Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Milkweed stared at the altar that showed a large empty space in a row of three crosses, where the missing knife would have stood. Her gaze swung back to Artemisia. “But you’ve been in here several times?

  “Yes.”

  “And you found the murder knife, which is a blade and three arms of a square cross, but didn’t recognize it as coming from here?”

  Artemisia’s eyes had deepened to forest green and again Garrett was aware of secrets—but not lies, not this time. Nor did her tone waver when she answered. “I didn’t pay much attention to the altar or the knife upon it.” She shrugged. “And it looked ordinary to me. A cross that would be used in a public place like this, not one in a dedicated cross-folk chapel. I didn’t realize that it was a work of art.”

  That was news to Garrett since he hadn’t had time to review Artemisia’s statements to the guards.

  “I do feel your presence in this room before today,” Milkweed continued to press.

  Chin lifting, Artemisia tilted it in the direction of the Celtan round Temple. “And if you go into the Lady’s and Lord’s Temple, you will find my presence there, later and more often.”

  Milkweed nodded. “I’ll check that out.” She pursed her lips. “Too bad Winterberry isn’t considered reliable in this matter. His Flair for that is better than mine.” She turned to Garrett. “What of your Flair?”

  Before he could form an answer that revealed very little about himself and his Flair—how he could speak with all Fams, and even meld minds with them—the door opened and the FirstFamily GrandLord Straif T’Blackthorn entered the room.

  Either FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather or Garrett’s own friend Laev T’Hawthorn must have asked him to come. He was the best tracker on Celta.

  “Greetyou, guardswoman, greetyou, GentleSir Primross. And SecondLevel Healer Mugwort Panax.” The GrandLord bowed.

  Artemisia curtsied deeply. Milkweed angled her body in a short bow. Garrett nodded.

  Straif T’Blackthorn said, “I was briefed by a few members of the FirstFamily Council on the death of Modoc Eryngo and was asked to look at this chapel for tracks of the one who disposed of him.”

  Garrett itched to ask who’d spoken with him and whether it was Laev—who was nearly a generation younger than T’Blackthorn—but kept his mouth shut. He’d find out later.

  T’Blackthorn scanned the room with a penetrating stare, particularly the floor, which Garrett had heard would show the GrandLord the trails of each individual who’d been in the room. “I can tell you that I see nothing unusual here.”

  Then he crossed his arms. “And that’s all I will tell you. As far as I’m concerned, the flig—” His gaze seemed to snag on the altar and the image of the four-spirited god and he stopped the curse word. “Modoc Eryngo got what he deserved. I’ve fulfilled my annual NobleGilt public service and if the guards wish to request the councils hire me, be aware that my fee for this matter is high.” He quoted a figure that had Garrett’s mouth dropping at the sheer size of it.

  Milkweed choked.

  The FirstFamily GrandLord nodded to them all again and vanished.

  Artemisia expelled a breath that was loud in the silence, then murmured, “Well, I suppose that isn’t surprising.”

  “No?” asked Milkweed.

  Artemisia shrugged. “He’s married to a Clover, after all, like Winterberry.”

  The guardswoman shook her head. “I can’t always keep the tangles of FirstFamily relationships straight.”

  Garrett frowned. “How, exactly, is he related?”

  Pressing her lips together as if in thought, Artemisia replied, “I think T’Blackthorn’s wife is cousin to Trif Clover, who is wed to Winterberry and was one of the two surviving Black Magic Cult victims. But the other who lived and is close to Winterberry is of his blood. Another FirstFamily Lady, wed to Saille T’Willow.”

  “Crap,” Garrett said, and didn’t like the ripple of disapproval that even that mild oath provoked in the atmosphere. Nope, he didn’t think he liked this cross-folk god.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. His senses and Flair were clogged here. He’d have to sort through his impressions later.

  Milkweed completed a prowl through the room. “I think we’ve seen everything we need?” She held the door open. “I want to do a quick check of the Lord’s and Lady’s Temple, then speak with the housekeeper and”—she grimaced—“GrandMistrys FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather.” The guardswoman ended with a low mutter under her breath, “Sure wish her father, GrandLord T’Heather, was still in charge here.”

  Artemisia exited first, saying, “You won’t need me for that.” She glanced at a pretty timer on the wall. “And my shift starts in about twenty minutes.”

  “You’re with me now,” Garrett rumbled. “And we have things to do.”

  “No!”

  “I’ll be in the Lord’s and Lady’s Temple.” Guardswoman Milkweed hurried away.

  “Do you really think that FirstLevel Healer Heather hasn’t already reassigned your cases?” Garrett asked.

  “Again?”

  He didn’t want to disillusion her, but she should face reality. “Ura Heather probably flexed your work time the minute the knife was discovered missing.”

  Artemisia’s face stilled in that way women have when they are fighting tears. He hated to see that, held out his hand.

  She dodged around him. “I still must check my shifts,” she said in a choked voice.

  She had to turn away from him, from all the hurt pounding through her. Nothing had gone right lately, so many things had tested her inner calm, her strength. She knew she was strong, she didn’t need to prove that to herself or anyone else. “I’ll join you in a few minutes,” Artemisia said, insides wavery. “I also need to program my scrybowl to forward to my perscry.” She strode away and wound through the building to her sorry cubicle.

  One glimpse of the “Amended Work Schedule, Artemisia Panax” posted on the inside partition showed that Garrett was right. She was slated to start work in a couple of septhours and her shift was truncated enough to give her the minimal amount of work time—and gilt.

  She unfolded a temp-sit chair from the wall of the partition and sat. Options must be considered—for her job, first, then her personal life. How much did she want to work in this HealingHall? A great deal. The energy felt right, but Ura Heather would rule for a long time. Artemisia grounded herself, let her tumbled feelings drain. Maybe she could hang on to her position here. She was a good Healer and if Lark Holly would be her advocate . . . if all this mess passed without more irritation of Heather, and Artemisia sank below her notice again, she had a chance. If, if, if. She wouldn’t give up yet, but one more incident and she’d have to walk away.

  The smooth surface of the water in the scrybowl caught her eye. As for her personal life, she had to get beyond her own hurt and pain to do that, which meant she had to follow up on her promise to her relatives. She needed a counselor and at least one session. She thought of the priests and priestesses she’d met through Tiana over the years. Some were too high to call on. Some were so close to Tiana that advising her sister would put a strain on the friendship.

  Artemisia sighed. There was something easy about Leger Cinchona that she liked. So she put the call through.

  His mobile face fell when he understood that she wanted to consult him as a priest, then he smiled and waved the slight regret aside, accepted her as a client. She took his next free appointment which was at EveningBell.

  Now to find her spine and face Garrett.

  Her perscry lilted a dance measure. Her parents were calling. She pulled the pebble out of her sleeve pocket and put it on the counter. “Here,” she said.

  When she saw their serious faces, her stomach jittered. This wouldn’t be good news, either.

  “We have discussed the m
atter,” her father said, with his implacable judge face on. Whatever decision they’d come to, there would be no appeal. “We can only believe this murder situation will become increasingly unstable and affect your career. We want you to go to T’Hawthorn Residence and speak with Laev T’Hawthorn, call in the favor he owes us to exert influence regarding your position there.”

  Artemisia’s voice was high. “We saved his HeartMate’s life, we’d have done so for anyone, but Camellia is our friend.”

  “Yes,” her mother said.

  “But he offered the favor,” her father continued inexorably, “and we accepted on your behalf.”

  She remembered and resentment spiked. They’d always thought she was softer, less a fighter than her younger sister.

  “It’s not that you’re gentler than Tiana,” her mother said.

  “That’s exactly what it is,” Artemisia said.

  “You helped save Camellia’s life,” her father pointed out, “so the favor was also for you. Tiana did not. And Tiana’s colleagues accept her. Yours do not.”

  “When the scandal broke sixteen years ago, FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather at Primary HealingHall was quick enough to tell me my services were not needed,” Artemisia’s mother said. “And GrandLord T’Heather did not overturn her decision.”

  Artemisia’s father ran a hand up and down her mother’s tense back. “It was not a battle he could have won.”

  “So he didn’t fight it.”

  Artemisia frowned. Her mother brought the steely will to fight to the Family—that of a Healer battling for life and death. Artemisia was more of her father’s contemplative temperament, unless she was engaged in that Healing struggle. And, like him, she understood not fighting battles she couldn’t win outside Healing. “I’ll go see Laev.” Tomorrow. Maybe.

  “Thank you.” Her father dipped his head in understanding that she’d do this because they asked.

  Her mother smiled her usual serene smile. “Thank you.”

  They didn’t fear for themselves, though Artemisia was beginning to think that they should. They worried about her. That was Family. “I love you,” she said.

  Her parents answered in unison, “We love you.” Her mother blew her a kiss that made Artemisia smile and the scry ended.

  Artemisia let her shoulders slump and wallowed in self-pity for a few seconds before she stood, returned her perscry to her pocket, and walked down to meet Garrett.

  To her relief, he and the guardswoman were speaking with the housekeeper. Artemisia thought from the simmering irritation through her narrowed bond with Garrett that Ura Heather had given them a perfunctory interview.

  The Healing Grove was crowded and Artemisia didn’t want to stay in the Hall when she couldn’t work. She didn’t know who took care of her patients—people she’d almost begun to know—but it was disheartening to be there and not allowed to help. So she waited outside, sitting on a smoothly sculpted bench, soaking in sunshine, until Garrett reappeared. Alone.

  Her hope of keeping the guard and a professional attitude between herself and Garrett was futile. “Where’s Guardswoman Milkweed?”

  “She was called to duty at another venue.” He glanced at his wrist timer. “Same place we need to go. A viewing of Modoc Eryngo’s body.”

  “A viewing of the body!” Artemisia was shocked. That wasn’t a usual part of death rites in their culture, though some cross-folk practiced such.

  Garrett slanted her an ironic look. “Apparently the Family—and the All Councils—agreed a viewing to show everyone the last Black Magic Cultist is truly dead was necessary.”

  Artemisia swallowed. “I don’t like this.”

  “I don’t think anyone does.” Garrett gestured to the public carrier plinth and offered his elbow.

  She ignored it.

  He scowled. “Better get used to being with me today outside your work schedule at the HealingHall, Artemisia.” The guards had wanted her at the memorial, and had requested he keep an eye on her. If her being there would fix in their minds that she was innocent, he’d get her there. But with regard to the murder, he had a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he’d missed some simple clue that he’d seen or heard.

  She looked him straight in the eyes. “I have an appointment to speak with a counselor at EveningBell.” How she wished she could walk away from Garrett. But her Family was too entwined in the murder, and now she had a source of inside information.

  She swallowed, felt her mouth turn down. “Even if I was working my full shift, I’d be allowed to take the time to see him.”

  “Him?” Garrett pounced.

  She blinked. “Leger Cinchona.”

  “I thought you were seeing him socially, like a gallant.”

  She made her voice icy. “As I believe I said before, I have options for my personal life.” Staring at the beautiful Garrett, she kept her tone and heart hard. “I will not cancel my appointment with Priest Cinchona for you, and if you object, I will notify Captain Winterberry of the appointment and ask his permission.” However hideously embarrassing that would be for all of them.

  Garrett strangled a sigh. Not difficult to understand Artemisia was trying to distance herself from him. Their bond had thinned again. He was not making her feel safe, as he’d thought to do, to protect her, to cherish her. And he would protect and cherish to the end of his strength and life. Hadn’t he proved that previously in his life during the Iasc sickness?

  But he’d only hurt Artemisia.

  When he’d met with Ura Heather, he’d wanted to threaten the old flitch with political ramifications of her dislike of Artemisia—reports to Laev and the FirstFamilies—but this was not the time.

  Gentling his voice, he said, “Of course you must meet the priest. I truly believe you will be of help in this matter.” Thankfully she didn’t ask how.

  “Shall we go?” He gestured to the upcoming public carrier.

  She grimaced. “Oh, very well.” But her eyes went stark before she said with a shake of her head, “It’s not going to be pleasant. Despite everything, too many people believe the cross-folk and we Mugworts were involved in the Black Magic Cult murders.”

  Garrett was afraid she was right.

  Twenty-eight

  Artemisia made sure to hop down from the public carrier glider before Garrett so he wouldn’t attempt to help her.

  Nevertheless, when he caught up with her in a couple of strides, he wrapped his fingers around her upper arm. Sensation sizzled between them, lovely, deep—heart wrenching.

  She didn’t want to go to the body viewing, but Garrett gave her no choice—unless she wanted to stop in her tracks and argue in public with the man.

  Nor did she expect the ambiance of the whole situation to be at all nice. Having a body available for public view wasn’t common.

  The viewing wasn’t at a round Temple. Garrett told her that the highest priestess and priest of the Lady and Lord had stated that since the man had defiled their faith and he could not possibly have remained a believer in the duality, they would not house his shell in their Temple. Nor would they offer him any rituals for the dead. So the body was in an outbuilding of the Southern Temple, a rectangular building.

  There were guardsmen at the door who questioned their presence. Fingers firm on her elbow, Garrett told them their names, that he was investigating for the FirstFamilies, and that he and Artemisia had discovered the murder.

  Loud enough that some of the crowd lingering near could hear—and so could those in the anteroom.

  They stepped from hot summer sun into a cool, tile-floored and walled room that held odd echoes as they crossed to the arched opening of the main room.

  The body lay on a platform under a stasis spell, Eryngo appearing cleaner and more prepossessing than he had in crumpled death.

  T
here were people in a short line filing by the body. Neither the sight of death nor the shell of the soul and spirit bothered Artemisia, though this event was distasteful.

  Guards were stationed around the room, including Rosa Milkweed and her partner, Fol Berberis.

  Next to the dais sat a tense-jawed woman with the same features as Modoc Eryngo, probably his sister. She looked as if she did bitter Family duty and seemed to be the only Family member present.

  To Artemisia’s fascinated horror, a viz recorder sending images was positioned in the ceiling over the body.

  “People have always been morbid,” Garrett murmured, then made a disapproving noise. “And the councils want to prove to the public that the last of the Black Magic Cultists is dead.”

  His quiet words were loud enough to be heard in a moment of awkward silence. “Is that true, do you think?” an elderly man asked. His face was lined and he hunched over a cane—a man worn down more by emotional ills than physical. His embroidered cuffs showed him to be GraceLord Sorrell, the father of the last victim killed. He scuttled to Garrett, raised a hooked nose to stare him in the eyes. “So much is still unknown.”

  “I don’t think so, sir,” Garrett said. “I believe everything was straightforward except for the capture of this guy. Now he’s dead.”

  Sorrell’s lower lip curled. “Good riddance. Still had plenty of more years than my Calla. There’s a lot of speculation about the cultists, that one or two might have been missed.”

  “No. The guards accounted for everyone except Modoc sixteen years ago. And there are stories because time has passed and rumor and myths spring up like weeds. A lot of odd and just plain wrong theories,” Garrett said.

  Artemisia hadn’t known that.

  GraceLord Sorrell stared at the corpse with contempt, swept a glance around the room, and said loudly, “I’m glad he’s dead and I bless the one who did it.” He marched to a corner where other people—Families of those who had been sacrificed by the cult members—had gathered.