Heart Fate

by Robin D. Owens

  After sucking in a full breath, she put her hands on the wall. No interior shields, but faint traces of ancient human feelings—the joy of the dance, the wistfulness of the last dying GrandLord BalmHeal. The Residence itself had an enormous loneliness. An aching feeling of abandonment and betrayal. Her head swirled, and she was sinking, sinking, sinking.

  Pain!

  She gasped, saw blood welling from a puncture in her calf, and blinked at the dog—at Strother.

  Focus. Housekeeping spell, or we don’t eat.

  True. Another deep breath. She wheezed, took her hands from the wall, and bent over.

  “Puny,” the Residence said.

  She steadied her breath, ignored the throbbing of her injury. She could tend to it with herbs from the stillroom later if she had enough Flair for a minor Healing spell. She might have enough Flair to clean the room, but wasn’t sure whether she could access her psi power. She was cold, and her Flair seemed to move like hidden fish under a thick slab of ice.

  The dog slid his nose into her knee. Work!

  She glared at him. He leaned a paw on her foot. Ouch!

  Intelligent animals have Flair from birth. No stupid Passages.

  Her eyes widened. He was offering her some of his Flair!

  Food more important than Flair.

  True again, but energy was energy. Flair might be the only thing keeping him alive.

  He narrowed his eyes and growled.

  “All right!” One. Last. Good. Breath. Hands on the wall. Grime underneath fingertips. Ignore all sensations.

  Pull a small spark from Strother, spear it into the solid ice. Breathe! Dredge up that Flair. It’s slippery. Don’t lose it! There. Here it comes!

  She gathered Flair, sent it into the wall and Residence. Through numb lips she cried, “Clean room!” then sagged.

  Strother sat straight, cocked his head at her use of so little of his psi energy. Then his ears pricked, his nostrils widened. He pointed his muzzle toward the large door.

  Lahsin squinted and saw the slightest whirl of air. She bit her lip, hoping it would grow. She’d become accustomed to being thought a failure, used to forcing herself to proceed with any task though she’d be scolded for it. But now, after several successes, the thought of failing stabbed through her.

  It was agonizingly slow, but the spell built as a sigh of a breeze on a hot summer’s day increased to a strong wind, then a whirlwind of a coming storm. Strother hobbled back into the main corridor, but Lahsin laughed as the spell pushed against her to clean every millimeter of the room and leave it smelling of tea tree.

  Leaning against the threshold, she saw the wind die. The windows sparkled, the fancy patterned parquet floor gleamed dully, needing more refinishing. There was no hint of the heap of debris that had littered the fireplace.

  “The housekeeping spell is done,” she said weakly.

  “For one room,” the Residence grumbled.

  “For your largest room.”

  The front door opened and closed—no squeaking. “Very well,” the Residence said, then paused. “You may access the kitchen no-times and may use the small floral guest room upstairs. Dog—”

  Strother! the dog mentally shouted.

  “—may choose a closet.”

  Lahsin chuckled, stepped away from the wall, and nearly fell, weak from her exertions. She managed to put a hand on it and staggered, coughing, back down the hall toward the kitchen.

  Strother had kicked the door wide. Murky light came from windows in the back and on the end of the house. The place was filthy. She should have cleaned this room first. Time enough to do so tomorrow, if she had the same amount of Flair as today.

  The dog stood, drool stringing from his muzzle, in front of the wall with no-time food storage units. One would contain prepared meals, steaming or chilled, exactly the same temperature as when they were placed in storage. The other would have supplies. But how much of each?

  Come ON! snapped Strother. His saliva pooled onto the floor, leaving a clean mark. Lahsin got the impression that he didn’t want to sit on the dirty slate tiles.

  Nearly panting herself, Lahsin went to the smaller unit that had a long chrome bar about chin-high. The panel that should have shown the list was blank.

  “Residence, do you have furrabeast steak?” Just saying it made her mouth water.

  No answer.

  She put her hand on the bar. And couldn’t open it. “Ooh!” She didn’t have a smidgeon of Flair left to open the damn door.

  Strother balanced awkwardly on his hind legs, scrabbled at the door, but couldn’t get it open. His growls came deep and angry.

  Damn!

  Only one thing to do.

  “I will lift you—”

  I am too heavy for you.

  “Not if it means food! And you can stretch tall, almost as tall as me. I’ll put my hand around one of your forepaws and open the damn door.”

  Grunting, she lifted, dropped him as he wiggled. “Be still!”

  He growled.

  They tried again, Lahsin muttering, “Furrabeast steak,” as she wrenched at the handle.

  Failed.

  The third time, breath ragged, shouting, they succeeded. Both of them moaned as the aroma of grilled meat wafted out. Lahsin swallowed spit. There were four plates of beautiful china, cuts showed the doneness. There were side dishes of potatoes and green beans on every plate. She nearly whimpered. Strother did whimper.

  “Rare for you?” she asked.

  Yes.

  She took the warm plate and put it on the floor. He ripped at it, then took slow bites. She pulled out the well-done meat for herself and put it on the table. When she saw that the no-time had replaced both rare and well-done with additional portions, she moaned and closed the door.

  Tears came to her eyes.

  She carried the plate into the conservatory, leaving the door open to the main Residence.

  It was the best meal she’d ever eaten.

  Tinne finished his day with Saille T’Willow’s first training session. The man was less of a tyro than he’d indicated, and said he’d had some instruction at a country manor.

  After drawing up an aggressive program, they parted, and Tinne grinned at the hefty annual fee Saille had authorized. Whatever financial dip occurred because of the scandal—and there’d been a loss—the salon was safe for the year.

  Tinne teleported to the pad in Turquoise House.

  “Hewwo, Tinnie! Gweetingth!” it said in a girlish baby voice, complete with lisp. Tinne stopped, mouth open in surprise. Ilexa rolled on the floor with echoing cat laughter.

  Tinne swallowed. “House, do you like that voice?”

  “Two actorth came today!” it caroled. “Thith wath the beth voith.”

  Tinne suppressed a flinch, hurried to his bedroom. “Perhaps I can hear the other.”

  “Of course, Tinne.” Dark, low, with a rasp that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Tinne recognized the voice from plays he’d seen. The actor specialized in villains, and the spin of horrific Flair gave Tinne the shudders. Apparently the actors weren’t taking the request for a voice for the House seriously.

  “You’re right, the first voice is the best. Otherwise I’d think you an abandoned and haunted Earthan castle.”

  “Unless you want Mitchella’s? I’ve heard that one the longest, have the greatest range,” it said in Mitchella’s tones.

  He stopped stripping, held his clothes close. “No, let’s go with the new female one. And speaking of Mitchella—”

  “—you are due at an exthended Holly-Blackthorn Family gathering in half a thepthour.”

  “Yes. I’m changing now. Please request that T’Holly Residence send a glider for me.” Teleporting took a great deal of energy. Even walking from the teleportation room to his own bedroom had been tiring. Or maybe his steps had dragged because he didn’t want to have dinner with his Family.

  Ilexa had passed him to stand in front of a mirror and was grooming herself. She
turned her head and snorted.

  “I’ll be needing—wanting—to teleport to and from FirstGrove tonight. To soak in the best Healing pool in Druida.”

  Her fur rippled in a shrug. Perhaps I will go and kill more food for the dog. She stood and pranced to him. All cats are now talking about my exploits.

  “Uh, secrecy, Ilexa.”

  You told me I could boast.

  He was afraid he had. “I made a mistake. The more who know, the easier it will be to find—”

  No. The location blurs in my mind, on my tongue when I speak of it. And Zanth and other FamCats can’t get in. They do not have a desperate FamMan. Ilexa smirked.

  Tinne winced.

  “The legendary FirthGrove?” asked the Turquoise House.

  “Forget you heard that.”

  “You would have me wipe my memory?” the House said, appalled.

  Tinne ran a hand through his hair. What happened to peace and quiet? He nearly shouted, “No! Please designate any references to FirstGrove as extremely private and personal, not to be disclosed to anyone without my authorization.”

  “My firth thecret! Done. I have a warm brithe brandy for you in your thitting room.” There was the sound of a metallic drawer extending.

  “Thank you.”

  “A new beverage-only no-time wath inthalled today.”

  “You had a busy day. House, could you try to make your esses a little harder, please?”

  “Yethss.”

  “Excellent.” Or about as good as it was going to get. He pulled on a new holly green shirt of silkeen with bloused sleeves, black trous gathered at the ankles, and low boots.

  Brushing his hair, he wondered again whether he should visit FirstGrove tonight—recalled that the purpose of the dinner would be to announce a new baby. The clench of his gut told him that time in the FirstGrove might be wise.

  Lahsin spent the rest of the day in the Residence. She’d swept out the room the Residence had assigned her, pulled off the bed linens, and gone, under protest from the Residence, into another room to hang them outside on its balcony. She’d tested the bedsponge and found it crumbly and soft, but acceptable.

  Strother hadn’t told her which closet he’d chosen, and she hadn’t asked. He might prefer sleeping in his greenhouse den since the mild winter days kept the place warm. There was some heat in the Residence from ancient spells circulating hot springs water through the pipes, though the Residence had grumbled about spending more effort to heat the place.

  There wasn’t any plumbing, the Residence had admitted truculently. That system was different than the heating pipes. Lahsin had decided that item had to be the very next to activate when her Flair revived. She wasn’t sure how much energy plumbing would demand, but didn’t think it would be easy, and a lot less interesting than the estate spellshields. But no cleaning could be done without water.

  Then she’d returned to the stillroom to make a salve for her puncture and a sore muscle balm for Tinne as payment for self-defense training. She hoped she could ask for the lessons tonight.

  Though she said little Healing jingles as she made the ointments, she’d had no Flair to power them. So she said prayers to the Lady and Lord, too, and hoped blessings might work.

  As she was fixing a hearty meal of stew and bread for herself, Strother strolled in, and she gave him a bowl of clucker bites. He hummed in pleasure as he ate.

  Dark came early in the month of Rowan, the days getting shorter until Yule, the winter solstice. She’d wanted to retire in her not-too-clean-but-warm room and sleep on a real bedsponge. But Tinne always came late to the garden, after most people ate dinner. The more she thought on it, she believed it wasn’t his work that wearied him. It was time with his Family and friends. Being the butt of a scandal couldn’t be good.

  She only hoped the Yews were suffering. Which reminded her that Tinne had brought newssheets that she’d ignored and left on the bench. They’d have disintegrated to garden mulch by now.

  So she went late to the Healing pool, scraped the remains of the newssheet off Tinne’s bench, and dropped them in the arbor. She couldn’t distinguish whether the titillating first story was Tinne’s divorce or her vanishing. The Hollys were always interesting to read about. The Yews and the Burdocks, less so.

  As she slid into the steamy herbed water, she let out a quiet moan. She should do this every day, Tinne Holly or not! Secretly she wanted to see him. The dog was no company, and the Residence was a crotchety old man, needing and greedy for caring, and pushing friendly overtures away because of it.

  Tinne Holly, despite his own problems, had still carried an air of stoic optimism about him. He’d weather this suffering because he was a survivor. More than that, a fighter. Lahsin admired him and wanted his courage to rub off on her.

  He was nothing like T’Yew, or any of the older men she’d met since her marriage, which both comforted and frightened her. But Tinne was the best chance she had of learning how to protect herself in the future.

  Perhaps tonight she’d be brave enough to let him teach her.

  Eighteen

  Tinne stopped in the great hall of T’Holly Residence. His brother, Holm, stood in the center of the chamber, arm around his wife. Their parents were behind them, holding hands. Beside them was GreatLord Vinni T’Vine, the young prophet.

  All of the Family who worked in the Residence, on the estate, or even hired out as guards for other Nobles in Druida, had gathered. Tinne sidled over to Tab. The Blackthorns with an actively fussing babe in arms and their other two children stood off to the side. Everyone was beaming.

  Tab, always astute, set his hand on Tinne’s shoulder, and it felt supportive, bracing.

  Holm lifted his champagne glass and said, “I am pleased to announce that Lark and I are having a child.”

  Joyful shouts came from everyone, reverberated against Tinne’s ears, reminding him that this had happened, too, when he and Genista had announced their forthcoming baby. He grunted, settled into his balance. Tab squeezed his shoulder, sending Tinne some Flair. Which was good, because his knees went weak and his gut roiled.

  But he had to do his duty. Tinne forced a smile and with careful steps, he walked to Holm and Lark. Silence fell.

  Tinne met his brother’s serious eyes. Tinne loved Holm, but this was hard, hard. Stepping close he embraced his older brother and hugged him tight. “Blessings,” he choked out. The past was overwhelming him. His brother had not been in the gathering to wish him and Genista joy.

  Holm held him close, sent Tinne more Flair. “Thank you.”

  Tinne turned to Lark, the Healer. Her violet eyes held a sheen of sorrow, though she smiled. He hugged her, too. And she gave him Flair. The Family bond expanded inside Tinne, and he felt the warmth of all for him, the acknowledgment by all of his loss, the rising gladness that a new child would be born.

  His hurt was accepted, then it was eased by the love of his Family for him. He kissed Lark’s temple. When he drew away his smile was genuine. “Blessings on you and the babe.”

  “Thank you, brother,” she said. Her gaze searched his face. “You are looking better.”

  He summoned a chuckle. “The Turquoise House is endlessly amusing.” And time in FirstGrove was Healing itself. And Lahsin was undemanding, had no expectations of him.

  Lark smiled. “I’m glad.”

  Tinne’s father avoided meeting his eyes. Tinne retreated, and the Blackthorns came to congratulate Holm and Lark, baby wailing. As soon as that was done, they muttered apologies and left.

  Tinne returned to Tab, who said, “You did very well. I’m proud of you.”

  Holm put his hand on Vinni T’Vine’s shoulder. “Vinni has agreed to be the oracle at the birth of our child, reading the character and strength of his or her Flair.”

  There were mutterings of approval.

  “That won’t be cheap,” Tab said.

  “Now let’s celebrate together with good food and good ale.” Holm gestured to the long tables at the sid
e of the room, laden with a feast. Other, smaller tables were scattered throughout the large chamber. Holm led Lark to the food and took a plate, attentive to her choices. Voices rose as the Family discussed the news and headed toward the food.

  Tab nudged Tinne. “Sorry, boy, but ya can’t leave afore you eat with your folks.”

  “And you.”

  “And me. I’ll be right with ya.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Ya done well,” he repeated.

  Tinne piled food almost absently on his plate, steeled himself, and took a seat at the table with his parents and brother and sister-in-law. Vinni T’Vine stood beside it.

  “Vinni, will you stay for dinner?” asked Tinne’s Mamá.

  “I’d be honored, but I must go to the Reeds’.” A smile too cynical for a child his age curved his lips. “I think they’re angling for a free consultation without actually asking.”

  “Blessings, then,” Lark said.

  “And to you.” He grinned. “This will be fun. You’re the first folks to ask me to be an oracle, and I’ve been T’Vine six years. My thanks.” He bowed smoothly and went to the door where a brand-new glider waited.

  An awkward silence draped the table. All of them should have been asked to the T’Reed holiday party. They hadn’t been, or Tinne would have had it on his calendarsphere.

  Tab slashed a look at the others and leaned back in his chair. When he spoke the tang of the seaman was in his voice. “My invites haven’t changed muchly.” He shrugged. “The older, less Noble generation. We all know that scandal’ll touch everyone sooner’a later.” He inhaled and exhaled audibly. “The Green Knight has lost some patrons, but not ’nough to affect profits. Had some inquiries from middle-class folk, and we’ll be makin’ up the loss with ’em. New blood. Good business.” He nodded.

  Lark’s shoulders hunched, and a wave of certainty washed over Tinne that she and his brother had plenty of holiday invitations.

  The scandal revolved mostly around him and his parents then.

  His Mamá straightened in her chair and lifted her chin. “Tinne, I believe you will find that your own message cache is full. We haven’t been forwarding it to the Turquoise House.” She reached over and took his father’s hand. A flush came to her cheeks that he thought was embarrassment.