Heart Duel (38 page)

Citrula inclined her head, picked up her bag, and walked down the hall without looking back.

Trif crossed the corridor and stuck her head in Lark's apartment, then withdrew it and looked at Lark. “Holm Holly really isn't in there?”

“No.”

“Well,
I'll
come in for a cup of caff.” Trif traipsed into Lark's apartment.

Lark followed and closed the door.

Trif sniffed. “Not even a scent of the man. I know he came last night, but I didn't hear him leave.”

“I didn't, either.” Lark went to the kitchen no-time and pulled out two brimming mugs of hot caff.

Trif scanned the mainspace as Lark handed her a mug.

“No peeking!” Lark ordered.

Trif looked affronted and settled herself into the red sofa. Phyll trotted out from the bedroom to jump up and curl on the girl's knees. Her eyes widened as she saw the opposite wall. “Nice sunset. When did you do that?”

“A few days ago.” Lark took a chair at an angle and looked at the sunset herself, just days ago and yet it seemed part of another life.

“So, tell me all.” Trif wriggled into the deep cushions.

“There's nothing to tell. It's over.”

Trif choked, sputtered a mouthful of caff back into her cup. “Over!”

“How can it be anything else now that there are deaths on both sides of our families? He's a warrior, and T'Holly's going to pursue this feud with all his might. Holm is sworn to obey his GreatLord, his father. He'll be fighting. I'm a Healer.” She hated that her voice broke and her breathing went unsteady when just laying out the facts of things.

Trif shook her head. “I can't understand it. You two are so
right
together. It's wrong to just let circumstances stop a good relationship. Why, you two might be able to stop the feud.”

“He left without a word. It's better that way. Besides, nothing will stop the feud.”

“Your father could stop it.”

“But he won't. T'Hawthorn
started
this up again. He won't back down.”

“Have you tried, lately?”

Lark sent her a bitter glance. “You know I don't have any influence over my father.”

“Have you tried?”

“Yes!”

“Lately?”

Lark hesitated.

“You see, try again!”

Lark just stared at her. Trif was a person who'd never give up, despite any odds against her. Lark wasn't like that. She sipped her caff. The acidity of the brew stung her tongue.

“Don't you want Holm?” Trif persisted.

“Yes.” Her whole being ached to be with him.

“Then what are you waiting for? Go after him.”

Lark's hands began to tremble. She set her mug down. “I can't. It's best this way. No one gets hurt further.”

“You look pretty devastated to me now,” Trif pointed out.

Lark hissed a breath. She shot to her feet and paced. “Yes, I want him. But I'm not putting myself or Holm in a position to be used against the Hollys by my father.
And
I'm not putting myself or Holm in a position to be used against my father by the Hollys. The feud is bad enough as it is. Mix in the affair and who knows what might happen!”

Trif finished her caff and set her mug down with a clank. Phyll jumped from her lap to the floor. Trif stood. She fixed her gaze on Lark. “If it were my man, I wouldn't give up.”

“I'm not you. I'm me.” Lark pounded a fist over her heart.

“
Me,
Lark Collinson,” not Bélla, not ever again. “And I'll do what is best for
me.
If it were a year ago or a few years hence—” She threw up her hands. “Some things are fate. They're not meant to be.”

Trif looked at Phyll. “Catshit.”

“What?”

I do not de-fe-cate in-app-ro-pri-ate-ly,
Phyll lifted his nose in the air.

“What you said is just stupid. Some things
are fated
to be, despite everything. I think you and Holm are like that.” Trif leveled a finger at Lark. “You think about
that
.” She stalked from the apartment.

Bing-Bong-Bong-Ching.
Lark's scrybowl sounded.

“Here,” she said.

A small sour-faced man looked out at her. “FirstLevel Healer Mayblossom Larkspur Hawthorn Collinson?”

“Yes.”

“This is Monkshood, Chief Clerk of All Councils. You are wanted immediately at Guildhall Committee Room One for questioning.” He disconnected.

 
 
Holm strode through the greeniron gates of T'Holly estate,
across the drawbridge over the moat, into the courtyard, and up to the front door muttering under his breath. Meserv trotted beside him, impervious to Holm's dark mood.

When he'd nightported, his clothes and Meserv had come with him. Lord and Lady knew what Lark thought of him.

The moment he'd stepped from the labyrinth he'd sent a mind-probe to Lark and found her talking with Painted Rock and Trif Clover. He swore then and he swore now.

He'd only paused to dress before teleporting himself and Meserv to outside the T'Holly gates.'Porting to his rooms through the additional protective shields would expend more energy than he felt safe in using.

Why had he thought that being with Lark would prevent him from nightporting? Well, why shouldn't it? She was his HeartMate. They were lovers, bound together by desire and physicality as well as weaving a complex tapestry of emotional commitment between them. She should have anchored him, shouldn't she? Bloody Cave of the Dark Goddess, but this sleep-porting business was getting very, very tiresome.

Can we solar-sail today?
trilled Meserv, sniffing the air like a connoisseur, as if he could tell sweet winds would blow.

“No!” He never wanted to solar-sail again. Water was good enough for him. He'd have to convince Bélla. He winced at the thought of trying to explain why—how—he left her bed so rudely.

He grabbed the door handle, but it opened. His cuz, Straif Blackthorn, FirstFamily GrandLord T'Blackthorn, stood in the doorway munching good white bread and cinnamon-sweet.

“Greetyou,” Straif said. “I'd have thought the feud would have put a crimp in your love life.”

Holm gave him a dark look and pushed past him. Maybe he could do a bit of calligraphy and have it delivered with a rose this morning before Lark left for work.

“And,” Straif continued, “I also heard that D'Willow found a HeartMate for you, so that should limit your nightlife. Who is this fellow?” Straif lifted Meserv, who blinked big blue seraphic eyes at him.

“Mmmmmesssservvvvvv,” the kitten rumbled.

“Meserv,” Holm said, heading to the dining room.

“Right,” Straif said. “I wouldn't have thought you'd have the balls to stroll home mid-morning.”

“It's hardly past dawn,” Holm ground out.

“Fooooooood,” Meserv said, fastening his mouth on one of Straif's sweet-sticky fingers and sucking.

“Right,” Straif said. “Good idea. Maybe you weren't out loving. Doesn't look like you had a great night. Do you know you have leaves in your hair?”

“What are you doing here?” Holm asked.

Straif raised sandy eyebrows. “T'Holly asked me to come for the Great Healing of Aunt Passiflora tomorrow.”

Holm shut his eyes and scrubbed his hands over his face, flicked the leaves from his hair. When he opened his eyelids, his cuz was scrutinizing him.

“Tough times,” Straif said.

“Yes.” Holm managed a half bow. “Thank you for coming.”

“All fighters to Sparring Rooms One, Two, and Three, as assigned,” boomed the Residence through the halls.

Holm scowled and grasped Straif by the upper arm. “Has T'Holly asked you to feud?”

Straif raised a brow. “Not yet.”

“Don't agree. Our lives are a mess. This whole thing is a rare brouhaha. Stay free of it, Cuz.”

Straif dipped his head. “I'll consider it, Cuz. Go to the dining room and grab breakfast, I'll keep T'Holly occupied.”

For the first time since he'd awakened in the Great Labyrinth again, Holm felt a slip of pleasure. “My thanks.”

Men ran through the halls, footsteps loud, armor jangling. Holm shook his head. “A real mess.”

Twenty-four

Holm's hasty breakfast didn't lie easy in his stomach. He
sat on the floor of Sparring Room One with the rest of the Holly men who would prowl the streets. Tinne sat to his right.

T'Holly dominated the room, his entire attention focused on winning the feud. “I commissioned GreatLord Furze to do solivids of our opponents. Furze, Tab, the ResidenceLibrary, and I have programmed the models with what we know of their fighting skills. We will train with these models, in single duels and street melées until we are all proficient.”

With a wave of a hand he summoned the first soli-vid. “This is T'Hawthorn.” The model was amazingly like the man—at least what T'Hawthorn looked like the last time Holm had seen him close. Lark would have been able to tell the difference, of course. He winced.

“We will probably not meet T'Hawthorn, especially not traveling in a small group.” T'Holly flashed a lethal grin. “I've been told he only travels by glider. Yet it is wise to know his ways.” His father seemed to enjoy walking around the stocky man, looking down at the shorter simulacrum.

“T'Hawthorn fights in the
Porthos
style of three generations past. He is old,” T'Holly sneered. T'Hawthorn was a few years older than Holm's father, but damn sure not as supple. He had Lark's hair and eyes. Holm suppressed a tremor. He would
not
be facing T'Hawthorn over naked blades.

“Capture of T'Hawthorn and ransom would be our goal, should we find him. Avoid killing if possible.” T'Holly's words caused a little stir. There wasn't a man in the room who'd easily skewer a GreatLord except T'Holly himself.

T'Holly waved and the model moved to the center of the room. “Let's practice capturing T'Hawthorn. Divide into groups of five.”

 
 
^“
We appreciate your prompt attendance, FirstLevel
Healer Collinson,” said GrandLady D'Grove, the Captain of the Council as she ushered Lark into a small room richly appointed with dark blue velvet cushioned chairs arranged in a circle. Lark's MotherSire, T'Heather, was speaking with GreatLord T'Oak in one of the corners. With a swift scan, Lark counted eight GreatLords or GreatLadies who headed their Families.

“We are a very discreet committee doing a preliminary investigation into the feud between T'Holly and T'Hawthorn which is disrupting the city,” D'Grove continued.

Lark quashed a curl of anger. Two men had already died, several had been seriously wounded, and Nobles now slowly moved to censure those of their own status. Lark's life had been changed beyond all recognition. So had Painted Rock's—Citrula's—just two of the common folk who'd been affected by this feud.

D'Grove raised her voice. “Since FirstLevel Healer Collinson is available, I would like to start this matter. On the record.”

The people separated into two distinct groups, three Hawthorn allies and three Holly allies, including the formidable T'Ash.

“If you would take the center chair, please, FirstLevel Healer.” Clerk Monkshood stepped forward. “And hold the truth stone shaped as a Quirin egg.”

Lark had dressed for the meeting in an elegant robe of heather-colored silkeen with elaborate silver embroidery. She put her hands in her large, stylish opposite sleeves and lifted her eyebrows. “A truth stone? My word of honor is not good enough?”

“A formality only.” Monkshood gave her a nasty smile.

Lark returned it with a gentle one. “If it's a formality, I don't see why it matters that I hold it. My hands are my primary Healing instruments.”

T'Ash crossed over to where the milky-white stone lay on a blue velvet pad. He picked up the stone and it glowed. Meeting Lark's eyes, he said, “I made it. It's not highly calibrated, so it won't show nuances of feeling, won't react to nerves, only deep untruths. For instance”—he spread his large fingers so the stone showed through, “My hair is blond,” he said. An instant passed, then the stone blazed. T'Ash turned his hand palm up and opened his fingers, letting beams of light brighten the room. “There's no heat associated with the light. There is no electrical or Flaired charge, no harm can come to you.”

Lark stood tall and swept the nobles with cool scrutiny. “Why does this committee want me to hold a Truth Stone?”