Heart Duel (15 page)

Phyll mewed politely.

Cinerea started, then focused on him, and Lark realized that her new hair arrangement had hidden the kitten.

“Who's that?” Cinerea placed her tiny cup in an equally tiny gilded saucer and rose.

Lark drew Phyll from her neck and put him on the rug. T'Heather and D'Heather came to stand and admire him.

“This is Phyll, my Fam,” Lark said.

T'Heather shot her a shrewd look. “Phyll's a Heather name.”

“I didn't name him,” Lark said more sharply than she wanted.

D'Heather crouched and crooned, holding out a hand to Phyll. “What a precious baby. What lovely colored fur. What intelligent green eyes.”

“You'd think she didn't have enough children calling her Dama,” muttered T'Heather, “gushing about an animal.”

Lark blinked. T'Heather's descendants were numerous for a noble Celtan Family. He had two children, four grandchildren, and seven great-grandchildren. She was the only childless grandchild. She ignored the thought.

Noise came from the hall off the open door. Several teens passed. One glanced in and squealed. “A kitten!”

Lark thought the girl was Linga, of the Family's Montain branch. Like most GreatLords, T'Heather liked as many relatives around him as he could persuade to live with him. The Residence, built for huge Families, was yet a third empty.

But T'Heather and D'Heather bound their Family with ties of love, not the chains of cold duty T'Hawthorn preferred.

The youngsters tumbled into the room, immediately surrounded Phyll, and dangled ribbons or rolled spell-balls. Phyll cast one smirking glance at Lark, to assure himself she was untroubled, then turned to accept adoration.

Cinerea laughed at D'Heather's pout when the kitten played with the younger ones. “Come, let's talk a bit,” Cinerea said, taking her seat again. With a wave of her hand, an elegant silver pot appeared and decanted hot cocoacaff. Lark found herself inhaling and appreciating the rich cocoa scent touched with a whiff of bitter caff.

“Do you want cocoa with your cinnamon sprinkles, Lark? Cinerea teased, knowing Lark's taste as well as Lark knew Cinerea's.

Lark smiled more naturally at her cuz.“Yes.” This wasn't the Hawthorn Family, she reminded herself. Cinerea
liked
her. And Cinerea, as a Heather, would stand beside Lark. If Lark had problems, Cinerea wouldn't discuss them outside the Family, and if Lark asked, wouldn't discuss them with T'Heather or D'Heather, either.

Lark lifted her chin. Despite her father's opinion, and despite the report T'Hawthorn had commissioned from GreatMistrys Shwif D'Sea, Lark was fine. Perfectly fine.

Defiantly she took the seat next to Cinerea. Let her cuz scrutinize and discreetly probe as much as she wanted. Lark was
fine.
And she was a FirstLevel Healer, as only two other Heathers were. Let them all remember that, too. They needed her. Celta needed her. They'd all know that.

Lark took a mug of cocoa topped with a mound of cinnamon sprinkles melting into it. Gingerly Lark sipped the hot brew, allowing her relatives to observe her and their gentle surface mind-touches to skim across her as they checked her health.

“You are rested and happy,” T'Heather finally said. “Yet it would trouble us less”—he touched D'Heather's arm—“if you would move here into T'Heather Residence.”

Nine

T'Heather expected to be obeyed. Her wishes were less im
portant, as always, than his.

The old bitterness at her class and their preoccupation with their own concerns seethed through Lark. T'Heather, a GreatLord more generous and less hide-bound than most, still could initiate potent spells with a Word, issue a command and expect his will to be instantly enforced. He'd never had to struggle for a decent life or to fulfill his Flair and destiny as her lost husband, Ethyn, had done. T'Heather had only to ask and what he wished would be given to him.

He'd never truly accepted Ethyn, and when Ethyn had died, Lark sensed T'Heather had felt that a blotch on the Family tree had been removed. He'd respected FirstLevel Healer Ethyn Collinson, but never knew or appreciated the man.

And Ethyn, after all, wasn't Lark's HeartMate whom the Family
must
accept. Ethyn had been merely a husband. That an association with such a lower-class man was now gone relieved T'Heather.

Lark fought the tide of resentment. Negative emotions had dictated far too much of her life since Ethyn's death. Her feelings must be accepted as part of the grieving process, but denied any further power to taint her future.

She noticed their concerned looks and forced herself to smile, reminding herself that these people cared about her. Perhaps they hadn't shared her grief, but they ached for her loss. And they
were
asking as opposed to using intimidation to bend her to their will, like her father.

“Yes,” her MotherDam said, “please come and stay here.”

Lark sighed. “I can't. I wish to remain on my own at this time.” Part of that wish was an increasing need for the company and pleasure Holm Holly could give her. She didn't want to try and explain that connection with anyone.

T'Heather frowned. “You will promise to be
very
careful. As a Hawthorn, you could be a target.”

“The Hollys would never harm a woman or a Healer.”

“Not intentionally.” He changed the subject.

“T'Hawthorn has spoken to me about you.” T'Heather paused. D'Heather leaned her head against him as if giving him support. For an instant, Lark wished for that sort of bond with Holm, then pulled her mind from foolish notions to concentrate on the danger of the moment.

T'Heather sighed. “Your father is displeased with you, Lark.” He waved with his other hand and a papyrus decorated with seals appeared on his lap.

Lark's heart beat hard.

“He sent me this report on you by Shwif D'Sea.” T'Heather shot her a look from under lowered brows. “Did you ever personally consult with Shwif?”

“No,” Lark replied with a dry tongue.

T'Heather shook his head. “Still, the conclusions are interesting. When I considered it, you are the sole unpartnered adult female of T'Heather Family. And no T'Heather woman ever lived her entire life without a mate.”

Lark forced her mouth to stretch in a brief smile. “I am over the worst of my grief,” she said softly, “but three years isn't considered a long mourning period.” A corner of her mouth quirked in amusement. “I wouldn't think you'd worry about my single life for another year or two. And I
am
a Hawthorn. Hawthorns are made of stern stuff.”

A thought struck her. She caught her breath and her hand came to her throat. She tried to master the dismay her face might have shown. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “my father wishes to use me in another alliance. I will not be bartered. I didn't allow it before, and I will not allow it in the future. Not by T'Hawthorn”—she sucked in a deep breath—“and not by you.”

Now T'Heather's eyebrows raised. “I don't recall any alliance I need badly enough to promote a marriage tie,” he said with arrogant unconcern. Then he looked down on his HeartMate. “Do you know of a man—” he started.

D'Heather looked up at him indignantly. “Of course I know of a man who would be good for our Daughter'sDaughter, I know several. There's—” Her words disintegrated into a mumble as T'Heather put a firm hand over her mouth.

“Matchmaking isn't one of your Flaired skills. Leave it to the Willows,” he said.

D'Heather just giggled behind his palm, her eyes dancing bright above his hand. Then she plucked it away. “We are concerned for you, Lark, but you are a strong, lovely, sensible woman, and we trust you will follow your head and your heart.”

Lark didn't want to think about following her desires. A vivid image of Holm Holly in her bed came to mind.

“You will find your own path, in time,” D'Heather continued, “and we will give you that time.”

“Thank you,” Lark said, breathing easier.

“There is one thing that bothers me a bit.” Now Cinerea spoke. “You
haven't
been attending either T'Hawthorn or T'Heather rituals. . . .”

“I've been at every Healing Ritual the NobleCouncil has called,” Lark pointed out. “As for the other Rituals, I've been celebrating them with a friend.”

Odd that as she spoke the words, she thought of Holm and the small ritual that evening, and not of herself and Trif and the many rituals they'd celebrated together.

She definitely thought of Holm as a friend. How strange to think of such a virile man so, a man who had such an amazing effect on her senses. And strange, too, that she knew he thought of
her
as a friend. She wondered idly how often he had friends as lovers or made lovers friends.

When she felt the brushing of minds against hers, the touch of emotional fields gliding past her own, Lark knew she'd been silent too long, lost in reverie. But when she looked at T'Heather and D'Heather and Cinerea, she found only smiles.

T'Heather touched D'Sea's report on his lap and sent it away—probably to his desk in his ResidenceDen. He eyed her. “As Captain of the Healers of Celta, I am formally notifying you that you should take each and every restime due you, from now on. You are working too hard. Furthermore, I will be observing you to ensure you don't overdo. A person who ignores her own health is not one I'd care to see as the head of Gael City HealingHall.”

Lark understood the warning. “I'm afraid we'll all be working hard soon. The Hawthorn-Holly feud is heating up.”

T'Heather shrugged large shoulders. “Skirmishing between those Families has been going on for thirty years.”

“It's going to get worse,” Lark replied.

T'Heather sat up straight, staring at her. “You know this?”

Lark's mouth thinned until her lips hurt from pressing them tight. “Yes. We'd better prepare Primary HealingHall and the Healers for emergencies. Fights. Blood.”

Everyone stilled.

T'Heather tapped his fingers on D'Heather's thigh. “I'll speak to the FirstFamilies Council about this at their meeting.”

“That's next month,” Lark said. “That might be too late.”

He stared at her. “There's something else you must know. T'Hawthorn hired two of my best journeymen Healers—your cuz, Garis Heather, and Vera Aloe. They will be living in T'Hawthorn Residence. A precaution for injuries from this feud, I see now. Yet I've given my word on this, and the young ones are eager to go. He's paying them top gilt and for their last year of training sponsored by the NobleCouncil.”

“Generous,” Lark forced out around the lump in her throat.

“I don't like it,” T'Heather said.

At that moment the wave of teenagers and children surged back into the library. Linga held a limp Phyll.

“We seem to have tired him out,” she muttered, not looking any of the adults in the eyes.

“Really, Linga!” D'Heather scolded.

“Sorry, Dama,” Linga muttered.

Lark stood and took her seemingly boneless Fam wrapped in rose, purple, and white ribbons. She chuckled. “It's been a long day for both of us. The days ahead may be even longer.” Cradling Phyll in one arm, she hugged and kissed D'Heather, Cinerea, and T'Heather. D'Heather and Cinerea both stroked Phyll until he purred, and even T'Heather gave the Fam a pat.

“Stay in touch,” D'Heather said.

“I'll be keeping an eye on you,” T'Heather said.

“Blessed be,” ended Cinerea.

Linga grinned and walked over to Lark, sending a look at a male cuz of about the same age. “Here, Cuz Lark, we'll give you a boost home.”

Taller than she, her two young relatives framed her on each side, then glanced across Lark, still smiling.

“Ready?” they asked.

“Ready.” Lark grasped Phyll firmly.

“We know the coordinates of your mainspace. One, and ready, two and set, three and go!” They cheerfully propelled her home. Lark landed just inside her door with a little “Whoof!”

She smiled. She'd passed the mental examination. The people who could influence her career and her life would leave her in peace—for now.

Her smile faded as she realized the only reason she'd been relaxed and serene enough to pass their scrutiny on the physical and emotional planes was the simple fact that she'd spent a few golden hours with Holm Holly. A shiver traced down her spine. If she'd had to answer the questions raised by that wretched report of her father's yesterday, or even this morning, she might not have managed. Then T'Heather would have demanded she return to live with the Heathers or the Hawthorns, unpalatable options.