

  TQ said, “Every FirstFamily Residence provided me with data, including pics and holos of their estates, when I became sentient, including T’Yew.”

  “No one’s been on T’Yew’s estate in years,” Heather said.

  “The starship Nuada’s Sword gave me historical Earthan information as well as holos from its Great Greensward, both as it appeared in the past and currently.”

  “Fascinating,” said Garrett, lounging on the pillows.

  Artemisia wasn’t sure if he meant that or not. She sensed he’d soon become impatient since he was an active man.

  “Would you like stories?” she asked.

  “What kind of stories?”

  She swallowed. “I could tell them, or play vizes or read to you.”

  He stared at her, his eyes darkening to deep gold. Ancient gold like an Earthan coin in one of her home’s display cases. “What would you read?”

  “I’m rereading the Tabacin Diary. She was one of the colonists who came to Celta on the starship Lugh’s Spear.”

  He nodded. “I know that one.” His smile flashed. This was the first time she’d seen it aimed at her and her insides gave a happy twinge. Tilting his head, he considered her, like he could tell his effect on her and it pleased a part of him. “No vizes now.” His smile fell away and his shoulders moved restlessly. “They can become part of my fever dreams.” One side of his mouth quirked ironically. “Don’t need that. Why don’t I do magic tricks?” He reached into his bag and drew out some coins—a few silver slivers and a gold piece of gilt, a couple of softleaves, and a deck of two-dimensional cards. He arranged his tools on the side of the bed.

  Artemisia got a folded camp chair from the dressing room.

  “Before you start,” Lark Holly said, “we’d like some health readings and a blood sample.”

  He shrugged.

  Ura Heather’s footsteps clicked as she removed herself to the end of the hall.

  Lark Holly pushed through the decontamination shields and forcefields, crossed to the dressing room, and got a vial and a Flaired blood-suction tool.

  Garrett narrowed his eyes. “How often will you do this?”

  “Every two septhours. We sent you info yesterday,” Lark said.

  Primross frowned. “It was sketchy.”

  “We decided only SecondLevel Healer Panax will tend you physically.” Lark touched a vein in his arm, murmured a sterilization Word, pressed the blood-suction tool against it, pulled the blood into the vial, and stoppered the tube.

  Garrett didn’t react. “So you being here is an exception.”

  “You’re not exhibiting sickness.” Lark gave him a cool smile. “I can chance it. Though, of course, I must take care of my own health.”

  The man hooted laughter. “I can tell you’re a real coward, marrying into the Holly fighting Family and working as a FirstLevel Healer.”

  Lark nodded. “Yes, I’m as weak and cowardly as Artemisia.”

  Garrett’s eyelids lowered. “You have great faith in the SecondLevel Healer.”

  “If I didn’t, she wouldn’t be here.” Now Lark’s smile was brilliant. “You’re a very important project for us, GentleSir Primross.” She paused. “You may be the solution to this horrible sickness. And . . .”

  “And?” he asked.

  “My nephew, Laev T’Hawthorn, would be very irate with me if anything happened to you,” she ended. “So it won’t.”

  Garrett snorted. “Like you can promise that.”

  “I can promise that all of the knowledge and skill of the Healers of Celta will be focused on keeping you alive.”

  Artemisia sat in the camp chair and watched the exchange.

  “So the retired T’Heather himself will come tend me if necessary,” Garrett said.

  “If necessary. You’re a valuable asset,” Lark said.

  “I know. Why don’t you go away and do observations on my damn blood.”

  “No one thinks you’re damned,” Artemisia said.

  Lark and Garrett looked at her for taking the comment seriously, but cross-folk like Artemisia’s mother believed in damnation.

  He focused his intense attention on her. “Maybe not, but I tell you I’m pretty damned sure that I’ll be descending to the Cave of the Dark Goddess and crawling back up the pitted and rock-strewn path.”

  Artemisia touched his hand. “You won’t be alone.”<
br />
  “Sure I will. Everyone’s alone in their mind.”

  “Except HeartMates,” Lark said.

  “Don’t know about that,” Garrett said. He moved his hand from under Artemisia’s and sent the two silver slivers rolling over his knuckles, into his palm, appearing and disappearing.

  Lark smiled and left through the forcefields into a portable decontamination and waterfall chamber that had been erected in the MasterSuite sitting room.

  Heather wasn’t taking any chances with any of the observers’ health, including her own. Lark stripped and put her clothes into a deconstructor, moved to a stingy sanitizing shower.

  When the waterfall stopped, TQ said in a flat tone, “Healer Holly has no microbes of the Iasc sickness. No cells of the Iasc sickness were found in the deconstructor. That liner has been sent to a Noble Death Grove with such notations.”

  “Thank you, TQ.” Lark Holly dressed and stopped by the doorway. “Take care. Artemisia, scry immediately if you need help.”

  Artemisia swallowed hard. Suddenly the project was all too real. She was the sole Healer on call. “Of course.”

  Garrett continued to roll the coins across both hands, fingers fast and steady.

  “Merry meet, Artemisia and Garrett,” Lark said.

  “And merry part,” Artemisia responded.

  Garrett snorted.

  “And merry meet again,” Lark ended.

  “That would be good,” Garrett said, not looking at her. “Give our regards to FirstLevel Healer Heather. Doubt I’ll see her until I’m on the mend.”

  Lark dipped her head, met Artemisia’s eyes one last time, then teleported away.

  Now there was only the two of them . . . and as if keeping her at a distance, Garrett ran through his sleight of hand tricks with an easy patter.

  After the second septhour, his hands and voice had slowed. He met her eyes with a steady gaze.

  Already she knew that look; he’d say something she wouldn’t like.

  “How does it feel to be expendable?”

  She sucked in a breath; the chemicals in the air weren’t as sharp as the hurt. She smiled brightly. “I’m not expendable.” She faced his mocking lips and straightened her shoulders. “I was given some of your blood two days ago to help me stave off any infection. I’ve been drinking NewBalm tisanes, plenty of liquids, and I’ve participated in two blessing rituals.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t aware I gave blood to anyone other than Opul.”

  She was angry enough to put mockery in her gaze. “We Healers have our ways.”

  Moving impatiently, his coins dropping and his snatch at them too slow, he said thickly, “I guess you do.”

  She regretted snapping at him.

  His breath came on a ragged cough.

  “Here.” She handed him a water tube with floating green bits.

  “What is it?”

  “NewBalm mixture and spearmint.” Her smile was quick and compassionate. “It will soothe your throat.”

  He frowned at his trembling hand, wrapped all his fingers around the cylinder, and drank it all. She took the tube away.

  He closed his eyes. “Yeah. The throat. I’d forgotten that.” One of his shoulders lifted and fell. “It was minor. Nobody was talkin’.”

  “You don’t have to talk, now, either.”

  “Good,” he said. His eyelids cracked, too narrow for her to see the color of his pupils. “I ain’t gonna.” His fingers scrabbled, found the coins, fisted around them. “Gotta fight.”

  “No, relax . . .” she soothed.

  He jerked upright, eyes open. “No! I. Must. Fight. That’s wha’, what, saved me before. Fighting to save . . .”

  “I understand.”

  “No. You don’t,” he croaked, then flicked the coins and the rest of his magic paraphernalia into his bag, coughed, and grimaced, subsiding back onto his pillows. His dark amber gaze met hers, then he set his arm over his eyes. “You don’t understand. But you will.”

  She was afraid of that.

  Ten

  As the minutes passed, his great strength faded and his eyes dulled as sickness marched through his body. She laid her fingers over one of his fists, compelled to reassure him. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything harm you.”

  That he was hurting now caused a twisting ache inside her. She was too close to this case, this patient, this man.

  He jerked. “No!”

  She flinched back. He grabbed her hand, hung on hard. “I didn’t stop fighting the first time. I won’t now.” He blinked, as if trying to keep heavy lids from shuttering his vision. “Have to fight.”

  “All right.”

  He breathed unsteadily, his eyes glinted at her. “Aren’t you afraid?”

  “Yes, I don’t want the Iasc to . . . I don’t want you to succumb.”

  He barked a laugh. “Aren’t you afraid for yourself? Bad sickness. Lot of people died.” His face set into a mask covering deep hurt. “Epi . . . epi—”

  “Epidemic,” she finished for him.

  “Tha’s right. Afraid?”

  She could die. Hurt her Family with her passing. Not do all the things she wanted—forge a family of her own, have a child or two. Despite their religion, despite her mother’s cross-folk faith, no one knew what came after death, and death itself could be hard. She’d seen that.

  “You are afraid,” he whispered roughly.

  She couldn’t deny it when her body quivered. “Yes.” Even with all the precautions, all the knowledge and Healing skill, even with TQ’s help, she could die. As could he.

  His eyes were wide now, bright amber. Feverish.

  “You look hot,” she said.

  “Hot. Sweating.” He shuddered. His lashes closed and his hand fell from hers as if he needed to fight alone.

  Her breath trapped inside her chest, knowing she was losing him to fever dreams.

  “Have to fight. Have to drive this bus,” he said, grabbing the linens, thrashing, entangling himself in them.

  She yanked with hands and Flair to free him. Sweat slid from his body, suffusing the room with sickness and his determination. His hands opened and closed, curving around an imaginary steering stick. “Have to fight. Have to get Dinni and the baby to the clinic.”

  Who was Dinni? Probably a woman that Primross cared for. Artemisia should think of him as Primross or patient now, not Garrett. He’d been healthy when they’d met and worked together in TQ’s HouseHeart, but now he was sick and dependent on her. Put away any tendrils of attraction. Strictly forbidden to fall for a patient, to encourage any patient who might be aware of her as a woman instead of a Healer. So dishonorable. Until he walked from TQ, she’d be strictly professional.

  Her hands had been checking his temperature, the fluids belt, wiping away his sweat, while she scolded herself. Time to draw blood again, make notations to her own report.

  “I have the time of 10.29.46 as when the Iasc sickness overtook GentleSir Primross,” TQ said softly.

  “That’s right.”

  * * *

  Prickles of heat bloomed on his body, from scalp to soles. He moaned. No! He didn’t want to experience this again! Too late. Sweat slicked, turned steamy, and tormenting visions began.

  He walked toward the looming one-story medical clinic in Gael City that stretched tall and fearsome, made of sickly yellow blocks. All his muscles tightened in horror. This was how it started. He’d gotten an emergency call from Dinni on his perscry that she needed him.

  Of course he’d gone.

  No. He would not go into that clinic. He would not see Dinni holding her sick baby son and others from the Smallage estate where he’d grown up.

  He dug in his heels before the double white doors. He would not press the latch
. He would not open the door. He would not go in and agree to help Old Grisc drive the quarantine bus to the mountain clinic.

  He refused to budge.

  The world revolved around him in a slow swoop. He coughed, retched, spewed. Low and monstrous roaring pierced with garbled words hit his ears and he curled. Hands punched his sensitized skin and he yelled.

  He flopped, spun, saw the clinic with an open door gaping at him and set to run backward. Again reality looped, narrowed into a pinpoint tunnel of darkness that squeezed him through. Blessed dimness and quiet enveloped him. As he drew in a breath, the room lightened and he sat once more in FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather’s office.

  She frowned at him; her writestick tapped on the desk like a hammer. “We must hear of every moment of your journey,” she said in that priggish demanding voice of hers. Tap-pound-tap-pound-tap-POUND!

  “No,” he muttered. But she’d gotten him in her clutches, forced him into the past.

  He was in the clinic with the Healers and Dinni and Old Grisc and the refugees from Smallage. Again. Nausea inundated him.

  Ura Heather stared at him, writestick lifted, lip curled. Lark Holly’s violet eyes were wide with compassion as she shook her head mournfully.

  And the gorgeous woman, who was the HeartMate he’d avoided, had an expression full of pity. They watched.

  Watched. Judged. Saw everything that he’d never told.

  He fought, as he’d fought every moment, but memories tore into his brain . . . to rip him to pieces again.

  Dinni cradled her crying two-month-old son. She begged Garrett to take the job, to go with them. In her eyes was the utmost faith that he would save her child, all of them.

  He’d looked at Old Grisc, the others, and agreed.

  The HealingHall loaded every one of those twenty-three into the vehicle, even the sickest. The first died only a half septhour into the journey. An old man who’d been hot but shivering. The first death smell. Even in the cab with doors closed to the main compartment, Garrett and Old Grisc could smell it. They shared a bleak glance, wondering if they’d fall ill.

  The quarantine bus was separated into three parts: the drivers’ cab, seats in the main compartment for the living, and the refrigerated back compartment with corpse shelves for the dead.