Heart Search

by Robin D. Owens

The lobby of the salon was wide and had a teleportation pad to her right, double swinging doors ahead of her with small glass panes, and a lecternlike thing with a silver appointment sphere spinning in the middle.

  Camellia swallowed, walked up to the lectern. Shouts and yells came from beyond the doors, then they swung open and Tinne Holly walked out, a muscular man in his prime. A man who was from the highest of Families. A horrible feeling of being in the wrong place dropped over her like a blanket. She didn’t think she could move.

  He offered a charming smile and a bow . . . a fighter’s bow. A few seconds passed before her muscles jerked a response. Her lips felt numb. Too many men.

  “Greetyou,” Tinne said, smiling with real charm.

  “I . . . think this may be a mistake.”

  His platinum brows rose. “No. You’re just nervous. Are you going to let your nerves . . . whatever caused them, win?”

  She sensed that Acacia had told him more than Camellia was comfortable with, but he had a point. Her spine stiffened. “I’m here to test.”

  “And so we shall. There are some private rooms through that door.” He gestured to a sturdy wooden door in the left corner.

  “Thank you for seeing me.” Gathering her courage, Camellia walked to the door and opened it.

  Mica mewed.

  Tinne Holly squatted easily, holding out his hand. “Who are you?” He scratched her under her chin.

  I am Mica Darjeeling. I am a friend of Brazos Hawthorn.

  “Ah, I know Brazos.” Tinne rose. “You, Fam, are welcome here as long as you keep to the sides of all the rooms. If you are ever on a mat, you will be banned from ever coming back.”

  Mica gasped. Ever!

  “That’s right. I’ve found it best to lay out firm rules for Fams.” Tinne winked at Camellia. She knew he was trying to relax her, but with every minute, her muscles strung into tight strands. He motioned for Camellia to step into a narrow hallway lined with several more doors that must lead to private sparring rooms.

  Camellia heard Mica squeal behind her, but the cat didn’t enter the hallway.

  The next few minutes passed in a blur. Camellia knew she was stiff, slow, fearful. Somehow she couldn’t get past that, knew her moves were lackluster.

  Then Tinne shouted, and the door burst open and a large, dark shape shot toward her. Father! Run! No, stand! Stand and fight!

  Her breath came short, true fear now, he’d hurt her if he could. She whirled and kicked, caught him in the gut, he folded in a grunt, she continued with her move, set up the next, took him down with another kick, jumped to place her foot on his neck, and stared into protuberant blue eyes of a red-faced and sweating man.

  Not her father. He caught her foot and it was her turn to go flying, then they rose and circled . . . and she got a good workout. They were down on the mat and wrestling when Tinne shouted, “Stop!”

  Camellia came to herself, rose, and bowed to her opponent, turned to Tinne, hesitated as she saw Laev T’Hawthorn, Brazos, and Mica with the Holly.

  Fourteen

  Camellia bowed to Tinne.

  He nodded to her and to her opponent. “I believe you are well matched. I’ll put you down for sparring practice . . .” Tinne stared at the man’s thickened middle. “Three nights a week for a septhour and a half, and a septhour before NoonBell on Koad so I can check on you both.”

  My FamWoman is very good, Mica purred, sitting proudly by Brazos.

  Tinne’s lips twitched, then he clapped Laev on his shoulder. “As for you, my friend, let’s see what we can do in sparring room three.”

  Sweaty hair hanging in her eyes—she’d have to get that cut or put it up better—Camellia offered Laev a weak smile. All she could think of was that she must look terrible, hair tangled and sweaty, face flushed. Her shabby fighting clothes showing patches of sweat.

  My FamMan is even better, Brazos said. He looked at Mica, then Camellia, and sent a strong telepathic sentence. You should come watch.

  The last thing she wanted to do was see Laev’s muscles move in exertion that might remind her—and him—of midnight sex. “Thanks, not this time. I must set up our appointments.”

  Her opponent was wheezing and on the mat. She went over and offered her hand. He took it gratefully, rocked to his feet with her help, and was close and in her space and smelling—not like her father. Citrusy. His hand was plumper than her father’s and he was scowling, but it held no threat. He aimed his frown at Tinne Holly. “Least you could do, boy, is introduce us properly.”

  Laev strolled forward. His lashes were low over his eyes and his mouth curved in a half smile. Camellia felt every droplet of sweat on her body. Damn, she must look terrible. She tried to discreetly sniff and find out her scent, but her partner’s was too strong.

  Laev bowed to him, a fighting bow to an equal.

  The man snorted and dropped Camellia’s hand. “I ain’t your equal here, T’Hawthorn. Surprise you remember me.”

  “I remember everyone in my clubs,” Laev said simply, and Camellia knew it was true. He would, because he was trained that way. He gestured from the man—surely a lord—to Camellia. “GraceLord Cymb Lemongrass, may I present GraceMistrys Camellia Darjeeling.”

  “Good meetin’ you,” said the man who was rather shaped like her father, but so obviously unlike Guri in any other respect.

  “A pleasure.” Camellia bowed as a lesser to him. They were close to equal in fighting experience, but whatever edge she might have in that area was lost in the outer-world’s social status.

  Now Tinne Holly joined them, buffeted Camellia on her shoulder, enough to unbalance her if she hadn’t been strong in her fighter’s stance. “Good,” he said. “I accept you into the mid-level program, and we don’t follow outside rank here, only fighting levels count.” He nodded at them both. “Three nights a week.” Jerked a head to Laev. “And you’re rusty, so let’s go remedy that.”

  Laev nodded to Lemongrass, turned, and smiled at her. “GraceMistrys.”

  She cleared her throat, but her words still came out a squeak. “T’Hawthorn.” She watched the men leave . . . all right, she watched two very fine backsides leave, Brazos and Mica following. When she turned back to her opponent, he was at the side of the room, drying sweat from his neck and face with a towel. She winced, reminded once again how bad she must look.

  “Let’s set this up,” Lemongrass said. He sounded irritated. Not angry, but the waves of annoyance kept her feet in the same spot, not crossing over to him. He caught her look, expanded his explanation. “Dammit, I wanted to be better than I am.”

  A chuckle escaped Camellia. “So do I.”

  He puffed a breath. “Suppose that means that we have to practice.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Grunting, he called up his calendarsphere. “Three nights a week,” he grumbled.

  Camellia sighed, walked a little forward so her calendarsphere could interface with his. “Yes.”

  They synchronized and chose their nights, and Lemongrass watched her with a considering look but said nothing more, and Camellia was glad. Did he know why he was specifically chosen as a partner for her? Her face heated, but her teeth gritted. She would do this.

  Tinne Holly didn’t bother to hide his grin as he ushered Laev and the cats into sparring room three. “Glad to have Darjeeling here. She was a little nervous and stiff at testing, but will do better.” He rubbed his hands. “She was recommended by Acacia Bluegum. We can make Darjeeling into a real fighter, once she gets over her issues with men.”

  “What issues?” tore from Laev.

  Tinne’s brows went up. “You saw her father yesterday, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  “All the noble circles are talking about his blasphemy.”

  Left very nasty smell in office, Mica added. I have met the mean men.

  “What mean men?”

  Sire and Sire’s littermate, Brazos projected matter-of-factly, then went to sit on a carpeted wall shelf made for F
ams.

  “Yes, Darjeeling will make a fighter,” Tinne said, then ran through a drill so fast he blurred. Laev winced. He was going to be a floor mop. Tinne would emphasize that he was out of practice. Well, he’d go down—literally—fighting.

  Tinne bowed to him. “And she’s a very attractive girl.”

  The back of Laev’s neck heated and he was glad he wore a groin guard and his trous were loose. He’d just caught a glimpse of her as he’d walked up to the threshold of the doorway and his body had hardened. The woman had looked like sex. Her breasts round, lifting and falling rapidly under her tunic, tendrils of dark brown-red hair curling damply at her temples, the sheen of perspiration revealed by the V of her tunic.

  “Bow, Laev,” Tinne said.

  Laev yanked his mind back to the present. No thought of the sexy Darjeeling or her past or her problems must distract him.

  Too late.

  Camellia left the private sparring room and found Mica in the entry chamber. The cat sat near a pile of clothing and a bag, tail around paws and a toothy smile.

  “What’s this?” But Camellia knew, one of her better tunic and trous sets. She snatched the pale gold clothing up, shook out the few wrinkles that had gathered.

  We should stay here.

  “Why?”

  You should watch people in big room. First big fight coming up.

  The cat must mean there was a general free-for-all melee instead of any classes.

  And Mica might have a point. Camellia would like to watch others—maybe even some of the good, even great, fighters. At least see who was here.

  You didn’t bring other clothes, so Brazos and I went home and got these for you! Mica’s smile widened into a scary cat grin.

  “Thanks.”

  The little cat relaxed a little and the smile went away.

  You go to waterfall room through big room, Mica informed her.

  “I see you’ve explored.”

  “Yesss,” Mica vocalized. And I have been very good, always close to the walls.

  “Wonderful.”

  Yes, I am. Mica stood and flicked her tail and waited for Camellia to open the door. Fighters stood silently on all four sides of the room, behind the sparring line, and she realized that a melee was about to start. She hurried into the ladies’ section before too many people noticed her since she still looked awful.

  There were no other women in the large, tiled common female waterfall room, and Camellia was both glad and sad. Glad she had it to herself because she was used to privacy, but sad that once again she felt the lone female. But from the glance she’d had of the main room, she thought there were women taking part in the general melee. Tilting her head, she heard female fighting cries.

  She hurried through her waterfall, stepped through the drying field, and dressed, stuffed her training robes into a bag. Then she took an extra minute or two to make sure her hair looked good. Would Laev Hawthorn still be here? Would he stay to watch the melee?

  But once she reached the small enclosed area between the entrances to the men’s and women’s private areas and the large fighting chamber, she lingered, fastening her bag, smoothing her tunic. She couldn’t gauge her own emotions, whether she wanted to see Laev or not. Didn’t know how she’d react—mentally or physically.

  As she was standing there, a large man with a scarred face came out of the men’s area. He wore the highest-level belt. “I’m Cratag T’Marigold.” The man offered his hand to Camellia. A small frown line twisted between his brows. “You look familiar.”

  She put her hand in his. It was hard with fighting calluses. “Camellia Darjeeling.”

  He jerked a nod. “I was in JudgementGrove on the day you claimed your tea set. Good to see you again.”

  Of course he’d been there. And everyone knew he was. Cratag T’Marigold. He who had been Cratag Maytree. The chief guard of the Hawthorns. Considered to be like Laev’s older brother. The man had been the only one of Laev’s Family at his wedding to Nivea.

  “Greetyou.” She bowed to him as a lowly trainee to a master. He was one of the top four fighters in the world.

  “Good to meet you,” he said politely, then held open the door for her.

  So she had to go out, and as she did, she noted that the melee was winding down. “Oh, I’m sorry I missed observing that.”

  T’Marigold smiled. “It was only the warm-up. There are two more.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged deprecatingly. “It’s my first night. I was just admitted to the salon.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.” To her relief, she saw Tinne Holly close by, standing near his private office door. She wasn’t sure what to say to Cratag T’Marigold. She thought he was still close to Laev, but couldn’t dredge up any gossip. “Ah, GreatSir Holly.” She dipped a curtsey. “I thank you for allowing me to join your salon.” She wasn’t going to think of the cost of it.

  “Glad to have you here,” Tinne replied. “I’d like you to work on—”

  Cratag cleared his throat. “My deepest apologies.” He bowed to Camellia. “If I might speak to Tinne for one moment—”

  Get between two of the best fighters on the planet? In a place where they ruled? No. She curtsied twice. “Of course.”

  She had started to back away when a small piping voice said behind her, “I wemember you, too.”

  She stopped, pivoted warily. Looked down to see a boy of about four.

  Both T’Marigold and Holly went extremely still, radiating intensity.

  “You were little when you were in JudgementGrove. Older than me now, but littler.”

  Camellia swallowed. The boy spoke with authority and enunciated each word well. She’d been thirteen. This boy hadn’t been born.

  “This is my son, Cal,” Cratag said, his tones thick. But he stared at Tinne.

  The boy bowed to her.

  She bowed back.

  “You’re going to start him on fighting.” She tried to infuse a little lightness into the conversation.

  “He’s a natural,” Cratag said. “We’ve been training at home, but he needs this place.” There was pride in his tone, but still an odd intensity. “Cal, please wait for me on the east side of the room,” Cratag said.

  Cal nodded and walked away with a little roll to his gait. Both Cratag and Tinne focused on the boy’s small legs.

  “He’s walked like that from the beginning,” Cratag said hoarsely. “I’ve been thinking . . . but I didn’t want to say anything. Especially not to your Family if I wasn’t sure. It isn’t often someone remembers . . .”

  Reincarnation. That’s what this was all about. It was a tenet of their culture and, of course, Camellia believed in that, in the main religion of their planet. It made sense to her. But a chill rippled through her and she wanted desperately to be somewhere else. Her feet seemed stuck to the ground.

  “Lady and Lord, Lord and Lady.” Tinne Holly wiped a hand across his eyes. His voice was thick. “If anyone would, he would. We’ve missed G’Uncle Tab so much.”

  Yes. She must go, now. Camellia took a step back, fingers tightening on the straps of her bag.

  Tinne Holly said to her, “We can talk some other time. Please stay as long as you wish to watch the sparring. We have another open melee for exercise and the first one for salon ranking this week.”

  “Of course.” She smiled and began to walk to the opposite side of the room, where there were rolled-up mats against the wall for seating.

  Watching the fighters line up again, she noted there were about half a dozen women interspersed with a dozen men. She felt better about her training robes. Some of the ones here were downright tattered. Everyone was her level or better. All the women looked like they’d been sparring here for years. Some of the younger men weren’t quite as good as Camellia considered herself to be, so that was also reassuring.

  She went over to the mat and sat, found it didn’t accommodate the length of her legs well, and wiggled back on the fat roll to sit cross-legged
. She set down her bag beside her.

  A bell rang sharply and people leapt into the fighting area and began to spar. She studied them, the milling and mixing of the free-form melee. There were one-on-ones, groups, three-on-twos, all sorts of combinations—male and female, and it didn’t seem as anyone noticed or gave any quarter according to gender. That was good, but she wasn’t used to it and would feel self-conscious for a while.

  Then a movement caught her eye and she saw the child, Cal Marigold, studying the fighters with far-too-old eyes. Yes, this was a child shadowed with a dusty, unraveled spiderweb, memories of his past life. Only one?

  Not a question she wanted answered. Not something she even wanted to think about.

  To her amazement, Cal came up to her and climbed the mat roll to sit on her lap. Instinctively her arm came around him. He gazed up at her, a dimple in his cheek. “I like you.”

  “I like you, too.”

  “I will be T’Mawigold dis time. Dat’s my name now, Cal Mawigold.” He glanced at Tinne Holly and Cratag Marigold, who continued to stare at them, snuggled again, looked up at her. “I like being a Mawigold. De Residence is very pwetty. I like pwetty. You are pwetty.”

  “Thank you.” Considering the fact that reincarnation tweaked and twanged her nerves, she hoped that didn’t show.

  “I will be de Head of a Household,” he said with great satisfaction.

  Camellia wasn’t sure what she should do. Tiana should be here to handle this. Camellia would damn well babble about the whole experience to Tiana, and soon. “It’s good to be the Head of a Household,” she said, supposing it was true.

  “Yes, and dis time I will have a HeartMate, dat’s better.” He leaned against her, snuffled a little, and fell asleep. All Camellia could do was hold him closely . . . and think of fate. Feelings swirled inside her. She hadn’t felt a small body in her lap . . . maybe never. She’d been focused on her career. So had her closest friends. She didn’t know children.

  And despite what Cal said, she didn’t know this one. But she liked holding him very much. Her brain settled with a thunk inside her skull. She wanted children.