Hearts and Swords: Four Original Stories of Celta

by Robin D. Owens

  “Because he wants his Flair, wants to be GreatLord T’Ash.” Walker gave her a straight look. “That will make him happy. That’s what I wanted for Nuin, for all of my charges, always, that they find and pursue the dreams that make them happy.”

  “What of your dreams?” Sedwy asked, but it felt as if her blood pumped leaden in her veins.

  “My dreams were simple. To be a beloved part of the Family, one of the Clover boys. To teach. My dreams are gone.” He faced her now. “What are your dreams?” He didn’t sound as hurt or angry. Resigned.

  She hurt for him but answered his question with a smile that she knew was crooked, and a helpless opening gesture of her hands. “Travel, an excellent career, a family someday. They seem to be changing.” She wet her lips, knew she would trod on another shaky topic. “Change is not necessarily bad.”

  “No,” he said. He wasn’t looking at her now. “But it always must be handled, and I’m working hard at that now.”

  Her own words back at her. She ached. Because she’d hurt him and herself and she still wasn’t satisfied. Swallowing, she murmured, “I’ve always believed that a person did the best they could in life.”

  “Which would mean fulfilling their highest potential,” Walker stated.

  “Yes.”

  “Whether they wanted to do that or not.”

  She was quiet, grappling with the fact that someone wouldn’t want to be the best they could be, wouldn’t work hard to do that.

  “I had goals, and I worked toward them and achieved them. That was enough for me.” He straightened blouse and ankle cuffs, checked himself in the mirror. “I look like a GrandLord.” His smile was twisted. “My Family will be pleased at breakfast.”

  Thirteen

  By the time he finished breakfast, he was set in the rut of duty. Sedwy had decided to work in her own suite. He told himself he wasn’t disappointed.

  So he began his new job, GrandLord, signing the other contracts he, Pink, and the elders thought were appropriate. He also worked on the other forms. The Application for Noble Name, Coat of Arms, Motto, Heraldry. So now he added the graphics papyrus of the Clover Celtic knot, and the motto—We Make Our Own Luck—and sent the packet to the collection box.

  Then he drew his birth certificate, the Verification of Life papyrus, and looked at it, mouth tightening. Naturally he’d glanced at the sheet before when his father had stoically given the papyrus to him. He’d been born at NobleClass HealingHall with a third-level Healer attending. Everyone else in the Clover clan had been born in the compound, attended by a third-level Healer, as was every Celtan’s right. The Healer had verified the birth and the parents. Uncles Pink and Mel and Aunt Pratty had been witnesses. No other Heliotropes than his mother.

  There was no oracle seal, so one had not attended his birth to read his character or prophesy his future. Maybe Walker might have been spared the last three weeks if an oracle had indicated he’d experience Passage and become noble. Maybe not. But he was resolved that every other child born, starting with Trif’s, would have an oracle in attendance.

  The Family might be able to work a deal with Vinni T’Vine, the FirstFamily lord and an honorary Clover, to act as oracle. He made a note of that, glanced once more at his Verification of Life, reading that he was born four months earlier than he’d been told all his life. The timing would have shown him that he couldn’t have been Fen’s son. Then he tapped the document, adding a “return to the Family collection box after copied” spell, and sent it off with the Biography for the NobleCouncil. It had taken a lot of time and effort to make a Family tree, but they did manage to go back five generations to the first woman who escaped from the old Downwind slums and called herself Trifolia Clover.

  He stared at the stacks of papyrus on his desk, as restless as a seven-year-old. In his previous job, Nuin Ash would be antsy by now and they’d take a break...walk down to the stream on the estate and look at it in the snow. Hell, make snow angels. Something.

  Walker was stuck at this desk, and the title sat heavy on his shoulders, inescapable now. He’d have to grow accustomed to the burden.

  And he should consider finding a schedule he could live with.

  Sedwy opened the door. “Forms all submitted?”

  “Just.”

  She smiled, shook her head. “I really like this ResidenceDen.”

  “It’s an office,” Walker said. “We don’t live in a Residence. The Clover Compound won’t become sentient for centuries.”

  Sedwy raised her brows and Walker rubbed his temples. “Sorry.”

  “Something wrong?”

  He’d been avoiding the next item at the top of his box. Gesturing her to sit, he took the piece of papyrus. His request for an apprenticeship of a Clover boy at a GraceHouse had been rejected. The letter was full of thinly veiled insults. Sedwy was regarding him with those big, beautiful blue green eyes of hers, so he had to explain.

  “My cuz Amos had his heart set on studying with GraceLady Lettuce, who is doing some underwater research.” Walker rolled his shoulders.

  “Even if I somehow convinced her to take Amos on, she and her household would make him miserable.” He couldn’t keep his jaw from clenching.

  He threw the heavy piece of papyrus—overly ornate—into the deconstructor. “So that option is gone. We’ll find another for Amos.”

  “The Hazels,” Sedwy murmured.

  “What?”

  “D’Hazel’s consort, T’Hazel, is of the Rowan Family. His Flair is associated with the ocean. He’s a scientist studying tide pools. He hasn’t had an apprentice for some time. I think he’ll be thrilled.”

  Walker hadn’t known any of that. Might have spent days talking to others to find that out. How could he do without Sedwy? “We would not have aimed so high.”

  “You need to.” Her voice was firm.

  Walker jerked his head at the deconstructor. “How do I stop that from happening?” He wanted to pace but figured that was a lower-class habit he needed to break. “I know my Flair is stronger than GraceLady Lettuce’s.”

  Sedwy leaned back in the chair, and the sunlight angled across the curve of her bosom. Walker didn’t allow himself to be distracted... much.

  “The Lettuces have been noble since the third generation after the Colonists.”

  “Much longer than the Clovers.”

  “Yes.”

  “But they are weaker than the Clovers.”

  “Her Flair and her Family is weaker than yours.”

  “We’ll start having more Flair.”

  “I’m sure you will. But there is one thing that you might do to gain more respect.”

  He sat up straight. “What?”

  “All of the FirstFamilies have ceremonial Family swords.” Her words came carefully placed. “In case of surrendering during a feud.”

  Walker grunted. “Sound like real weapons to me.”

  “They are that, too. But many other GrandHouses and Grace-Houses, even some established right after landing, don’t have Family swords.

  Swords count.”

  Walker grinned, knew it was fierce, didn’t care. “And I know the best weapons crafter in the world, T’Ash.”

  “T’Ash,” Sedwy agreed.

  As if he’d heard his name, the scrybowl pulsed insistently with T’Ash’s colors and a tune that Walker had just decided he couldn’t live with.

  “Here,” Walker said.

  T’Ash was scowling. In the background, Walker could hear Nuin screaming. “Your cuz was supposed to be here, taking care of Nuin by now.”

  “Travel from Gael City is slow. He was on Family business. I told you that, T’Ash. You need to learn to discipline your son.”

  “He has his mother’s eyes,” T’Ash mumbled. “I can’t look at those wet eyes and...”

  “Take him on an outing to the stream...Nuin’s FamFox is thinking of denning there in a while.”

  T’Ash pushed away from his desk. “All right.” He bent a stern look on Walker. “We
need to talk to you tonight after the open melee at The Green Knight.”

  Walker hadn’t been intending to be pummeled that night at the fighting salon. “We?”

  “Your allies; we’re meeting.”

  Dread coated Walker’s stomach. “All right.” From the corner of the eye, he saw the deconstructor with a bit of the rejection letter sticking out.

  “I’d like to speak with you, personally, too.”

  T’Ash smiled. “Fine. Later. I need to take my son for an excursion.” He signed off.

  When Walker faced Sedwy again, her brows were raised once more. Not in rebuke this time, and her eyes gleamed with interest. “The allies. Nice.” She smiled.

  Walker’s heart thumped hard. He’d do almost anything for that approving smile. Just how far would he go to please her?

  The minute he teleported onto the pad at The Green Knight, Walker realized T’Ash had lied. There had been something slightly off about their scry. Now he stepped off the pad and used his Flair to sense everyone in the building.

  T’Ash and his allies weren’t in the main area. They were in a smaller room, Sparring Salon Three.

  Walker nodded to the Holly cuz who stood at the reception podium, then continued across the entryway to the corridor that led to the private rooms. A couple of doors later, he was in Sparring Room Three.

  “Told you,” T’Ash said to the other men lounging in various poses on the rolled mats lining one wall. All of them were of the FirstFamilies. T’Ash and Straif T’Blackthorn, Walker’s former employer and cuz by marriage, were heads of their Families. As was Saille T’Willow. Of the two Hollys,

  Holm would one day be T’Holly, and Tinne Holly managed The Green Knight. All were excellent fighters.

  Walker inclined his head, keeping the new impassive expression he’d mastered on his face. His family might all be Commoners. His mother might be a weak Noblewoman, but his Family had set their hopes upon him to elevate the family to nobility. He had that duty, and that pride.

  T’Ash smiled at him, and warning bells rang in Walker’s mind. He knew that smile of his former employer. Challenging.

  Walker straightened his shoulders. He’d challenged T’Ash before—and won. Granted it was with regard to the education of T’Ash’s son. But a battle nonetheless.

  “Your Flair has been tested and you’ve proven to be GrandLord status,” Holm Holly said. “We are pleased to welcome you into the ranks of the nobility and to offer you a seat on the NobleCouncil.”

  “I hear a but,” Walker said.

  “When you allied with T’Ash, you allied with all the rest of us, since we have also allied with him.”

  Walker knew what was coming. It seemed to him that his life had become nothing but a series of tests. He strove to forestall it. “Tinne and Straif know my level of skill.”

  “You haven’t tested with me lately.” Tinne smiled.

  “Like hell. I tested last week.” Walker aimed a withering stare at Straif. “And I wrestled with you last night.”

  Straif grinned and spread his hands, then said, “Man up, GrandLord Clover.”

  Walker snorted.

  “The matches between you and the rest of us will be chosen by lot,” Tinne said.

  “Do I get the choice of weapons?” Walker asked.

  Tinne raised a brow. “Weapons? Surely.”

  “Blunt swords.”

  Tinne and his brother Holm exchanged looks. Then Tinne pushed a panel aside, revealing practice swords. He stood back for each to choose.

  Sweat trickling down his back, Walker paid great attention to weight and balance when he picked a weapon. Ever since he’d decided to ask for a sword to increase the Family’s status, he’d considered that if he did, the Hollys would test him. Then there were the laws of the city. A noble had to be certified to openly carry a sword. If he did this right, he wouldn’t have to test again—two rules, one test. Hopefully.

  Walker stood in the middle of the floor and prayed.

  Fifty minutes later, Holm Holly was helping Walker to his feet after “beheading” him. Walker’s mind still spun from the shock... and his imagination had provided images of what he’d now be looking like if the fight had been real. Holm had killed him in under three minutes—the quickest time. Walker had actually beaten Saille T’Willow, one small kernel of pride. Walker’s brother, Barton, had shown up and made terrible groaning noises that had distracted him during most of the matches.

  Still, Tinne Holly was nodding in approval as he walked up to take the practice sword from Walker’s limp fingers. “I’ll certify you as competent to carry a sword.” He buffeted Walker on the shoulder. “You didn’t forget everything that G’Uncle Tab taught you.”

  Walker grunted.

  “We’ll shower, then head out to the social club,” T’Ash said. “Good going, Walker.”

  Walker’s mind didn’t actually settle nicely back into his brainpan until he was sunk in a deep leather chair with his fingers curved around a mug of excellent ale.

  There had been some chitchat as they were led to the private room and got their drinks, but now the atmosphere changed. He became very aware of the fact that all of them had powerful rank and wealth and Flair, and most were older than he by a decade.

  Tinne Holly stared at Walker, swept a hand indicating the group. “Everyone else knows that my wife and my four-year-old baby girl have received personal threats from FirstFamily GrandLady D’Yew.”

  Clashes between two great sets of allies in the FirstFamiles. This was bad.

  “The time has come to remove D’Yew from her title,” Holm Holly said. “D’Sea, the mind Healer, suspects she is lost in madness. No Healer has been allowed in her Residence for the last two years. We haven’t seen her in at least a year.”

  Straif T’Blackthorn studied his fingernails. “She hasn’t attended a FirstFamilies Council or participated in a FirstFamilies ritual in that time.

  Hasn’t managed her obligatory duties of six in three years.” His smile was ironic. “The same charges that were leveled against me, cuz Holm.”

  “You weren’t mad,” Holm said.

  “No, just obsessed,” Straif said. He shook his head. “I’m not sure about this.”

  “Then there’s the question as to whether to declare the Yew Family dead altogether,” Tinne said.

  Holm said, “She’ll fight this to her last breath, and she’s vicious.”

  That statement hung in the air like thunder about to release lightning.

  Continuing, Holm said, “The conservatives in the council, the generation even older than my father, remain strong. The Yews have always been conservative. We’ll have to be careful of T’Hawthorn. He has great influence, and right now he seems to be leaning toward that side.”

  “It’s a terrible thing, removing the title from the lord or lady holding it,” said Saille T’Willow. “Much better if it could be done internally, within the Family, though that is rough, too.”

  Willow would know that, Walker thought. He was cognizant of all the major stories of the FirstFamilies now. Willow’s MotherDam had been mad, too, and he’d taken the title from her.

  “We don’t know what’s going on in the Residence or the Family.” T’Ash shifted in his chair, obviously uncomfortable with the whole discussion.

  But Walker knew his former employer. The man was dedicated to ensuring the FirstFamilies Council was a good and honorable body. With good and honorable members, unlike the strange and mad D’Yew. T’Ash continued, “Last thing I heard, she wed with GrandLord Capit Valerian. He’s since died, but they have a daughter.”

  “Poor child, growing up in that Residence,” T’Willow said.

  “The FirstFamilies aren’t the ones who have final say in this matter,” Straif T’Blackthorn pointed out, “All Councils must vote, and that means we need more support in the NobleCouncil.”

  Their gazes focused on Walker. He suppressed a shudder. FirstFamilies politics didn’t get any dicier than this.

 
T’Willow said, “D’Yew is my enemy, too.”

  “Can we count on you, Walker?” Holm Holly asked.

  Walker stood, met the steely gazes of the men. They could do untold harm to him if they cancelled their alliances, to his Family if they let it be known that Walker and the Clovers could not be trusted.

  “I must think about the issue.” He knew he wouldn’t allow a Family to be declared dead. At that moment his calendarsphere popped into existence, chiming, “Daily review with Pink Clover in twenty minutes,” it announced.

  Stiffening his spine, Walker met Holm Holly’s eyes. Difficult, but he couldn’t afford to waver. “I need information. Can I see the medical reports and any reviews? Also the last events that D’Yew has attended and any votes she has cast on the FirstFamilies Council?” Sounded reasonable to him.

  “Surely.” Holm stood, too, offered his hand. His smile was like a shark’s.

  Walker clasped arms with Holm. The man’s wrist timer buzzed. So did Tinne’s. “Our wives are expecting us,” Tinne said with evident relief. He met Walker’s eyes. “D’Yew is a dangerous madwoman, Walker.”

  Walker remained standing until all the others except T’Ash had left. T’Ash’s face was stony. “I don’t like people threatening children.”

  “I don’t, either. A moment of your time, T’Ash.”

  “All right.”

  “I need a sword,” Walker said.

  Fourteen

  Sure,” T’Ash said, just that easily. “Got something in mind?”

  Walker thought of the sword in his Passage—the sword that was his Flair that he’d claimed. Nothing like he’d ever seen a noble carry, nothing like the sword that Uncle Pink wanted for show, or Barton wanted in case of a fight. T’Ash was incapable of forging a poor weapon, so it would be good. And, finally, something Walker wanted.

  He took the papyrus and drawstick that T’Ash offered. “I’m not good at this.”

  T’Ash put a hand on his shoulder. “No, you had Nuin learn sketching from me. But you’re good enough, just not inspired.” He thumped Walker.

  “You’re good with people.”