Heartmate (7 page)

Wrapped in a thick fleece robe, he went down to his vault and retrieved an old frayed pouch containing the first Divination Dice he'd made, then took them to the reddwood desk.

He opened the Pouch and eight dice fell into his palm. He sighed. They felt small and awkward, with erratic power.

He threw.
Danger. A man with a bloody sword. A woman surrounded by blasers. Three threats. You will lose or win all.

He shuddered. The power of the dice was inconsistent, that was all. He sat for some moments and held the dice, letting them once again take his emotions, his dreams, his essence.

Breathing deeply, he threw again.
Danger. Passage. HeartMate and HeartGift. A woman surrounded by blasers.

He grabbed the old dice and put them away.

T'Ash closed his eyes and rested. When he opened his lids, the empty, oiled expanse of his reddwood desk reminded him of a scry surface. His thoughts went to his lady. His HeartMate. Danith.

He couldn't resist. For the first time in years he gave into impulse and summoned the viz disks from the shop to his home. They landed on the desk with a small rattle. He found the disk with her viz locale, a large one for those with ordinary Flair—combining technology and magic. The disk detailed a two-dimensional image of a small blue scrybowl painted with pink mallow blossoms on the inside. The bowl was set on a maroon mat and the mat placed on a table.

Only wanting, not thinking, he set the scry spell humming.

Three

Seconds later a sleepy voice came through Danith's scry
bowl. “Here. One moment.”

Her very voice sent ripples of sensation through T'Ash, causing a deep yearning and quick arousal.

Her face loomed over the bowl, showing half-closed brownish-green eyes, a high-necked, faded, and rumpled yellow commoncloth cotton nightshirt, and tumbled chestnut hair. Her pinkened cheeks were creased and her sensual lips parted in a yawn. “Sorry,” she said. “Who's there?”

With a flick of his fingers, T'Ash disconnected. He sat stiff and straight. Damn. He banged his fist on the reddwood desk. Damn. Damn.
Damn.

What was he thinking, calling her? His HeartGift was his best chance. What with surviving Downwind, prowling the vengeance stalk, and establishing his life, he knew nothing of women except slaking his sexual needs with tavern wenches. He'd never had any sort of relationship, never squired around a girl, a woman, a lady. And he didn't have time to learn. He had to forge the main gauche, force Passage to create a new HeartGift, retrieve his necklace.

He scowled at the scrybowl. How clumsy he had been.

And the glimpse of her had been far too tantalizing. He ached for her in his body and his mind.

She hadn't looked in danger. She'd looked lovely, content, and he'd wanted to return to the mussed bed with her.

He shook off the thought. Closing his eyes, he fashioned a strong mesh of golden forcelines. With an exhalation and a Word, he sent it to protect her. Any assault on the spellshield would alert him. The spell would weaken as his power and energy drained, but by that time, he would have her HeartBound.

He would guard her, no need to worry her by telling her she might be in danger.

A HeartMate. His pulse picked up pace with excitement, but wariness touched him, too. Majo was right. A HeartMate would demand emotional intimacy, a closeness he'd forgotten how to give. He hadn't loved a person in a long, long time.

A HeartMate would want more than lust; she'd deserve love. He would give his heart to her, such was the nature of bonded HeartMates. His parents had been HeartMates, and T'Ash remembered the love between them. His mother had chosen to perish with his father rather than live without him.

But in giving Danith his heart, T'Ash would be incredibly vulnerable. More vulnerable than a sheltered six-year-old boy lost Downwind. A HeartMate would discover all of him, things he hid from others, even things he hid from himself.

She could destroy him. A stranger held his heart and his future in her small, delicate hands.

 
Danith blinked drowsily at the scrybowl. For an in
stant she'd thought she'd seen the glint of sky-crystal blue eyes. No. Positively not. That GreatLord T'Ash had not vized her. What she saw had been merely an image slipping from her dreams.

She frowned. He hadn't belonged in her dreams, either. He'd been sexy but disturbing, settling the necklace over her head and gently drawing her to him with it, tracing the stones and the skin they lay on until he reached the pendant between her breasts. . . .

She tromped back to her bedsponge and flopped down on the thick, springy mattress of Celtan permamoss. She'd had erotic dreams before. They just hadn't been about a specific man. It must be the necklace spell. That necklace had been the most beautiful piece of jewelry she'd ever seen.

Pansy gave a small purr of delight when Danith burrowed back into the covers. Danith smiled. Her cat, a shield against loneliness.

Cats weren't as rare as dogs, but Danith couldn't have afforded Pansy if the petstore manager hadn't believed the young cat was dying.

Danith stroked the soft fur of her cat. There was nothing wrong with Pansy; she'd thrived under Danith's doting. A pity Pansy had been spayed in an effort to save her life.

Near sleep, Danith felt a warmth envelope her, as if a thin blanket had been folded around her to keep the cool of the summer night at bay.

A raspy yowl came from outside. Danith smiled again. She loved cats and left a bowl of food for the strays that were allowed by law to roam free.

The cat cry came again; ringing with triumph. Danith yawned. She could almost have sworn it sounded like “Yessss.”

 
 
Smoke suffocated him, pressing hard on his chest, clog
ging his lungs. The big book he clutched was almost too heavy for his six-year-old arms.

Flames licked at the Residence, showing orange inside the windows. Rand's pounding heart squeezed all the breath from him.

Bad men were in the Residence. They had plunged through the french doors, shattering glass in the very room where Rand was reading. He'd ducked behind curtains. They hadn't seen him as they ran through the ResidenceDen.

One had stopped at the doorway. “I'll wait here. Set the firebombspell in the CoreHall. That will destroy just the Residence. I want the property untouched.”

No alarms sounded. The spellshields didn't hold.

Rand stumbled outside, away from the men. Now the flames, mere flickers an instant ago, swallowed the whole first floor in hungry orange fire.

Screams.

His brothers.

Rand stood stiff, couldn't make a sound.

Tears ran down his face. His mind flailed in a torment of confusion and denial.

He saw his mother's wavery outline in the LordSuite window and screamed himself, dropping his book to lift his arms to her. Crying again and again for her. She glanced at him, then vanished deeper into the fire. Her last shrieked words pummeled Rand's ears—“HeartMate, Nuin,
NUIN.
”

With a terrible whoosh, fiery flames engulfed the Residence, imprinting the image forever on Rand's brain.

A man came running, sword blade gleaming, blaser pulled. He grinned at Rand, an evil, feral grin.

Rand stumbled over the big, leather book he'd dropped, then snatched it up.

He ran and ran and ran, knowing he ran for his life. Wild blaser fire arrowed next to him, barely missing, until he knew the blaser was discharged. Pounding feet followed him. Rand's sweat mixed with tears. His side stitched and he ran limping. He bolted to a place where he'd often hidden, a place just outside the fascinating, forbidden district of Downwind.

Footsteps clattered behind him, the clank of a blade on stone. The walls would nick the blade, ruin it. His papa would never do something so stupid. His papa—A new rush of tears blinded Rand.

“I've got him!”

A hand grabbed his shirt, and Rand squealed, a high caught-animal sound. Papa had taught him a Word, and Rand shouted it.

A bright flash lit the dark. Behind Rand, the man cried out in pain.

The energy of the Word cost Rand. He slipped, fell. More steps hammered down the street. Rand glimpsed a small hole in front of him, a crack between two decrepit buildings. Pushing the book before him, the way made easier by slime, he slithered inside the tiny shelter.

“Where is he?” asked a smooth voice with a Noble accent.

“I lost him.”

“We'll hunt him and get him,” a third man's rough voice said.

“He will rue the day.” The first man chuckled evilly.

“I get tired of that play on my name,” the highborn one said. Rand could see his gaudy boots. One toe tapped impatiently and caught Rand's eye. The etched brass toeguard looked like the suit of clubs on playing cards. He recognized rue leaves.

“Sorry.” Evil Voice didn't sound like he was.

“Leave him for now. With luck, he'll be dead by morning, a casualty of Downwind. How badly was he burned?”

“Don't know.”

“It doesn't matter, one of the properties of that fire is that it will eventually consume all. If a cinder landed on his skin, it's burrowing through the kid even now.”

Rand shivered and shivered again. Even at six he knew only strong magic could have torched the Residence like that. He felt himself for any touch of smoldering fire, but he was cold, cold, cold.

“It'll look like an accident,” the son of Rue said. “Flametree promised me. Everyone knows the second boy, Gwidion, has—
had
—a Flair for fire and problems mastering it. Let's go. You can come back tomorrow and hunt, keep a sharp eye out.”

The feet disappeared and Rand huddled in his hiding place. He trembled with cold, and knew no awful fire burned him. He was too scared to sleep, and when he shut his eyes, images of flames outlining the Residence, stone breaking, black timbers crumbling, scored his eyelids.

He cried until he was emptied of tears, cradling the book and rocking. Finally an exhausted sleep took him.

T'Ash groaned and thrashed awake from the nightmare, the one he'd hoped was gone forever. Memories were enough without reliving them in his sleep.

Zanth extended his claws to T'Ash's chest as he tried to sit up. No wonder he felt suffocated, the Fam had decided to honor him by sleeping on him. T'Ash carefully detached the claws and pushed the cat away.

Me warm. Not ready to move,
Zanth protested.

T'Ash staggered from bed. He needed caff, hot and strong. And heated by magic, not by fire. He gave his orders to the chef via the scrystone intercom.

Walking through his Residence, he looked neither left nor right. He didn't dare. It had none of the feeling or the hominess of the old T'Ash Residence. The walls were bare, the rooms sterile. Furniture was functional, not aesthetic. Some chambers stood empty. The library was minimal and the ResidenceDen austere.

The fire had taken so much from him. In a frightening few moments the GreatHouse of the Ash Tree became a ruin of ashes.

Only the HouseHeart, the most ancient spiritual place of T'Ash Residence, had survived behind the mightiest spellshield. T'Ash had returned a few days after the fire and squirmed through the rubble to hide the stairs down to the inner sanctuary. He made sure the primitive stones forming the ancient, circular pattern of the Rainbow Serpent were untouched and still vibrant with magic. He hid the HouseHeart both physically and with a short, easily memorized chant that all the Ash boys knew.

Years later T'Ash had been at a loss to decorate his new Residence, though the building itself was a modern architectural gem of swooping curves combined with pointed angles. He remembered vaguely what some furnishings looked like, had purchased a Chinju rug or two that echoed his recollections. But he had been too busy and too unsure of his taste, with the overlay of hard Downwind living, to make the new Residence a home.

The lingering images of his nightmare, of rooms of wealth and gracious style, mocked T'Ash and his efforts. He'd had a Residence designed and constructed, but it was as hollow as his life. He'd expected his HeartMate to make the house a home, he now realized.

You gloom. Gloom. Gloom. Gloom.
Zanth said as he trotted by T'Ash.
Life is good.
Zanth headed to the kitchen where he could terrorize the chef, a prospect that never failed to please the Fam. T'Ash had negotiated that the cook would stay as long as Zanth was allowed in the kitchen only at breakfast. Consequently, Zanth was always in exuberant spirits in the morning.

He dropped the beaded chain in T'Ash's path.
Play with toy.
Then the Fam whisked around the corner to the back stairs.