Heart Secret (28 page)

Garrett sheathed the thing and put it in another belt pocket. “The murder weapon was like this?”

“Bigger, prettier.” Berberis shrugged. “Our weapons specialist is still studying the actual knife.”

“And it came from Primary HealingHall,” Garrett stated. His gaze skipped across those of the three guards in the room. “We'll go check out the chapel ourselves.”

Again Winterberry's brows went up when he looked at Artemisia. “Sounds good.”

Garrett held out a hand to Artemisia. “Shall we go?”

Her round chin turned stubborn. Her emerald eyes were cool. “Why do you think I should go with you?”

“Are you familiar with the cross-folk chapel in Primary HealingHall?”

“Yes.” Her mouth turned down. “There will be traces of my presence.” She looked at Winterberry. “I occasionally visit the chapel. It's a sacred place and usually empty, unlike the Lady's and Lord's Temple. A good place to relax.”

“And your mother is cross-folk, so you are used to the vibrations of such a religion,” Winterberry said.

“Yes.”

Winterberry waved a hand. “Then you will notice if there is anything unusual about the chapel.”

“The altar missing the knife is unusual,” Artemisia said.

“Beyond that.” Winterberry was unruffled at her irritation.

“I suppose,” she said. She took a pace so she was outside Garrett's reach—an action that made the back of his neck heat. She glanced at him, then at Winterberry. “I don't know the chapel well enough in all light to be able to teleport there now, but I can teleport to the pad outside my office cubicle.”

Garrett stepped up and took her hand. Warm and soft and feeling right in his. She frowned. He ignored that. “We'll head out, then.” He nodded to Winterberry. “I'll give you a report in a septhour or so.”

“Fine,” Winterberry said. “I prefer you take a guard also.”

Guardswoman Milkweed inclined her head at Winterberry. “I'll accompany them.”

“A lot of time and effort's going into this investigation,” Fol Berberis said.

Rosa Milkweed nodded. “Yes. If we'd caught the guy with the others, all those years ago, he'd have been dead like his cohorts. You—we—all missed him for years.”

“Every guard in Druida regretted that, wanted to close the case,” Winterberry said stiffly.

“Guy who killed him should get a medal,” Berberis said.

“For
murder
?” Artemisia asked.

“Justice, not murder,” Milkweed said. “Justice has finally been done.” The rest of the guards nodded, then the guardswoman continued, “Let's head to the HealingHall and get on with it.”

Garrett nodded. “Right.”

“On three.” Artemisia began the teleportation countdown, lacing her fingers with the guardswoman's. “One, GentleSir, two, Guard Milkweed,
three.
”

And they arrived in the corner of one of the most miserable working spaces Garrett had ever seen, including at the beginning of his own career. The room was large but depressingly filled with rickety-walled partitions around desks. Bright, harsh light emanating from Flair-tech panel squares showed every flaw in the furniture, and there were many. The ceiling was only a few inches above his head and there were no windows. His nostrils stung with the odor of astringent cleansers.

He was nearly shocked. He'd have never considered such a place would exist in Primary HealingHall, known for its luxury.

The guardswoman pulled her hand from theirs and took a stride from the teleportation pad before setting her hands on her hips and looking around. “Not inspiring.”

Artemisia did a hunched-shoulder shrug and went to a counter in one of the few tiny spaces that appeared occupied. “This is for the temporary staff. There are only three of us up here.”

Milkweed sniffed. “The rest of Primary HealingHall is lavish enough. I have friends who work in AllClass HealingHall who have better offices than this.”

“Yes, well, I don't anticipate staying here very much longer. Hopefully, I will share an office on the administrative floor.” She glanced at an old-fashioned scry bowl. “I have no messages in my cache that I need to deal with.”

She said nothing but crossed to an opening between the cubes that Garrett realized was a main thoroughfare between them. Milkweed followed Artemisia, and he fell in last. As they walked to the stairwell, he understood that they were on the top floor, the third, of the HealingHall.

The wide stairs were equally vacant as if they weren't much used. When they reached the doors to the main floor, he saw Artemisia take a big breath and glance at the guardswoman and himself. He couldn't help but smile back at her. She shouldn't worry so much. True, she was escorting a Druida guard, but Garrett himself was with Artemisia. And he was sure by now that he was the talk of all the Healers in Druida. Him being seen with her would remind everyone how Artemisia had taken part in the project that would stop the Iasc sickness.

But when they walked through the richly appointed hallways, more gazes went to the guardswoman's uniform than to Garrett and no one greeted Artemisia. His jaw clenched. Even when he was a guard for merchant traders, he'd never let anyone treat him like that—as if he didn't matter.

It irritated him that she accepted the slights.

After a couple of long corridors, they reached a double door with a sign over it that read, “Sacred Spaces.” Artemisia pushed through, and the fragrance of incense tanged the air.

There were only three doors, two on either side of the short hall and one set in a curved wall ahead of them that was obviously a regular round Temple. To the right there was a square cross over the door, and to the left, a series of symbols of religions that Garrett didn't quite recognize. Most people of Celta were comfortable with the culture that their colonist ancestors had established. He understood that the cross-folk beliefs spun off from other Earthan religions. There were a few other faiths that had followers. And some folk didn't believe in any sort of religion at all.

Artemisia automatically swung to the right.

The voice of the HealingHall came. “One moment, please, SecondLevel Healer Panax. FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather noted that you arrived with a guard and requests you await her. The door to the cross-folk sacred space has been spellshielded against all entry.” The HealingHall wasn't so much a sentient entity as an automatic monitoring system. Garrett wondered how close Primary HealingHall was to becoming an intelligent being, but decided no one would answer the question if he asked.

Artemisia's face had hardened. “Has anyone needed the chapel?” she asked.

“The shield has not been disturbed since it was placed,” answered the system.

The doors behind them opened and FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather swept in. Garrett noted that she was wearing elaborate Noble robes with long pocket sleeves, a long tunic, and heavily bloused trous billowing over the ankle cuffs. All in a lush purple-and-gold-patterned silk.

He bowed a little short of what the woman should have received. “Greetyou, FirstLevel Healer,” he said.

“Primross? I thought Winterberry was handling this mess.”

Garrett angled his head. “As he handles all FirstFamily messes?”

The woman's mouth turned down.

Garrett continued, “It appears that this mess is connected with the murder of the last Black Magic Cultist.” He aimed a smile meant to irritate at her. “You must have forgotten that his wife was a victim of that cult.”

Heather's lips soured more and she set her hands in her opposite sleeve pockets. “So?”

“So, it was thought by the FirstFamilies Council that he should not be the primary investigator on this case.”

“And you should?”

He made his smile more patently charming. “The FirstFamilies Council has faith in my skills.”

“Do you often work for the Druida guards?” Heather asked.

“Occasionally,” he lied. “And I must tell you that this project is much more to my liking than the previous one I was involved in.”

Artemisia made a small sound. “A man has been murdered.”

FirstLevel Ura Heather's brows lowered. “Why are you here at the HealingHall so soon before your shift, SecondLevel Healer?”

“She has been requested by the guards to help with the investigation,” Garrett said smoothly. Another way to keep close to her.

The Healer pivoted to glare at Rosa Milkweed. “Is that so?”

With an arch of her brows, the guardswoman said, “Yes.”

A slow smile showing teeth appeared on Heather's face.

“The guards have requested you, Artemisia Mugwort, as a consultant in this matter,” Ura Heather said with a satisfied smile. “So you are released from the staff of Primary HealingHall to fulfill that position.”

Twenty-seven

S
hock. The death of her career echoed in Artemisia's mind, as did Ura
Heather's words.
You are released from the staff of Primary HealingHall to fulfill that position.

Artemisia had never known why the FirstLevel Healer didn't care for her, and lately the woman's malice had gotten worse. A wave of cold nausea washed through Artemisia and she locked her knees to stay upright, opened her mouth to gulp more air.

“Temporarily,” Garrett insisted, his voice sounding too loud to Artemisia. He'd moved very close. Supposed to be supportive?

FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather bridled. “I don't think—”

“If SecondLevel Healer Panax's consultation will impact her career poorly, the guards will, of course, understand and forego her help on this matter,” Garrett said.

Anger, accompanied by vicious threat—toward the FirstLevel Healer—throbbed along the bond between Garrett and Artemisia.

A too strong bond. Artemisia would have to do something—she didn't know what, but soon—about that.

When she looked up at him with eyes that had dilated due to the emotional blow, she saw he was projecting an easy manner. Not even the guardswoman seemed to notice how furious he was. That Artemisia had was a warning sign.

Then she blinked as
his
words repeated in her mind. He was keeping her career as safe as he could. Her head went a little light. Would the guards have requested her help, like he had? Yes. And Ura Heather would have used that for dismissal, as she did.

Sounded like Artemisia was hanging on to her place here at Primary HealingHall with her fingertips. She let a breath sift out. Life as usual with the FirstLevel Healer.

“Very well,” Ura Heather snapped. “The SecondLevel Healer can
consult
with the guards and keep her position here.”

“Good,” Garrett said.

“That's good,” the guardswoman said. “We should proceed into the Temple.”

“Yes,” Garrett agreed. “Who discovered the altar knife was missing?”

“Our FirstLevel Housekeeper, who personally checks these rooms every eightday.” Heather stared at Artemisia. “She's been on our permanent staff for thirty years.”

“Is she cross-folk?” Garrett asked.

“No, but she knows the inventory of each room,” Heather said.

Artemisia winced at the word
inventory
but said, “Then you don't need me to tell you what might be missing.”

All of them looked at her.

“Please, stay with us,” Milkweed said and gestured for Artemisia to open the door. She turned the knob and went in first. Milkweed followed, looking around. Garrett held open the door for FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather, but she shook her head and marched back to the main doors at the end of the hallway and through them.

Garrett entered and scrutinized the room with a glance. Definitely religious, with the heavy fragrance of candles and incense; tiny tiles made up a mosaic on four sides of a plinth. He scraped his grovestudy memory for something on the cross-folk and finally recalled they had a four-spirited god. He still didn't know what that meant.

He didn't like the ambiance of the chapel . . . It felt graver, less joyful than what he experienced when he went to Temples of the Lady and Lord.

Artemisia stopped a pace away from the altar, and Milkweed, who was close behind her, came up short and off-balance. Taller than Artemisia, she fell forward and had to grab the edge of the velvet-draped altar table to steady herself.

The cloth skewed, and with a couple of smooth pulls, she made it straight.

A flushed Milkweed moved to face them and nodded. “My Flair includes an excellent memory for faces, and a small aspect of a talent like Captain Winterberry's. I can tell how many and who have been in this room.” She looked at Artemisia. “You have been in the room before?”

“Of course,” Artemisia said. Her lips hardened, as if she were tired of the questions. But investigation was checking every detail from every aspect. “Like I said, I sometimes come here to relax or meditate.”

Milkweed's brow furrowed. “It seems like your vibration has been here for a long time.”

“My mother worked here for years. Also, when I was hired on, she wished that I light a candle of thanks to her god here in the chapel. She asked me to check on the chapel every other eightday or so since there is no cross-folk priest on staff.”

“When was the last time you were here?” asked the guardswoman.

Artemisia frowned and her gaze went blank as if calculating. “It would have been two eightdays ago on TwinMoonsday.” Her smile was faint, then she gestured to the Celtan Temple. “The last couple of days, I spent more time in the Lady's and Lord's Temple here.”

“Did you touch anything on the altar?”

“Of course not. The pieces are consecrated by a priest of the cross-folk and not to be handled by unbelievers. I would not do such a thing!”

“Didn't light the candelabra on the altar?” Garrett asked. The wicks of the sixteen candles in the stand were burnt.

“No, I used those candles.” Artemisia gestured to a small alcove in the side wall and an iron stand holding three rows of small tapers. Only three melted stubs showed use. “Those candles are for anyone who has a prayer.”

“Huh,” Garrett said. The more he stayed in this place, the less he liked it. As if eyes watched and judged.

Milkweed stared at the altar that showed a large empty space in a row of three crosses, where the missing knife would have stood. Her gaze swung back to Artemisia. “But you've been in here several times?

“Yes.”

“And you found the murder knife, which is a blade and three arms of a square cross, but didn't recognize it as coming from here?”

Artemisia's eyes had deepened to forest green and again Garrett was aware of secrets—but not lies, not this time. Nor did her tone waver when she answered. “I didn't pay much attention to the altar or the knife upon it.” She shrugged. “And it looked ordinary to me. A cross that would be used in a public place like this, not one in a dedicated cross-folk chapel. I didn't realize that it was a work of art.”

That was news to Garrett since he hadn't had time to review Artemisia's statements to the guards.

“I
do
feel your presence in this room before today,” Milkweed continued to press.

Chin lifting, Artemisia tilted it in the direction of the Celtan round Temple. “And if you go into the Lady's and Lord's Temple, you will find my presence there, later and more often.”

Milkweed nodded. “I'll check that out.” She pursed her lips. “Too bad Winterberry isn't considered reliable in this matter. His Flair for that is better than mine.” She turned to Garrett. “What of your Flair?”

Before he could form an answer that revealed very little about himself and his Flair—how he could speak with all Fams, and even meld minds with them—the door opened and the FirstFamily GrandLord Straif T'Blackthorn entered the room.

Either FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather or Garrett's own friend Laev T'Hawthorn must have asked him to come. He was the best tracker on Celta.

“Greetyou, guardswoman, greetyou, GentleSir Primross. And SecondLevel Healer Mugwort Panax.” The GrandLord bowed.

Artemisia curtsied deeply. Milkweed angled her body in a short bow. Garrett nodded.

Straif T'Blackthorn said, “I was briefed by a few members of the FirstFamily Council on the death of Modoc Eryngo and was asked to look at this chapel for tracks of the one who disposed of him.”

Garrett itched to ask who'd spoken with him and whether it was Laev—who was nearly a generation younger than T'Blackthorn—but kept his mouth shut. He'd find out later.

T'Blackthorn scanned the room with a penetrating stare, particularly the floor, which Garrett had heard would show the GrandLord the trails of each individual who'd been in the room. “I can tell you that I see nothing unusual here.”

Then he crossed his arms. “And that's all I will tell you. As far as I'm concerned, the flig—” His gaze seemed to snag on the altar and the image of the four-spirited god and he stopped the curse word. “Modoc Eryngo got what he deserved. I've fulfilled my annual NobleGilt public service and if the guards wish to request the councils hire me, be aware that my fee for this matter is high.” He quoted a figure that had Garrett's mouth dropping at the sheer size of it.

Milkweed choked.

The FirstFamily GrandLord nodded to them all again and vanished.

Artemisia expelled a breath that was loud in the silence, then murmured, “Well, I suppose that isn't surprising.”

“No?” asked Milkweed.

Artemisia shrugged. “He's married to a Clover, after all, like Winterberry.”

The guardswoman shook her head. “I can't always keep the tangles of FirstFamily relationships straight.”

Garrett frowned. “How, exactly, is he related?”

Pressing her lips together as if in thought, Artemisia replied, “I think T'Blackthorn's wife is cousin to Trif Clover, who is wed to Winterberry and was one of the two surviving Black Magic Cult victims. But the other who lived and is close to Winterberry is of his blood. Another FirstFamily Lady, wed to Saille T'Willow.”

“Crap,” Garrett said, and didn't like the ripple of disapproval that even that mild oath provoked in the atmosphere. Nope, he didn't think he liked this cross-folk god.

He rubbed the back of his neck. His senses and Flair were clogged here. He'd have to sort through his impressions later.

Milkweed completed a prowl through the room. “I think we've seen everything we need?” She held the door open. “I want to do a quick check of the Lord's and Lady's Temple, then speak with the housekeeper and”—she grimaced—“GrandMistrys FirstLevel Healer Ura Heather.” The guardswoman ended with a low mutter under her breath, “Sure wish her father, GrandLord T'Heather, was still in charge here.”

Artemisia exited first, saying, “You won't need me for that.” She glanced at a pretty timer on the wall. “And my shift starts in about twenty minutes.”

“You're with me now,” Garrett rumbled. “And we have things to do.”

“No!”

“I'll be in the Lord's and Lady's Temple.” Guardswoman Milkweed hurried away.

“Do you really think that FirstLevel Healer Heather hasn't already reassigned your cases?” Garrett asked.

“Again?”

He didn't want to disillusion her, but she should face reality. “Ura Heather probably flexed your work time the minute the knife was discovered missing.”

Artemisia's face stilled in that way women have when they are fighting tears. He
hated
to see that, held out his hand.

She dodged around him. “I still must check my shifts,” she said in a choked voice.

She had to turn away from him, from all the hurt pounding through her. Nothing had gone right lately, so many things had tested her inner calm, her strength. She knew she was strong, she didn't need to prove that to herself or anyone else. “I'll join you in a few minutes,” Artemisia said, insides wavery. “I also need to program my scrybowl to forward to my perscry.” She strode away and wound through the building to her sorry cubicle.

One glimpse of the “Amended Work Schedule, Artemisia Panax” posted on the inside partition showed that Garrett was right. She was slated to start work in a couple of septhours and her shift was truncated enough to give her the minimal amount of work time—and gilt.

She unfolded a temp-sit chair from the wall of the partition and sat. Options must be considered—for her job, first, then her personal life. How much did she want to work in this HealingHall? A great deal. The energy felt
right
, but Ura Heather would rule for a long time. Artemisia grounded herself, let her tumbled feelings drain. Maybe she could hang on to her position here. She was a good Healer and if Lark Holly would be her advocate . . . if all this mess passed without more irritation of Heather, and Artemisia sank below her notice again, she had a chance. If, if, if. She wouldn't give up yet, but one more incident and she'd have to walk away.

The smooth surface of the water in the scrybowl caught her eye. As for her personal life, she had to get beyond her own hurt and pain to do that, which meant she had to follow up on her promise to her relatives. She needed a counselor and at least one session. She thought of the priests and priestesses she'd met through Tiana over the years. Some were too high to call on. Some were so close to Tiana that advising her sister would put a strain on the friendship.

Artemisia sighed. There was something easy about Leger Cinchona that she liked. So she put the call through.

His mobile face fell when he understood that she wanted to consult him as a priest, then he smiled and waved the slight regret aside, accepted her as a client. She took his next free appointment which was at EveningBell.