The first examination—of his communication energy—like the previous ones, didn’t seem to go well. D’Sea and T’Heather’s muttering confirmed that he had problems in that area, too.
He hadn’t wanted to teleport Genista to them, couldn’t form a good image of her without blazing emotions around her. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her. When they asked him what he might say to her, his voice had locked in his throat, because he wanted to rage and whimper and scream. When they’d asked him to consider the same tasks using his brother, Holm, he’d had no problems. All of which certainly indicated that his relationship with his wife was . . . not good.
He was allowed a little break in the cleansing room, said a prayer that the next tests would be less wrenching, and was glad that his clothes were indeed soaking up his sweat. Pitiful that he’d begun to cherish the small moments of privacy here.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he noted that he hadn’t appeared so wretched since . . .
He squared his shoulders. Since he and Genista had lost the child a year and three months ago. The loss of the babe would always haunt him. As, it seemed, the loss of his wife would. He just couldn’t seem to stop the crash of their relationship.
He’d given up trying to hide his true feelings from the tests. Any chance of manipulating them was far beyond his powers. The whole ordeal was such that only the most determined of people would continue through it and he grudgingly admired that Genista had endured the tests. It would have been so much easier for her to request separate living arrangements.
But the Hollys wouldn’t have allowed that. Every single one of them would have tried to “fix” the problem. Forever. She’d known them well enough to understand that. She was an intelligent, sexy woman, and it didn’t seem like she was his woman anymore.
“Tinne?” called D’Sea from the other room.
He wiped the cooling droplets he’d splashed on his face away with an incredibly soft towel, gave his reflection a half smile and salute, and opened the door to new suffering.
Lahsin spent a happy morning, exploring some of the wonderful, secret garden. There was no doubt that it was the lost FirstGrove. There was the Healing pool, hot and filled with efficacious minerals as well as the remnants of herbal water plants, still imbued with potent Healing spells. The unexpected dip in it yesterday had helped soothe her emotional ills and perhaps even out and replenish her Flair. On one side of the pool was a stone terrace, and Lahsin got the impression that there had been outside “rooms” of canvas where the Healers had worked. She hadn’t seen a permanent HealingHall, but there was a water conduit toward the northeast from the natural pool to someplace else.
On the other side of the pool, the side the garden shed was on, was a series of benches and a long arbor covered with grapevines.
She walked down stone paths nearly covered with moss, found a gazebo with two bathing pools nearby, almost as warm as the springs but not containing Healing spells. It was evident that other people and creatures had found this place from time to time.
The land dipped and mounded, and she found herself strolling north along the western wall that curved inward. The trees and plants fascinated her—old Earthan trees and plants mingled with Celtan ones—and hybrids. It gave credence to the supposition that the same ancient spacefaring people had colonized Earth and Celta millennia ago.
Then the wall stopped curving and became straight, hooking up to the gray stone north city wall half a block away. That gave her the clue that FirstGrove was actually nestled in the northeast corner of Druida City.
It was a large chunk of land, but still able to be hidden in the vastness of the city the colonists had measured and defined. The ancients had made the walls with their strange machines, expecting their descendants to fill the area of the city.
So two of the walls of FirstGrove would be city walls, the north and the east.
She hadn’t found the sacred grove itself, though there were glades and natural copses. In the northwest area she discovered herb gardens gone to seed drying into stalks, set inside ragged hedges of boxwood. The scents nearly overwhelmed her, and the fragrance of cooking herbs like sage made her mouth water.
At that moment she saw the glint of glass in the distance to the east, and her spirits rose. A greenhouse or conservatory! It might be secure. It might hold food. It might even have a little no-time filled with snacks. She was beginning to daydream about food. Her breakfast had been a glass of hot herbed water from the pool.
She hurried toward the conservatory, now walking due east with the north wall of the city to her left. Since the only clear path wound between trees that seemed like a dense wood, when she stepped into an open glen, her breath caught.
Before her was a long, low building with a tower, a gilded ancient clock on one side, gleaming in the sunlight. The way the structure was situated and built meant “stillroom” to her—a place where herbs were dried and hung and stored. Where people made potions and pills, mixtures of everything from pretty scented potpourris to efficacious Healing infusions.
The door was solid, but there were no shields, perhaps because she sensed someone had been here more recently than the garden shed. In fact she got the oddest impression that a person had left with expectations that he would return.
She hurried inside, searched all three downstairs rooms, and found some working no-times—with only fresh herbs in them. She explored the whole building. The stillroom had bags of herbal poultices that she recognized as being for deep wounds, appearing to be no more than a few years old. But she recognized nothing that might help during Passage. Not even a recipe book.
She ran up the tower stairs and found a door in the ceiling that opened with a creak, then walked around marveling at the machinery of the clock itself. There wasn’t much dust, and again, the great gears appeared as if they’d been cared for not too long ago.
Looking out the large northeast window, she saw the northern city wall marching along even ground, though beyond the wall in the north, the land fell steeply. On this side of the wall was the garden, made interesting by several levels of landscaping. And angled just far enough away from the northeastern corner where the city walls met and it couldn’t be seen from outside was a two-story, redbrick house with white pillars framing the entrance. The place was large enough and certainly old enough to be a Residence. From her vantage point it appeared to be in good repair. Attached to it was a large, domed conservatory.
Movement caught her eye, and she saw the dog pounce—and miss—a wild housefluff, the hybrid of Earthan rabbit and Celtan mocyn.
Lahsin bit her lip. Birds and other animals lived in the garden. She had no doubt that the dog would eat them if he caught one. But she couldn’t imagine hunting and killing them and cleaning them and eating them herself. As for trapping them, no! She imagined the eyes of a trapped animal. She couldn’t do it.
Her diet would become vegetarian, but she still hadn’t seen any vegetables, and from the looks of the grapevines, the thriving skirl population would have eaten them all.
How was she going to manage? Nothing for it, she’d have to go out into the city.
Since the very thought scared her, and she intended to teach herself to be strong, she figured that it would be a test. Noon was coming up, and the warmest part of the day. From what she’d experienced, the city outside the garden would be colder than inside.
Best go now. When it was warmest. When more people would be on the streets.
Before she lost her nerve.
T’Heather handed Tinne a warm red bag of silkeen with herbs in it. The fragrance of summer roses came to his nose.
“Knead that.”
Tinne did, and emotions exploded from him. Pain—that Genista hurt him so. That they’d loved and love had died and she realized it and wanted nothing more of him. Anger that she was putting him through this, had put herself through this. That she wouldn’t stay with him. That the scandal would be atrocious. That his reputation would be besmirched for a
ll of his life.
More anger, more bitterness, root bitterness, that his father had done this to them with his broken Vows of Honor. That his Mamá had supported his father, as she always had, to the detriment of her own health and her son’s and her daughter-in-law’s.
Grief. Grief so deep he had to fight to survive every moment. His babe had died in the womb.
Grief that his brother had been disinherited, torn from him, from the Residence, from the Family.
Grief that Tinne had been forced to break the link with his Family, too, and disinherit himself.
All the emotions that the past had worked on him, scored into his heart and body, tore from him, and he screamed and rocked and shouted.
Even more—back farther—emotions he’d thought he’d dealt with. The horror of finding himself locked in a small sphere with his brother, the sensation of that orb being shot into space. Seeing Celta fall away below him and Holm, the starry sky engulf them, frightened to his core.
Circling the planet then falling, falling into it. More terror as he wondered if they’d die. Both of them. The sons of T’Holly, his only children, leaving their parents unknowing of their fate, grieving.
The rough landing, the bruises. Knowledge that they were in a wild and dangerous part of Celta. The trip with Holm, angry at each other for their actions in getting them into this mess, fear coming out in harsh words and feelings.
Following his brother into the boghole, seeing him sink to his death.
Desperation.
Relief when he saved his brother, and they made it back to their parents.
More horror with the firebombspell in the Council Chamber, watching people burn to death as he futilely tried to save them. He yelled, then thrashed.
More grief. A blow that nearly crippled him. His HeartMate wed to someone else. To GrandLord T’Yew, who’d never appreciate her, love her, cherish her, as Tinne would. His determination to save his brother from his parents’ ire, his proposal and quick marriage to Genista. The blooming of his love for her as they both worked at their marriage.
So it circled.
And circled. Worse than any Passage, any of the fugues that freed his Flair, the deathduels.
Until he could stand it no longer, and he screamed and screamed and dropped the silkeen bag, and it was over.
And quiet.
The two Healers watched him with infinite sympathy as he set his head in his hands. His whole body shook for minutes that seemed like eons.
D’Sea glided toward him, crouched, put her hand on his knee. “It’s all out now, all your negative emotions, you’ll Heal now.”
“I thought I had Healed,” Tinne muttered from behind his hands. He was too raw to look at anyone. “Except for the child, and this new hurt.” And his HeartMate. But he didn’t think that the Healers had understood all the events and reasons behind his emotions. Thank the Lady and Lord for that.
D’Sea shoved a large softleaf into his hand, and he used it to mop his—sweaty—face. He heard T’Heather’s footsteps as he paced the room, glanced toward the man to see the Healer rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d forgotten that little trip you’d taken around the world.”
“Someday I hope to forget it, too,” Tinne said lightly, again wiping his face, then murmuring a couplet to freshen his clothes. “Spacefaring is not for me. If I’d been my ancestor, I’d have stayed home.”
“None of us will forget the firebombspell.” The words seemed torn from D’Sea. Tinne wondered how many of the FirstFamily Lords and Ladies she’d treated for that emotional shock.
T’Heather stared at his hands, turning them over. “I couldn’t Heal.”
D’Sea pulled another softleaf from her sleeve and dabbed at her face, rose to stand. “It’s the past, and over.”
“Yes,” Tinne said, shifting back to lounge into the chair he was beginning to loathe. “So I suppose you measured my—emotions?”
Grunting, T’Heather walked over. Both the Healers looked down at the red silkeen bag that was pulsing like a heart. D’Sea drew in a long, audible breath. Ignoring the pouch on the floor, she brought over another one. This one was pink. She offered it to Tinne. “We will consider your marriage now. Take this and think of Genista.”
He didn’t want to do this. It was the last thing he wanted to do in his life.
“Leave the boy be,” T’Heather said. “This session has been bad enough. We can do this tomorrow.”
Relief leapt inside Tinne but he gritted his teeth. “I want this over and done.”
Reluctantly, Tinne took the bag.
Lahsin left the garden by a different door. The exit was more southerly and closer to city center. Pretending a confidence and independence that she hadn’t quite mastered, she walked with a purposeful stride to the nearest market square. Keeping her face shadowed and her body draped shapelessly with her hooded cloak, she bought three meat pastries from a shop, then scuttled outside to eat them. One she actually kept for the dog.
Thinking she could use her burgeoning Flair to grow plants in the conservatory, or even in the garden shed, and counting her pitiful gilt, she decided to buy vegetable seed packets or small plants. She waited until she saw several people enter the greenery shop. She’d already tested the place with her Flair, knew where the seed packets and sprigs she wanted were kept, and which were the best suited for her purposes. Most Noble Residences had greenhouses for fruit and vegetable propagation during the winter. Yet she lingered in the warm and pretty store, enjoying watching people and how they interacted.
She couldn’t remember how long it had been since she’d been on her own in town. More than three years ago, before her marriage? How depressing. No wonder her palms dampened as she exchanged a few bland words with the busy shopkeeper when she bought her items—seeds, a sprouter, and three small plants of wheatgrass and beans.
By the time she stepped back outside, the sky had darkened to gray. To her alarm, snow began to fall before she got a block away.
A few streets later, someone called her name. “Lahsin D’Yew. I’ve found you.”
She whirled around, saw a tough, lean man, and knew exactly who he was. The tracker. “GrandLord T’Blackthorn.”
Seven
Lahsin bolted into an alley. Wrong move. It was a dead end, and the tracker, T’Blackthorn, followed her in.
Clutching the cloth sack containing her purchases tight, she set her shoulders back, lifted her chin. “I am not D’Yew. The stirrings of my Second Passage have started. I’m an adult, and I repudiate the marriage. You can’t make me go back!”
The man winced and glanced a few feet behind him at the street. A couple of passersby had hesitated and were watching them. “Do you think we can discuss this privately?”
“There is nothing to discuss. I will not return. I will never return. I’m an adult, I don’t have to go back.” Right then and there she decided that he’d be perfect to hear her repudiation of the marriage.
“I, Lahsin Burdock, repudiate this marriage to Ioho Yew, GrandLord T’Yew. I, Lahsin Burdock, repudiate this marriage to Ioho Yew, GrandLord T’Yew. I, Lahsin Burdock, repudiate this marriage to Ioho Yew, GrandLord T’Yew.”
T’Blacktorn stilled, his face went expressionless. “I’ve tracked many people, GraceMistrys Burdock—”
“Don’t call me that!” She darted a glance up and down the alley. She was sure she could run faster than him. Even with her sack.
“Don’t you care that your Family is worried?”
“My Family? Did the Burdocks speak with you? Did they hire you? Do they want me to come home to them?” She snorted.
He hesitated, and she knew if he had spoken with her birth Family, they hadn’t done anything except express an interest that she be returned to T’Yew. Her brother Clute wasn’t home for the holidays from Gael City, then. He’d be the only one who’d care.
Anger and fear and the thought of returning to an unbearable place snapped something in her. She walked up to T’Blackthorn, grabbed
his hand, and sent the last miserable day at T’Yew’s before she’d escaped. The waking in his bed and feeling him stab inside her, uncaring of her pain. Breakfast with him and YewHeir where they belittled her, yet watched with careful eyes for any sign of Passage, of burgeoning Flair they could control.
How in the afternoon, T’Yew’d assigned her a task, then interfered so she couldn’t complete it, then “punished” her. All her loathing of the man. All the fear. All the wild joy at her freedom now.
She yanked her hand from his grasp, jumped back, saw T’Blackthorn was still shaking his head at her memories, her emotions, and dashed past him to the alley entrance. She shot down another narrow passage. This one had side corridors along it that went in three different directions. He might follow her, but once she was inside the garden, she’d be safe.
Wouldn’t she?
She took off.
Lady, I am an honorable man. I would not take you back to that. They’d linked enough that T’Blackthorn could send her the thought. She snapped any lingering connection and ran.
This time, because the snow was thick and people sparse as the winter day came to an early end, she could run.
She sensed when he turned his back and strode in the opposite direction.
So she ran faster because she was free and no one would take her back to a stifling Residence and horrible FirstFamily rules.
Was T’Blackthorn an honorable man? She vaguely recalled hearing his name, but no comments about him. She’d have to think about her impulsive action, what she’d done, later. Now she hurried with her treasures to her sanctuary.
She hoped he wouldn’t betray her.
Finally, finally all the tests were done. Tinne leaned heavily on the wash cabinet in the refreshing room, avoiding the mirror over it. He had to look gray. He felt gray. His hair was probably gray, too, though that might not be seen since it was usually white blond. The lines now engraved deeply on his face must be visible, though. He felt as if he’d lived lifetimes. Seven dreadful lifetimes, as a matter of fact. The physical examination had been the only one that hadn’t taken any toll.
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