Heart Secret

by Robin D. Owens

  Cautiously he inhaled. Nope, didn’t smell like he’d soiled himself again, like in real life, and a couple of nightmares since. Thank the Lady and Lord he’d been spared that.

  He became aware of a soft body cradling his back. His neck cricked when he looked down. Artemisia’s arms were around him, clasped as if she wouldn’t let him go. The last of his breath soughed out. His spine felt . . . protected.

  He wouldn’t have to clean himself up and walk through a horribly echoing, smelly clinic . . . Had he told them that, too?

  Yes, of course. The damn drink had loosened his tongue to a babble of every fliggering particular.

  He turned his head, with another creak he felt more than heard, and saw the priest in his chair. Cinchona’s face remained professionally serious, but he swallowed convulsively and sweat beaded his hairline, making the dirty blond widow’s peak darker. Guy had long hair pulled back and tied in a tail, and Garrett thought some of those strands were darker, too. He was perversely pleased he’d shaken the priest.

  There was a quiet cough and Garrett jerked to sit, his head wrenching around to see the newcomer. His stomach clenched as he recognized the highest priest of the planet, T’Sandalwood.

  Thirty-one

  Garrett stared at High Priest Sandalwood as the great man scrutinized him. Garrett opened his mouth to speak, but it was too damn dry. Artemisia moved, withdrew herself, and he felt chilled. A moment later she was back, next to him, putting an arm around his waist, leaning against him. Snuffling. She rubbed her head against his shoulder and he realized she was crying.

  Garrett glared at Cinchona.

  The man shrugged bony shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that I was out of my depth with you and the multiple deaths of close friends in such a manner and the horror of the trip and awakening, such grief . . .” He gulped and sweat was along his top lip, too. Guy looked wrung out.

  Grunting, Garrett shifted his eyes back to the high priest in a formal robe. Now that he examined the man, a man who had an incredibly intense presence, he didn’t appear very calm, either. Garrett sniffed again and smelled the herbs that absorbed sweat and released a nicer fragrance. Rich herbs, from the high priest’s robe.

  T’Sandalwood bowed. “You have my assurance and my sworn oath as a spiritual leader that I will keep this session confidential, as usual.”

  Finally Garrett gave in to the urge to cough and racked a few seconds until his throat was clear. “You can’t tell me that you won’t write everything down that you heard for your records.” He nodded to Cinchona. “And that you won’t have him write everything down, either.”

  Artemisia said, “Priests and priestesses are trained to have excellent memories.”

  The high priest sighed and met Garrett’s eyes with a sober gaze of his own. “That is true. But I vow to you that I will speak to no one about this”—he shot a command at Cinchona—“nor will FirstLevel Priest Cinchona, unless lives are at stake.” His attention returned to Garrett. “And our recordspheres, memoryspheres, and any journals we keep of this incident will be spellshielded and not available, except in extreme need, to be opened for two centuries.”

  “Huh,” Garrett said. He rubbed his neck and sweat and skin flaked into his palm. “I guess that’s the best that I can get.” He didn’t like it, though.

  He felt hollowed out, scoured by emotions. Feelings he hoped never to live through again. Done with them. Done with all the people he’d known who he’d watched die. Done with Dinni and her child, who’d had no chance. Done. Done. Done.

  The high priest paused. “I do not usually advocate premarriage counseling for HeartMates, but under the circumstances . . .”

  Hot irritation streamed through Garrett’s blood as he understood that Cinchona had revealed the whole HeartMate mess to T’Sandalwood.

  Garrett glared at the high priest, looked again at the pale younger priest. “I thought once I talked this out, I would lance that wound you said I had and be all right. Good enough to woo my HeartMate, my Artemisia.” She still quivered against his side.

  Cinchona’s mouth turned down, then he said, “No guarantees, remember?”

  “Ah, hmm.” T’Sandalwood shot a frown at his subordinate. “You said something like that?”

  Holding his body with dignity, Cinchona said, “I did. My Flair indicated that GentleSir Primross would be better for such a catharsis.”

  T’Sandalwood’s heavy salt-and-pepper brows dipped in near his eyes. “Better?” He turned his examination from the younger priest to Garrett.

  “Much better,” Cinchona added firmly. He cleared his throat. “And the man’s fear of losing loved ones and his grief that such horrific experiences engendered in him have been much relieved.”

  T’Sandalwood’s nostrils widened as he examined Garrett and Artemisia. He turned his palm over toward the ceiling, and curled his fingers. Garrett found himself rising to his feet, no muscles involved, as the priest’s Flair lifted him. He had to brace his knees to stand steady, and took a little of Artemisia’s weight, too.

  She pulled a large softleaf from her sleeve and mopped her face, drew out another one, and lifted it to his face, murmuring a spell that made it sweetly fragrant and like it had a little lotion to soothe. Since it felt so good, he didn’t complain about it being girly.

  “I have an alternative to the prenuptial counseling,” T’Sandalwood said in a soft tone that made Garrett flinch, knowing it would be nearly as bad as what he’d already gone through.

  “What?” His voice rumbled all the way from his gut.

  “We have rituals for survivors of catastrophic events.”

  “No!” Artemisia stepped away from Garrett’s side. “Hasn’t he gone through enough? Two fliggering bouts of Iasc sickness and telling Cinchona and me and you and Rusby about the whole dreadful thing?”

  Garrett stared; he’d never heard her curse before.

  “Artemisia, your natural compassion is wonder—” T’Sandalwood began.

  “No.” She stamped her foot. “I won’t have it. He’s been through enough.” She drew herself to her fullest height and her gaze matched the high priest’s. Garrett was impressed.

  “And so have I.” She pounded a fist once on her chest over her heart. “I tended him through his second Iasc sickness, and I just listened to his words of that terrible time in his life. As far as I am concerned, Garrett is far more stable than either of you priests. And far more heroic.”

  “A HeartMate would say—” T’Sandalwood once again was interrupted by Artemisia.

  “Oh, let’s go,” she said, tugging on Garrett’s hand. “We’re done here. I’ll transfer gilt from my account.”

  “I can do that,” Garrett croaked. Making sure his hand was steady, he scooped up Rusby and put him on his shoulder. He sank a little into his balance to ground himself, get his legs. He didn’t think anyone noticed. When he felt strong again, he straightened his knees, then stretched long—shoulders, arms, hands, then thighs, calves; arched and flexed his feet.

  He turned and bowed to the high priest, who was having a stare off with Artemisia. Then he turned back to Cinchona and bowed. Much as he didn’t want to, he said the courteous word. “Thanks.”

  “My apologies for . . .” The younger priest raised and dropped his hands.

  Garrett snagged Artemisia with an arm around her waist. “Come on, woman, we have things to do.” He met the high priest’s eyes. “Interesting to meet you.”

  “I’ll expect a clean mental and spiritual bill of health from you, T’Sandalwood, on my HeartMate,” Artemisia said.

  “And may I officiate at your wedding?” he asked.

  Garrett’s sweat turned cold. Artemisia noted his slight hesitation, before he lied as well as he could, “Sure.” He met the older priest’s gaze with a straight one of his own.

&
nbsp; He left arm in arm with Artemisia, but she knew he’d withdrawn a bit. Wasn’t really ready for marriage. Not. Quite. Yet.

  He wondered how much slack she’d give him. A week, maybe two? Not nearly as much as she would have if he hadn’t screwed up the whole thing.

  They leaned on each other as they exited the Temple and into the evening. Garrett winced. His story had taken a lot longer than he’d realized. But here he was, hand in hand with his HeartMate. All to the good, he supposed. He really didn’t feel that much better.

  But if the nightmares would go away, it was also worth it. And thinking of dreams, the image of the turquoise Healing pool slid into his brain. “I could use a good soak.”

  He glanced at her from the corners of his eyes. She hadn’t reacted, thinking of something else. Not thinking of him.

  “Best in a Healing pool. You live near one, don’t you?”

  That had her stiffening against him.

  “How do you know that?” she asked.

  Rusby spoke up from his place on Garrett’s shoulder. The ferals told him.

  Her stare was accusatory.

  “I didn’t ask them to spy on you,” he said, aggrieved.

  True, Rusby said. I am hungry. I have missed TWO feedings.

  How could that be? But when Garrett counted the minutes, he found the kitten was right.

  “I can’t go anywhere in this condition,” Garrett said. He put a little distance between himself and Artemisia, squeezed her hand, but his voice was harsh when he said, “And you’re still keeping secrets.”

  Her chin lifted, she didn’t look at him . . . but she didn’t pull her fingers away, either. Their bond had reduced a bit, and he thought she’d done that as much as he.

  “There are things I can’t—”

  Hello, Garrett. Hello, Healer. Sleek Black trotted beside them. He looked up at Garrett and wrinkled his nose. You smell, Garrett. You smell, Healer. He snickered.

  Rusby stared down at him. You are not polite. I was being polite.

  Sleek Black ignored the kitten. We have tracked all four of the raccoons. Two are with this Healer.

  Garrett stopped. “I understood that one is her Fam. Whom I need to speak with. Keeping more than one secret, it appears.”

  “Just because you let all your secrets out, I need to tell mine?” Her eyes had lightened from the dark green that he preferred.

  “Of course. That’s how HeartMates work.” He was sure of that.

  “Humph.” She scowled at Sleek Black. Thanks a lot, cat.

  You are welcome.

  Artemisia’s lips flattened, then she said, “You must have reviewed my interrogations. As you know, my Fam didn’t see much, only experienced the”—she swallowed hard—“the hatred of the murderer. I don’t know of the other raccoon.”

  A passerby grumbled as he walked around them. Garrett drew Artemisia into the deep doorway of a restaurant that served only breakfast and lunch and had already closed. Rusby sniffed deeply; Sleek Black sat and watched them with a smirk.

  “All your secrets revolve around your home.” He’d wanted her to tell him of it freely, but now it didn’t look like that would happen, and it hurt.

  She tilted her head up and looked him in the eyes. “I am sworn to secrecy.”

  Bad things happen if she tells, Sleek Black said.

  “What bad things?” Garrett grabbed her shoulders. “How can I help?”

  “I can’t say.” Artemisia formed each word coldly.

  “Fligger.” Garrett dropped his hands from her.

  “Please don’t curse at me.” She shifted and he suddenly knew she was about to teleport away.

  “Not you, never you, at the situation. Our situation.”

  Secret place. Sleek Black flicked his whiskers.

  More synapses connected in Garrett’s mind, until he was sure. “The hidden garden. The first HealingHall established by the colonists. BalmHeal estate, the secret sanctuary that lets in only the desperate.”

  Artemisia’s eyes flickered. “I can’t say.” She slipped around him, back onto the sidewalk. “I’ll go find Randa and the other raccoon so they can speak to you about the murder. I’ll scry you later, when the raccoons are available.”

  “Wait, you must know that our . . . bond is more important. That I’ve had a change of heart—” Garrett said, but she disappeared anyway.

  Sleek Black angled his head. You are not good with females.

  “No.” But he could be persistent. “Do you know where this secret garden is?”

  Of course. All ferals know. A cat shrug rippled down his back. Some go there sometimes and some don’t. But all know.

  “Take me there.”

  We are going to THE sanctuary, Rusby whispered in his mind.

  “That’s right. Now.”

  Food! Rusby said.

  “All right, food first.”

  Sleek Black stretched, back end up, tail swishing. I could eat, too. It’s a long walk.

  Didn’t sound like the cat knew a better way. Damn.

  * * *

  Artemisia ’ported directly to the empty pad set in a trellised area close to the main Healing pool in BalmHeal estate. She wasn’t really surprised at the tears running down her face. She’d cried a lot during Garrett’s tormented story.

  She hurt for him and for herself so much she was tired and dizzy with it. She shucked her clothes and put them in a cleanser that would translocate them to BalmHeal Residence. Then she slid into the hot water and sat on the stone seat.

  As had happened so often in the last eightday, jumbled emotions clashed through her.

  Randa? she kept the mental call quiet, easy to ignore if her Fam wanted. And no matter what Artemisia had said to Garrett, she wanted the comfort of her Fam more than to convince Randa to speak to Garrett.

  I am here. Randa moved in the almost graceful lumbering run toward her, stopped near her, and sniffed, held out her paws over the gently steaming water. Nice.

  “Yes.” Artemisia leaned back and closed her eyes but lifted her arm to pet Randa’s thick pelt.

  The raccoon made a pleased noise, nothing like a cat’s purr, but Artemisia smiled. She had a prized raccoon Fam that Garrett had wanted. Small of her to enjoy that, but she did. Randa settled beside Artemisia, gently humming.

  Artemisia sighed and simply enjoyed the heat of the pool soaking out the tension in her muscles and the soft rustling of leaves in the quiet breeze and the crickets beginning to chirp around her.

  Such a wrenching day! The calmness of her time in the chapel this morning seemed months away. That her job was in jeopardy, her whole career, only merited a long and tired sigh. Then came a tiny jolt that she’d forgotten to speak with Laev T’Hawthorn as she’d told her parents she would. Well, she would do that tomorrow and she’d let them know that her meetings at D’Ash’s and the guardhouse, and work, and the appointment with Leger Cinchona had eaten up all her time today.

  Of course she thought of her HeartMate. Poor Garrett, the time he’d driven to the clinic and his experiences there had been harrowing. But he’d let the memories of it control his life, and that had affected Artemisia, too.

  After a few minutes, she let Garrett’s words filter back into her ears. I’ve had a change of heart.

  He seemed honest when he’d said that, a hint of desperation in his tone.

  Change of heart.

  What a phrase. Could he have had a change of heart? Had he truly allowed himself to put away his grief for Dinni, for those he’d known who had died? Turned his heart from an old love to a new?

  Of course he couldn’t love her.

  Not the way she already had come to love him. More fool she!

  She’d realized that she loved him when he’d fallen to the floor during his
retelling of his ordeal and she’d curled around him. And what a time for such an insight! What a very sick time to understand that. To understand that her own heart had managed to forgive him his hurtful words.

  Again, so many events and feelings had happened since the night before last that it seemed like a long time ago. And she’d changed. She wasn’t sure how, and didn’t want to scrutinize herself in that much detail now, but she hoped she’d grown.

  She’d respected him from their first meeting, had probably fallen in love with him—as prompted by the HeartMate bond—somewhere during the time they’d spent in TQ’s HouseHeart or in that peaceful walk after the project was over, before they found the body.

  They certainly hadn’t had much normal time together. So she supposed they should take it slow. But for once she didn’t want to take it slow. She’d put her life on hold for him long enough.

  You are thinking of The Man Who Feeds, Randa said.

  “Yes, how do you know?”

  His image is very strong in your thoughts.

  He is my HeartMate. She didn’t say it aloud, not here, in her home that she shared with her Family.

  I have heard of mates, but it makes little sense.

  “That’s all right.” Artemisia petted Randa; her fingers went to the place where her Fam had been wounded, but there wasn’t even a scar. Randa flinched.

  “He’s a good man.” Artemisia reluctantly began to don responsibility again. “Since he’s my mate, you will be able to speak to him mentally.” She was pretty sure that was standard for Fams. Garrett’s Fam, Rusby, had called her FamWoman. She hadn’t had any trouble hearing him telepathically.

  We watched him a long time. He fed us. He liked us, we could tell.

  That was the very best thing Artemisia knew about Garrett, his love for feral Fams.

  She wet her lips. She had to proceed carefully. “I’ve heard that someone else from your Family is here in the estate.” She opened her eyes and turned her head to meet Randa’s black ones.

  The young raccoon had rolled to a sitting position and was grooming her tail, but stopped. Yes, my dam is here, denning for a while. But I am not hers anymore. I belong to myself and you.