Heart Fate (8 page)

“Heat,” she said. Nothing, not even the tiniest brush of Flair to indicate a spell embedded in the building.

Shivering, she stripped and spread out her wet clothes. Lady and Lord knew how long it would take for them to dry. Then she tried another spell, a simple one. “Dry!” A small warmth fluttered around her halfheartedly. It was the very last of her Flair for septhours, but it might be enough to do the job by evening.

She chose a corner to huddle in. The cold wasn't
too
bad. The whole garden seemed warmer than the rest of Druida. She would survive. Tomorrow, if the snow wasn't too deep and her clothes had dried—or she'd managed to gather a little more Flair to dry them— she'd explore. With a garden this big, there would be other structures. She wouldn't have to stay in the shed.

There might even be a house. Or a Residence. She wasn't ready for that, but she would just have to overcome her dislike of a Residence. They didn't all have to be wretched personalities like the Yews' or condescending like the Burdocks'. If she'd had to live centuries with Yews like Ioho and Taxa, she'd have turned nasty, too. An awful thought.

As the day wore on, she dozed and woke periodically. She thought of the garden and what she'd seen and how she might live here and tend it. A pretty dream.

Now and then she heard the click of claws outside, and then the light faded from the window.

She knew the animal—
was
it a dog?—hovered outside in the cold, close to the warmth of the door. It didn't whine, didn't growl. Could she possibly trust it? If she let it in, would it hurt her?

She'd seen its ribs, how it had torn into her food, and she couldn't get the idea out of her head that it was waiting for death.

Could it possibly be sentient?
Beast?

Silence.

Shifting a little to get more comfortable, she stared at the window, wondered if she deluded herself that she could see stars.

Hear you.
The mind touch startled her. It was gruff. Resigned. Maybe there was a touch of a whimper.

Forming an image with her words, Lahsin sent,
I will let you in. You stay away from me. We both survive.

This time the quiet was like the animal was considering. Then a rush of desperation came at her. Not her own, but like what she'd felt.

What had allowed her into the garden.

I agree
, the beast said.
We do not hurt each other.

I agree
, Lahsin echoed.
We do not hurt each other.

Wondering if she was being too stupid, too softhearted, or just learning to be a more courageous person, she rose and opened the door.

Snow whirled in, the beast came, too, nearly dragging itself. She didn't help it.

I am a dog.
It looked at her with the eyes that she recalled were yellow, and it was too dark to read its expression.

She watched as it settled itself, waited. Eyeing the dog, Lahsin figured the best way either of them would get some peace was if she left the door open a scrawny-dog-sized amount so he could leave and not pounce on her in the night.

She went back to her corner, arranged her clothes as a bed, and nibbled her lip, wondering what the best way to bespell the corner for warmth would be. If she had enough Flair.

At T'Yew's she'd practiced only minor Flair, turning on lights, housekeeping her own room. Yew's daughter and the Residence itself had managed all the great spells necessary to run it. Just as YewHeir had had the MistrysSuite. But Lahsin didn't want to think about that. She'd gotten her own small room after a couple of months of sharing the MasterSuite with Yew, when he'd wanted a more mature, knowledgeable bedmate. One that wouldn't shiver and hide or vomit after sex.

She shook her head hard. Even this corner in this forgotten garden was better than what she'd come from, and she cherished it. Drawing in a big breath, she centered herself and gently prodded her Flair. There was nothing on the surface, but deeper inside her—it was like an oncoming thunderstorm. You knew it was big and dangerous, but it was also exciting. Surely she'd manage to sustain herself during the fever fugue of Passage. She hadn't heard of anyone going crazy or dying from it lately. Those were probably all old stories.

She sat and spread out the ripped sack and all her belongings. Not even a crumb of food. She looked at the long, angular tears in the sack, wondered if she could mend them. Perhaps. Frowning with concentration, she smoothed the cloth bag out. A tiny, hard lump was in the corner.

She fumbled through the tear, snatched at it, a little herbal pill flecked with red. She'd found only one in an open packet in a dusty corner of the pantry when she'd gotten the travel sticks. The herb was supposed to give energy. She stared at it, shivered. Could it stir her Flair? She needed Flair to keep the shed warm through the night.

Just thinking about a heat spell made her colder. Finally, with a shrug, she took the pill and laid it on her tongue. The sweet, spicy cinnamon tasted good and she let it melt away.

As she'd hoped, her Flair rose, evenly, filling her with sweet power. She hummed in delight.

She needed warmth in the night. How could she get it? The shed didn't have an inbuilt heating spell. She thought back to her grovestudy days, when she'd learned to build on other spells or on nature.

Other spells. The shed had preservation spells that would keep her heat Flair going once she set it in place. Closing her eyes, she felt the shed, what its walls had experienced through the seasons. Winter, like now, chilling the stone and riming it with frost.

Summer, never stifling, but the sun's light penetrating the small window in the opposite corner, warming the walls, trapping the heat until well into the night. That was it! Remembrance of summer days.

She crafted a simple couplet, spoke it, and knew it worked, even drying her clothes! She grinned until she saw the dog sitting near the door, muzzle withdrawn from its teeth, eyes narrowed. Did she dare stay here with it?

A personal shield, she thought she could do that. After all, she'd broken all of the shields on Yew Residence, she should be able to craft one. She did, with a Word, and it seemed so easy she didn't know whether she trusted its strength. So she walked over to a large pair of pruners. The dog growled and inched away from her, more toward the door.

I won't let you hurt me
, she sent to the dog. Wouldn't hurt to talk to him, would it? And since she'd used so much Flair she was now too tired to care whether that made sense or not.

She nudged her clothes around in a nest so they looked halfway comfortable and settled herself down, keeping a loose grip on the meter-long pruners. Just before she slept, she met the dog's yellow eyes, and he said mentally,
I said I would not hurt you. I am taking shelter just like you
.

I won't hurt you, either
, she sent, but she kept her gaze on him as the physical discomfort of sleeping on wadded clothes atop a stone floor faded and her eyes drifted closed. Her very last thought was that she was free.

Without food in winter, but free.

 
 
After the tests that evening, Tinne took a chance and teleported
directly to his waterfall stall. Before he stripped off his clothes and sent them to the recycle bin, he contacted the Residence and issued a “Do Not Disturb” request for all communications systems and the sigil to be applied to his door.

He didn't want to see anyone or listen to anyone, and most definitely he didn't want to do any more fliggering talking. He turned up the heat, flow, and noise of the waterfall, so it was all he experienced— a torrent of cleansing white water bubbling over him, though he sensed people tiptoeing outside his door. His Mamá, his father, his brother. Lark, his brother's wife and the Holly Healer,
didn't
show up, but since T'Heather was her MotherSire, Tinne figured the man would have talked to her. Thankfully the rest of his Family honored his wishes.

He let a gentle spell dry him as he staggered in the early winter darkness to his bed and fell facedown on it.

The soft rumble of a purr wafted to his ears, and a cat—his hunting cat, Ilexa—stepped onto his back, kneading his stiff muscles. He grabbed the corner of the spread, pulled it over his lower body, and grunted. “Greetyou. Nice to see you after all these years.” Not that he was seeing her, his face was mashed in a feather pillow and he'd closed his eyes. But somehow just having her back loosened a tight knot inside him.

I returned because you need me.
The cat spoke in obviously female tones.

It was the last thing either of them said for several moments as she worked on him. Finally as he was sinking into sleep, he opened one eye to see her curl in her regal cat bed on the floor. Mutated from Earthan cheetahs, the sturdiest feline that had adapted to Celta, her coat was golden with beautiful brown markings. But she appeared a little ragged. He'd always pictured her as elegant and deadly.
Thank you for leaving the wild for me, Ilexa
.

A corner of his mouth curved up. “So you've decided to return and be my Fam.”

“Yesss,” the cat said.
Residence and Family no longer cursed.

“My parents fulfilled their Vows of Honor over a year ago,” Tinne mumbled.

“Oh.” Then sleep claimed him.

 
 
The next morning Tinne awoke with the awful anticipation that
doom was about to crash down on him. Then he remembered and doom fell, flattening his spirits before he rolled from his bedsponge.

He lay there, enervated, for long minutes, when, just like the day before, his Mamá's voice came. “Tinne? The Residence told me you were up. Are you coming to breakfast?” She'd always be the one to gently keep the Holly sons in line.

He grunted, groaned, but it was no good. He knew he couldn't escape a Family breakfast, Lady and Lord help him.

He had ducked his Family the night before, but it wouldn't be possible today.

“Ilexa?” he murmured, then the cat strolled in from the waterfall room. He didn't know what she'd done, but every hair on her looked sleekly groomed, even her whiskers.

“Your appointment with the Healers is in a septhour,” his Mamá said, and her voice was so neutral, without its usual lilt, that he shut his eyes in hurt—for himself, for Genista, for his Family. “I'll be down in quarter septhour,” he replied with his sleep-roughened voice.

“Yes, dear.” She sounded relieved.

“Oh, and Ilexa is back. Please set her place in the corner of the dining room.”

There was a hesitation. “Ilexa's back?” A lifting of his Mamá's voice and spirits.

“Yes.”

“I'll make sure she's welcomed.”

A delicious meal for his prodigal Fam then. Tinne was sure whatever he ate would taste like ashes.

Ilexa came over to stand at the bed and gave a discreet lick of his cheek.
You look like a scruff.

Tinne grunted, the schedule of the day—all the testing—crowding into his brain and tightening his gut. He levered himself from the bed. He washed quickly, dressed in a plain linen shirt and brown trous. His shirtsleeves and trous legs were extravagantly bloused, gathered at wrist and ankle. The excessive material would serve several purposes. His clothes were bespelled to soak up sweat and transform it to regular water and send it into the air. He'd also set warming and cooling spells into the fabric so he wouldn't suffer as much from clamminess and cold chills or flushes of heat like he had the day before.

The only good part of the previous day was T'Heather's pronouncement after his physical examination that he was in fine shape, if a little too thin. Tinne anticipated losing more weight during these fliggering tests. No one would like that.

Even after the tests he was ambivalent about the future. He wanted to think—to hope—that somehow he and Genista could overcome their differences. And he wanted the pain he associated with Genista and the loss of their child gone. He didn't think he could have both options.

Most of all, he wanted this testing
over
.

The results were looking poor but there was nothing to do but finish.

Six

At Lark's orders, breakfast talk had been trivial. Tinne ate fast
and hoped to give his Family the slip, but they accompanied him to the front door. He'd be taking a glider to the tests today.

“Tinne, you look terrible,” his Mamá said. She was holding hands with his father as usual.

Holm snorted.

“Of course you wouldn't sleep well. I'll work on a Flaired lullaby for you,” his Mamá said.

Holm snickered.

“Holm, don't be rude.” Their mother rounded on him.

Holm raised his eyebrows. “Someone has to keep his spirits up.” Holm stared at Tinne. “Looks like you sank into the Great Washington Boghole then Ilexa dragged you all the way back here.”

“Thank you,” Tinne said. “You look . . . radiant.” He bared his teeth, but got a little satisfaction, as Holm looked aside and Lark smiled.

“I have to go,” Tinne said.

Lark curved her hand around Tinne's cheek. “If I may?” But she'd already sent him a surge of energy that refreshed him more than the waterfall and banished the lingering bad dreams.

“Thank you.” He lifted her hand and kissed her fingers. “Thank you all.” The energy Lark had sent him was not hers alone, but a mixture of the whole Family's, given to him through her link with them.