Heart Fate

by Robin D. Owens

  Cave of the Dark Goddess, he was weary, but at least it was over.

  Everything was over, his old life, his marriage. He had no doubt what the verdict would be on the status of his relationship with his wife.

  A heavy silence from the pink room pressed against the closed door to the cleansing room. Eventually he’d have to go out. He was unsure whether he could cobble enough pieces of himself together to make a reasonable facsimile of the former Tinne Holly. The Healers seemed to have broken him down into components—communications, heart, Flair, sexuality . . . Puzzle pieces that had changed and no longer fit into the life he’d had before, the man he’d been.

  It was only the travail. He’d be better after a night in the T’Holly Residence HouseHeart, and he was even looking forward to that! No one would bother him there as he reassembled himself. The Residence itself would help him make sense of the past and give him strength to continue with the future.

  Meanwhile, outside the door, the Healers waited to give him the bad news. Say in formal words what they all already knew. How long would they wait for him to pull himself together? He thought the passing time was coming up on a good twenty minutes. A half septhour? A septhour?

  Could he possibly put everything off for a full night? Sleep right here?

  No. Soon someone would call his name, and he’d have to respond.

  He ran cool water in the sink again, washed his face and the nape of his neck under his hair. He ran damp fingers over his scalp, giving it a quick rub. That tight scalp against his skull was a sign of stress. He snorted.

  He stood, shifted his body—thinner by a few pounds—until all his parts seemed to settle into place, and breathed deeply. Putting on a calm mask, keeping his head up, he opened the door and walked into the horrible pink room.

  He faced a semicircle of very serious people. His parents. The Healers. Saille T’Willow, the matchmaker. Ailim Elder, the SupremeJudge. His chest constricted.

  D’Sea sighed, straightened even more. “It is the considered opinions of myself, FirstLevel Healer GrandLord T’Heather, and GreatLord T’Willow that the marriage between Genista Furze and Tinne Holly is irretrievably broken. Genista Furze Holly has requested a divorce, and I must agree that such an action would be best for both individuals.”

  T’Holly flinched, Tinne’s Mamá sucked in a breath, “A FirstFamily divorce,” she murmured. Her hand was already in his father’s, and she squeezed his fingers.

  “I reluctantly agree that this marriage can be ritually dissolved,” Judge Elder said.

  “When?” croaked T’Holly.

  Tinne found his voice. “As soon as possible. Now. Tonight.” He ignored his Mamá’s inarticulate protest. “With as few people as possible.” He glanced at his father’s lined face. “I don’t want you, any of my Family there.”

  “We must support you—” his Mamá started.

  “No!” He was breathing too quickly. With effort he steadied himself, managed a smile that had to be grotesque. “I know you support me, but I can’t . . .” He couldn’t go on.

  “We need another FirstFamily Lord or Lady other than the Healers to agree to the divorce,” Judge Elder said.

  The Hollys remained silent.

  “Summon Furze,” Tinne grated. Genista’s father.

  “Not necessary,” a young voice said.

  Everyone turned to see a boy of about twelve. Young GreatLord Muin T’Vine. He walked from the shadows, face somber, but radiating acceptance of the event like no other there. Somehow that eased Tinne’s pain. The boy was a prophet, and this whole string of experiences now smacked of fate.

  “Vinni.” Tinne nodded to him.

  Vinni nodded back, turned to the others. “I agree that the marriage of Genista Furze Holly and Tinne Holly be dissolved.”

  Tinne felt something inside him crumble, understood it was more of his connection to Genista.

  Clearing his throat, Vinni said, “Genista and I have reserved the small round minor-temple near Southgate for the divorce ritual this evening. It is available immediately. She is already there.” He grimaced. “She didn’t want me to officiate as priest and Lord, requested that Saille T’Willow do that.”

  Saille inclined his torso stiffly. “I can do that.”

  To Tinne, another layer was adding to the nightmarish day.

  Vinni said, “Genista would prefer SupremeJudge Ailim Elder officiate as priestess and Lady.”

  Another sigh, from everyone.

  Ailim nodded. “I accede to Genista’s wishes.”

  Tinne scrubbed his face, ignored everyone except Vinni. “The temple is ready now?”

  “Yes,” Vinni said. He gestured to a chest behind him. “I took the liberty of requesting robes for T’Willow and the SupremeJudge.”

  “We three can go then.” Tinne’s voice sounded too rough, but he couldn’t modulate it.

  “Yes,” Vinni said.

  Tinne looked at Saille, Ailim. “Please,” he said.

  Saille was the first to move. He went to the chest and picked up heavy scarlet and gold robes, laid them over his arm, held out a hand to Tinne. “I know the coordinates of the temple. We can ’port there.”

  Ailim went to the chest, took off her purple judge’s vestment, drew a shimmering silver robe over her head, and smoothed it down. She rolled the judge’s covering into a small ball and put it inside her large sleeve. She stepped onto the teleportation pad, then held out her hands, one to Saille and the other to Tinne. “Shall we go?”

  A great breath shuddered from Tinne. Another ordeal, but it would be the last. Thank the Lady and Lord, this would soon be all over. He walked to Ailim, careful of his steps. His knees felt weak. Then he took Saille’s hand as he joined them.

  Tinne nodded to D’Sea and T’Heather. “Thank you for your expertise.” He didn’t look at his parents, couldn’t afford to.

  On the count of three, he teleported to the temple.

  They did it as day vanished into night.

  The temple was small and shabby, falling into disrepair. The tapestries on the wall were frayed at the edges, the wooden floor scuffed. It didn’t appear to be a beloved neighborhood temple, perhaps discarded for something newer.

  The darkness inside the main circular room was rich—and pulsing with emotion. A large white circular pillar of light encompassed the small pentacle that Ailim Elder and Saille Willow had cast.

  Tinne had stripped and held his clothes. The ritual had demanded he be nude. Saille T’Willow had inserted the knowledge of the upcoming rite, the words and actions, into Tinne’s mind.

  Time to do this. He walked forward. There was no grit under his feet, so he knew the temple was clean, at least.

  Entering the main space, he set his clothes on the floor outside the circle, then bowed to Saille, then Ailim. She gestured for him to stand within the western starpoint. He stepped just within its bounds.

  Genista, also nude, entered from the other side, standing on the eastern point. She looked different. He scrutinized her, seeing her, and not the image of her he carried in his mind, for the first time in a long time. She was thinner, her body not the complete voluptuous delight he’d experienced when they’d joined after wedding. Her muscles looked more toned. Well, she had been—was—had been—a Holly, exercised and fought. He’d heard that, though he’d never trained her or with her.

  Her face held a few lines.

  Her eyes were sad, with a haunting that he’d avoided seeing because he could do nothing to banish it, and it only reminded him of his own grief.

  His cock did not rise, and that was both slightly surprising and a relief. She was a beautiful woman, his wife.

  His eyes stung as his heart wrenched. He wanted to stop this. Wanted to turn back time to when they’d loved, when they’d been a couple.

  It hurt to let go.

  It would hurt to go on without her.

  But the past was gone.

  Love was gone.

  It had died, and he had fought the unde
rstanding of that, even as emptiness had filled him where love had once been.

  Low chants surrounded them as Saille T’Willow, officiating as God, and SupremeJudge Ailim Elder, acting as Goddess, closed the ritual circle. The divorce ceremony had begun.

  “Take off your marriage wristbands and place them here,” Saille T’Willow said sternly to Genista, offering a large wooden bowl. She did.

  Ailim Elder spoke to Tinne, “Take off your marriage wristbands and place them here.” Tinne did, putting them into her bowl. He and Genista had chosen the wristbands carefully from T’Ash. Jewels sparkled in gold. Lost treasure.

  “Greet each other,” Ailim said.

  They hadn’t. Now his bow matched Genista’s, both more martial than formal courteous bows. Neither of them said a word.

  A sigh drifted on the air, Saille Willow’s. “You must meet, face-to-face, press your hands to each other’s.” He gestured before the altar.

  Again Tinne and Genista matched steps, knowing the movements of each other even as their minds and hearts had diverged.

  Their palms met. Her hands were smaller than his. Her touch both familiar, and not. The feeling, the link between them was gone.

  “Genista, you say your spellwords now,” Saille instructed.

  “Tinne Holly, go forward with your life with my blessing and the blessing of the Lady and the Lord. We are no longer one, no longer together, no longer partners or mated. Blessings upon you.” Her voice was steady, though her eyes filled.

  Tinne opened and closed his mouth. He didn’t want to say the words, wanted to deny, fight for her. A spurt of anger came. Would he always fight? Even when he could not hope to win? Even when losing was the better thing? Why did he feel this way, unable to let go?

  He had to let go. There was nothing between them but sadness and grief and hurt.

  That would stop when he stopped fighting. He coughed, met her eyes again. This time they were strong and level and clear.

  “Genista Furze, go forward with your life”—he sucked in a deep, hard breath—“with my blessing and the blessing of the Lady and the Lord.” His words sped up. Get it over. Get it over. “We are no longer one, no longer together, no longer partners or mated. Blessings upon you!”

  There wasn’t even a small “snick” as their link broke. Because there was no link. Gone, and he didn’t know when.

  “It is done,” Saille said, voice deep with regret. He moved to Tinne’s right, stretched out his hands to Ailim Elder, who stood opposite. They joined hands in the space between Genista and Tinne, under their pressed palms. The priestess and priest lifted their arms to push Tinne’s and Genista’s hands apart.

  “The bond between these two is cut,” Ailim said firmly. “Clean and never to be mended.”

  Tinne and Genista stepped back, Saille and Ailim stepped forward, between them. Linking hands again, they held them over the marriage bands in the bowl. “We take all energy and passion from these jewels and send them on their way,” the two said.

  The marriage bands disappeared. Probably to T’Ash. Tinne didn’t ask.

  “Go your separate ways, Genista Furze and Tinne Holly,” Saille and Ailim intoned. “With blessings from the Lady and Lord.”

  Saille turned, blocking any sight of Genista from Tinne, and handed Tinne his clothes. He dressed, knowing from the rustle across the pentacle that Genista did the same.

  Back-to-back, Saille and Ailim thanked the Lady and Lord and the Guardians of the Elemental Gateways and dismissed the ritual circle.

  Tinne heard Genista leave.

  He didn’t know what to do.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Saille said, his arm coming around Tinne’s shoulders to squeeze tightly.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Ailim Elder said, standing in front of Tinne, eyes full of tears. She put warm hands on his face and kissed each of his cheeks. “It’s a sad time.”

  Tinne swallowed. “Yes.”

  He didn’t think he’d ever felt emptier—of words, emotions, needs. Pain was there, though. Loss, the loss of hope, of potential, loss of self-image, who Tinne Holly was—had been—was.

  His gut churned, and he didn’t want to stay in this place, didn’t want to ever see it again, which was probably why such a small, out-of-the-way temple had been chosen. He turned and went out the door, stopped in the shadow of the small portico when he saw Genista, dressed in a new travel suit, walk steadily down the path.

  A man came out of the shadows, joined her. She didn’t acknowledge him, but he walked beside her. Just before they vanished from sight, he reached for her hand and cradled it in his own. She stiffened, but she didn’t pull away.

  She never looked back.

  Pain. Anger. Anguish filled Tinne. He couldn’t bear being here, couldn’t possibly say anything to Saille or Ailim, couldn’t even handle seeing them.

  There was only one place where he could bear to be, only one place where he could safely release the anger and pain and expect comfort. Only one place that felt remotely like home.

  The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon. He didn’t even have to form an image to teleport. He was just there on the teleportation pad.

  When he walked into the main fighting salon, conversation died. Word must have gotten out. Gossip about the FirstFamilies and the Hollys tended to spread fast. The newssheets had probably put out a special edition.

  His gut tightened. This was going to be tough, people talking about him, his personal life, judging him a failure. He’d need all his courage. Maybe he should have gone home and drummed.

  No one said anything to his face, but there were quick glances, murmured asides. Tinne used his G’Uncle Tab’s private dressing room to change. The glimpse he’d caught of himself in the mirrors along one of the short walls of the salon had shown he was moving stiffly, letting tension affect him. Well, wasn’t that why he was here?

  His fighting wear—light loose trous and shirt, with wide short legs and sleeves, in Holly green, hung in a wardrobe with his G’Uncle’s. When he opened one of the two doors, the scent of the man and himself and the salon wafted out. The smell brought more memories of his life, from childhood through the last few weeks. He set his head against the closed wooden door of the wardrobe and fought back the stinging in his eyes. The scent was the same. He was not and would never be the same.

  His life had changed again. He didn’t know how much more he could endure.

  Though he did know that he would have the entire support of his Family. A distant thought, and more thought than heart-feeling, but it provided a sliver of comfort.

  He gathered himself together and disrobed again. He’d never needed a workout so much, to release all the negative emotions after the divorce ritual. He threw his clothes away, the second set in two days—he kept a couple of changes here and upstairs in Tab’s rooms— and let the heat of the waterfall start to work on his tense muscles.

  Entering the main salon, he avoided everyone, went to a corner, and limbered up. Usually he joined a group and sparred with them from the first, helped his G’Uncle teach, since the Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon would be his someday as Holly SecondSon. But he felt too vulnerable, his emotions rough.

  So he practiced the basic fighting patterns by himself, not quite as automatic as they should be, until his muscles loosened and flexed as they should.

  Finally he glanced at those in the salon. No enemies or unfriends. A good crowd. All men. The salon drew a predominantly masculine clientele, Noblemen serious about exercising, training, fighting. Or just enjoying the company of other men, or escaping their wives . . . no, stop that thought.

  Tinne bowed to the room at large, saw a knot of his contemporaries in the corner opposite him, and strode toward them.

  GraceLord Fescue, a blustery man beginning to go to fat, came up to Tinne and clapped him on the shoulder. “I am sorry you had such bad luck with the woman, but you’re well rid of her. We all knew she was easy to bed.”

  Someone’
s sly laugh was the last slip of the knife under his skin.

  He snapped.

  Eight

  Distantly Tinne knew he’d made a mistake, coming here. He lunged at the small crowd of snickering men with Fescue. Were there five? Six? He ploughed into them, his body acting, his mind filled with a red haze. His fists and feet connected with flesh. Shocks zinged up his arms and legs. His pulse raced as he dodged blows.

  Shouting. Tab calling his name? He didn’t know. Words made no sense.

  He didn’t care.

  Something hard cracked against his head, and he heard wood splintering. His eyes blurred, and he fell.

  He hated falling, struggled against the grayness edging his vision.

  He hated falling.

  Bodies piled atop his.

  A while later he regained his senses to find himself held in the iron grips of his G’Uncle, his brother, and his father.

  His father had a wild light in his eyes, a thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth to his chin. “Haven’t had that good of a fight in a long, long time.”

  Tab said in a disapproving tone, “Tinne went berserk.”

  Tinne winced. He’d lost control. Unacceptable for a Holly man, especially a child of GreatLord T’Holly.

  His father let him go, rolled powerful shoulders. “It happens sometimes.”

  His brother’s hands fell from Tinne. Holm stared at his father just like Tinne himself. They’d been given daily lectures on the importance of remaining in control during a fight. Then he realized his father was dealing with the pain of Tinne’s divorce and the scandal as much as he.

  He turned to look at Holm, saw an easiness in him that Tinne could only envy. Yes, Holm was sad, grieving for a lost sister-in-law, but his life was golden again. He had his woman, his position, knew himself and his station. He’d grown during his own adversities, when his identity had been shattered even more than Tinne’s. Tinne looked aside. He could only hope to come through this as confident a man as his brother.