Heart Thief

by Robin D. Owens

  Menzie stared up at Ailim, confusion masked her face for an instant before her eyes cleared. “What? Where?” Then her gaze sharpened on Ailim’s clenched fist. “No, that is MINE.”

  She struggled to her feet and flung herself at Ailim. “My lover’s token, my—” Her words stopped as she pummeled Ailim. They fell again. Menzie was heavier, taller, her reach longer. She stripped the charm bag from Ailim’s grasp.

  “I must, I must, I MUST . . .” Menzie chanted, turning.

  Ailim leapt to her feet and grabbed at Menzie’s arm, missed, and watched Menzie throw the evil thing several meters toward the stress point of the fault.

  Ruis stood, gathering courage and strength, then stepped into the bedroom of the cottage. Skin had dried and tightened over her cheekbones, and though her nose was gone and the side of her skull shattered, he knew it was the woman who had halfheartedly minded him.

  Mostly she looked like a bundle of sticks wrapped in gray, tattered commoncloth. The fleshy parts of her had been nibbled away. Wild housefluffs, mice, perhaps even celtaroons had dined on his old nursemaid.

  When he’d been tiny, before he understood she could never return the emotion, he had loved her. Had sought comfort from her before he learned she would not wipe his tears away. Had sought protection, before he knew she’d find him in any hiding place and turn him over to Bucus. Then he had hated her.

  Now he didn’t know what he felt. He hadn’t thought of her in years. Something surged through him and he took time to examine it. Pity. Pity the old, stupid, poor-relation Elder with small Flair who’d been assigned to watch the boy, to minimally care for his needs.

  She’d feared for her life. Bucus had indulged in emotional torture with her as much as he’d physically tormented Ruis.

  Old Hylde had been right to be terrified. A small, dark red pattern was centered in the middle of the fragile skin over the depressed hollow of her wound. The pattern showed the imprint of a ring, the T’Elder crest of a raven and the initials B and E on each side of the bird.

  Ruis stared. He could imagine the scene all too vividly. He’d run away. Bucus no longer had use for Hylde so he’d struck her. One blow would have done it, if Bucus had been angry and backed the blow with killing Flair. Flair could cause a mark like that on her skin.

  Bucus might not have waited to see her fall before leaving. His villainy was obvious. The nobles would punish a murder such as this with death. Killing a dependent, a relation who had sworn a Loyalty Oath to you and to whom you owed protection with that oath, was the depth of dishonor.

  Wheels started rolling in Ruis’s mind. Wheels of vengeance, of fortune, of fate. He wondered how he could preserve this evidence, present it to the FirstFamilies Council. How he could make this work for him.

  He could force Bucus’s punishment for his crimes against Hylde and against himself. He could ensure Bucus’s removal as the head of the household, as T’Elder. Ruis might, possibly, even be able to convince the NobleCouncil to restore his lands and title.

  That thought brought him from his daze. He snorted. The NobleCouncil would never allow a Null within its ranks. A Null could not participate in the power-building, Flaired rituals that governed Celta. A Null could eventually wear down, then destroy spells in the Guildhall, the GreatCircle Temple. A Null would be welcome in no Residence, socially or otherwise.

  He didn’t want to be T’Elder. He wanted to continue as Captain of Nuada’s Sword, and he wanted Ailim D’SilverFir.

  He could, perhaps, keep the Captaincy. He doubted he could ever have Ailim for more than the briefest of affairs.

  Ruis found himself staring into the sockets of dead eyes and abandoned the hut to find Samba.

  She’d left a sinuous path through brittle high grass and sat on a boulder, staring at the distant T’Elder Residence inland to the southeast. A sole window shone with light.

  Glancing at it, then away, Ruis felt the old fury and helplessness overwhelm him. How often had he crouched here, behind the large rock, and hoped for his uncle Bucus’s death? How often had he prayed that Bucus would forget the small outcast on the estate’s edge?

  All too often, Bucus had caught him here. In daylight old splotches of dark red would show on the stone, his own blood.

  His fingers hurt; he’d curled them tight into fists. Digit by digit, he straightened them, then shook his hands out.

  Ship says we should go there, Samba said, lifting a paw in the direction of the T’Elder castle.

  “Yes.” Ruis breathed deeply and evenly, counting seconds while inhaling through his nose, pausing, and exhaling through his mouth, an exercise the Ship taught him.

  The Residence was beautiful. Made of white stone, built of piers arched over a river, it was fanciful with small round rooms protruding from the first floor, towers, a chapel, little peaked gables in the roof with round windows. Ship said the Residence had been modeled after an old Earth French castle called Chenonceaux.

  His chest hurt as he looked at it. The Residence could never be his; he’d ruin the ancient spells that guarded it and the T’Elder Family if he ever lived there. It hurt that, beautiful as it was, he could never love it. It would never be more than an object on the horizon for him—evoking memories of the childhood when he gazed at it with many emotions.

  The Ship was his Residence now. His home.

  Let’s go play. Samba’s voice held a gleeful note. Never played in that place before. Looks like good hide-and-seek. What’s best way in?

  Ruis grimaced. “Follow me.”

  As they hiked to the Residence, Samba slipped off on side trips to chase rodents, and Ruis pondered how he could bring the murder home to Bucus. No one entered a noble estate without the notice and tacit permission of the owner.

  None except Ruis, the Null.

  Guardsmen couldn’t step foot on a noble estate without backing by the NobleCouncil. Ruis wondered how many enemies his uncle had made. If there were enough to send an inquiry team. He shook his head. He didn’t know of his uncle’s enemies—or allies. The only way to get the information to the Council would be to give it to Ailim D’SilverFir, but he didn’t want her confronting his uncle. He was a dangerous man.

  Wind whipped the cloak from Ruis, revealing him; he struggled to keep it closed and continued trudging to T’Elder.

  Menzie’s amulet hit the ground. Earth shivered under their feet. A small crack opened in the fault near the bane.

  “What have you done?” screamed Ailim, running. Menzie’s heavy steps thumped behind her.

  The crack widened. The charm slipped into it, fell a third of a meter, rocked on the lip of a hole that opened beside it.

  Menzie grabbed Ailim. “What? What is going on?”

  They fell against the side of the gulch as the ground ripped open under them.

  “Release me!” The spell made Menzie drop her hands and cradle them to her body.

  “What’s happening?” Menzie sobbed, her eyes wild and staring at Ailim.

  “That filthy thing you cherished has opened the earth fault. You have doomed the Family, the Residence.” Ailim found her feet and quick-stepped along the shifting land. Rocks tumbled about them, pebbles struck with stinging force.

  “No! No! It was nothing but a love token, something to keep you from bullying me.”

  “It’s a curse upon our House!”

  “No!”

  “Who gave it to you? Who is our enemy that would harm us so? Who? Speak and tell me no lies!” Another spell, one that Menzie couldn’t deny, traveled the link of the loyalty bond Menzie had sworn to Ailim.

  “Bucus,” Menzie gasped. “Bucus T’Elder. The Captain of the Council. My love.”

  “Our enemy!” Ailim turned in disgust and dropped to her hands and knees to scrabble the last meter to the charm. Just as she lunged for it the hole cracked meters wide, the amulet toppled into it.

  Ailim followed. “Go get help!” she shrieked to Menzie, then formed a powerful spellcry in her mind. Before Ailim could speak a ro
ck hit her head. Pain rammed through her. Darkness below and around and above swallowed her whole.

  A half-septhour later Ruis and Samba reached the T’Elder Residence’s trade entrance, an unadorned door in the last pier which was anchored on land. Ruis leaned against the door and it fell open. He stumbled in, shocked the shields had yielded easily. He hesitated, Samba came up and sat next to him, curling her tail around his ankle. The door whispered shut. At the end of the warehouse-room a torch lit and glowed next to a huge, iron-strapped door leading to the inside of the Residence. That door sighed open and a rosy glow from the hallway beckoned.

  Samba twitched. Whiskers warn Me of Great Flair.

  “Ruis Elder,” the Residence said in a vibrant bass voice.

  Ruis froze.

  “FirstSon of T’Elder. Welcome.”

  Ruis closed his eyes, mind spinning in confusion. It was almost like the first time he’d spoken to the Ship. The words from the Residence held nothing but respect.

  He cleared his throat. “You acknowledge me?”

  “Indeed.” A slight creaking came, as if a mighty head bent a bit. “Welcome, ResidenceFam Samba.”

  “Rrrowww!” She flicked her ears back, sat up proudly. I am Ship’s Cat.

  “Nevertheless, you will always be welcome here, too. This Residence has not felt the paws of a Fam in a long time.”

  Samba sniffed and inclined her head.

  Ruis crossed the room and into the next, closing the large door behind Samba. The long gallery that linked to the main building stretched before them, buttressed by five arches set in the river. Windows on each side of the gallery let in the bright starlight and twinmoonslight. Lamps that simulated torches of dark red flickered as he went by. Thick rugs muffled his footsteps, paintings he couldn’t see filled the walls between the windows. At least this wasn’t the T’Elder Portrait Gallery. That was a floor above him. He’d been there once when he was about five, rump and palms stinging with welts from Bucus’s switch. The faces in the paintings had intimidated him, looking at him with accusing eyes, knowing he was a defective “Null.”

  “Where do you go, FirstSon?” asked the Residence.

  He forced the words from his mouth. “The ResidenceDen.” The few times he’d been allowed in the Residence, it had usually been in the ResidenceDen. Words and blows had pummeled him there, but Bucus had saved the cutting and bloody beatings for the hut or outside, where the furnishings and ambiance of the Residence could not be harmed.

  Samba explored, unaffected by his mood, poking her nose around the furniture, sniffing at the carpets, sitting and curling her tongue to use her sixth sense.

  House right. No pets for many lifetimes, no Fams, and no CATS. The tip of her tail flicked in contempt of the shortsighted T’Elders and D’Elders. Ruis smiled.

  “Had the previous D’Elder lived, Toria, she would have brought pets.” As the Residence spoke a breeze wafted down the corridor like a sigh.

  Ruis stopped in his tracks. “My mother.”

  “Yes, a GrandMistrys from the Black branch of the Oak Family. A good woman. A good HeartMate,” Residence said.

  Words strangled in Ruis’s throat. Samba had stopped beside him, plopped down on her bottom and cleaned her forepaw. House, you have holos? she asked between licks.

  “Yes.” There was a long pause and Ruis heard a window rattle. “I will forward all holos of the late T’Elder and D’Elder to Nuada’s Sword.”

  Samba hopped to her paws and hissed. You know where We are?

  “Nuada’s Sword issued a tentative probe. I responded. We have continued contact.”

  “Then you know of my circumstances,” Ruis said.

  “Yes. Upon my inquiry, D’Elder admitted she and Bucus Elder had seen you in Druida. She avoids him, fearing his anger.” Bucus liked to hit whatever was near when he was angry.

  As Ruis approached the tall gilded doors to the main building, they opened. The gallery lights behind him faded.

  “I’m affecting your spells,” he said to the Residence.

  “True. You are much more powerful now. The Ship has calculated that you would not breach my most ancient and basic of spells unless you lived here for approximately two Celtan years.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No worries. Until you reach your full strength and power at late maturity at ninety, you will be welcome to stay as long as two eightdays with minor effects. When you are ninety only an eightday will be possible.”

  Ruis’s lips twisted. “I doubt I’ll live that long.”

  “An Oracle was present at your birth, as is customary, and saw three futures for you.”

  Ruis shuddered.

  Light hurt her eyes. Ailim blinked and blinked again, breathed and sucked dirt into her mouth, coughed. Struggling, she freed an arm from the pressure around her and wiped her mouth, smearing grit around her lips.

  Touching the big lump on her head made her whimper. She moved fretfully, ducking light that shone into her eyes. Once in shadow she looked up and up. And remembered.

  About two meters above her a slice in the earth showed a large round moon. From the patterned craters in the shape of the ancient earth letter R, Ailim knew it was Cymru. She moaned and wriggled. Dirt pressed in around her. Her entire body ached. When she tentatively moved, wrenching pain in her left foot sent her back into unconsciousness.

  Finally she rose above the pain and the darkness of insensibility into full wakefulness. Cymru had slightly moved across the sky.

  Ailim carved out more room around her face. Dirt sifted down to close tighter around her lower body and insinuated into all the gaps in her clothes.

  She unfurled her Flair to seek Menzie. The task was long and difficult so she knew she was hurt badly and at the last of her energy. The tremors hadn’t reached the Residence. Her aunt huddled on her bed, her mind pattern one of deep sleep.

  Ailim extended her Flair to touch other SilverFirs. Cona rode the throes of passion with Donax. Ailim recoiled. No help there. With the last of her strength she reached Caltha, but her strong shields were up. Ailim pushed. Her head pounded, felt like it split, and her Flair failed.

  Nausea clutched and Ailim fought it. She’d soil herself if she vomited.

  With every shallow breath the hurt and dizziness diminished. Her head injury had destabilized her Flair. She couldn’t save herself with her psi power. Not right now.

  Tears of weakness and pain filtered through grit down her cheeks. The cold sweat that filmed her body also attracted grit, dampened it, and made her itch and suffer.

  The earth quaked, squeezing the breath from her, then cracking further open so Ailim fell sideways and down, banging against the new wall.

  The ground settled. Ailim sent her mind questing for the amulet. Since it had been made to thwart her, she could find it. Eventually she noticed a building pressure in the fault surrounding a small point. Soon the force would escalate and explode, ripping the earth wide, shifting D’SilverFir land until the HouseHeart corridor collapsed and the Residence’s island tilted into a new shape.

  The hole would close, crushing her bones.

  With exquisite care, she flexed her left foot and bit her lip as pain roiled through her, spun her wits. Her foot was caught and wedged tightly immobile. She was trapped.

  Ruis licked dry lips. “An Oracle was at my birth and prophesied my future?” he repeated.

  “She saw three futures: In one you can live to a great age and father two children,” T’Elder Residence said.

  “And the others?” He waited a moment or two, but the Residence didn’t answer. Ruis laughed bitterly.

  “I will withdraw,” T’Elder Residence said stiffly.

  Good, said Samba. Residence talks too much. Other Residences don’t talk so much.

  Ruis considered this tidbit. The sole other Residence he’d been in was D’SilverFir’s, which hadn’t addressed a word to him.

  “The Ship talks more.”

  Ship is Ship, said Samba with cat logic.


  They passed doors to round towers on each side and continued down the main hallway. The door to the ResidenceDen on their right creaked open. Samba entered then stopped. Bad smell.

  She exaggerated. The scent, composed of Bucus’s cologne, body odor, and medicine wasn’t rank or heavy. Ruis wouldn’t care to live with the smell, but it was tolerable for a visit. Rather like his presence in the Residence.

  “I think you have your answer as to why the Residence talks so much,” he said to Samba, who moved her bulk daintily, taking care not to brush against the heavy furniture that might contain more of the bad smell. “Bucus must not talk to the Residence.”

  Yes, We are good listeners.

  Ruis surveyed the small semicircular room with distaste. It was exactly as he remembered. It occupied the joint between the gallery and the main house. The bookshelves were pristine, all spines perfectly aligned. Ruis grit his teeth. He had Ship’s whole library to read, and Ship printed out “classics” for him to study, but the language challenged him. Bucus looked at the books and only saw the gilt such valuable objects would bring. Once Ruis yearned for stories of Old Earth, where he would not have been unique; now he’d like tales all Celta knew, those contained in these volumes. He didn’t dare touch them.

  And he didn’t dare stay long.

  “The current T’Elder retired early sleeps restlessly,” the Residence whispered, confirming Ruis’s unease.

  He looked at the desk. Now it was only a large piece of unremarkable furniture, not a towering block intimidating a young boy who knew all his sins were noted down there.

  He glanced at the round arm of a green plush chair and shuddered at memories that had enlarged it. Now it was only a chair that Ruis’s small body had been rounded over for the whip or the switch.

  Ruis crossed to the wall and jerked open a corner cupboard. His gorge rose. There, freshly peeled, terrifying in their flexibility and the crown of thorns on the end, were lengths of Celtan roserods. Who did Bucus beat? Ruis touched one. He swallowed hard and slammed the cupboard door shut.