Heart Choice (44 page)

With a brisk step that belied his wish to drag his feet, he entered
Nuada's Sword,
strode through the airlock and into the surrounding, gleaming metal corridors. He hesitated.

“Blackthorn!”

Straif turned to see Ruis Elder, Captain of
Nuada's Sword
and Null, trotting down the hall. He had a small bulging pouch strapped to his chest. When Ruis reached Straif, he realized the pouch held the new Elder baby. He froze. He hadn't been close to an infant for fifteen years. Two Blackthorn babies had been the first to succumb to the horrible virus. Had he remembered to carve their names in the ballroom floor? Yes.

Ruis must have mistaken Straif's horrified stare as deep interest, because he opened the carrier to expose a tiny face and minuscule fingers. “Beautiful, isn't she?”

“Very.”

“Ailim is at JudgementGrove, of course, so Ship and I watch Dani Eve until Grove breaks for midday recess, then Ailim will come home to feed the greedy girl.”

Straif couldn't believe such a small scrap of humanity contained anything like greed. He touched the tip of his index finger to a rounded baby cheek. So soft. Incredible. “You are very lucky.”

“Yes, I am. When you found me here that day three years ago, I thought my life was over.”

All of Celta would remember that day when the first firebombspell was set off in the Council Chamber forever.

Ruis said, “But I have a lovely wife, a child. A daughter who is a Null and won't be scorned.” He said it like a vow.

“No. She won't. She's lucky in her father, too.”

“Thank you.” Ruis hesitated, sighed. “Ship wants me to take you to Fern's Garden in the Great Greensward.” Ruis squeezed Straif's upper arm. “It prefers to deliver bad news in beautiful surroundings.”

“Ship stated that it had found a remedy for the Blackthorn Curse.”

Ruis winced, gestured Straif into the omnivator. Straif had only been in the little moving cubicle a few times.

“Greensward,” Ruis said.

A moment later they were in the greenspace that comprised a third of the Ship. Every time he saw the Great Greensward it was more beautiful. The garden Ruis led him to was as well kept as any FirstFamily estate, blooming with ancient flowers. In the distance, Straif could see little mechanical beings trundling along, grooming the greensward.

He narrowed his eyes. “Do you hire those out?”

Ruis laughed. “No, I'm unsure how they'd fare outside.”

Straif pulled up a chair and sat. The gardens were beautiful, but inside he was wary and bleak. He raised his voice. “What do you need to tell me, Ship? Have you found some way to fix my heritage so the Blackthorns don't perish from the Angh virus, or not?”

A low hum came, then the Ship's male voice. “You spoke about a genetic flaw, but the impairment involves several interconnected systems, your blood, the construction of the cells lining your veins. The matter is trickier than we thought.”

Straif stared at the beautiful garden. “Do you have a fix for my problem, or not?”

“Your immune system magnifies the effects of a common Celtan virus until it is fatal.”

“Have. You. Found. A. Cure?”

“We have a remedy.”

He still felt wary. “But?”

“It is complicated.”

“How complicated?”

“There is no permanent fix at this time. We have processed your genetic samples and placed them in storage for future regeneration when our knowledge or Celtan knowledge progresses to a point where your DNA can be altered to produce a child of your line without the current flaw you carry.”

“Right. We discussed this before. Get to the point.”

“We can provide you and your descendants with a temporary, ongoing immunization to the Angh virus.”

“The Healers said it couldn't be done.”

“The Healers still do not have complete knowledge of or access to our Earth plants.”

Straif licked dry lips. “What do you mean by temporary?”

“You must grow the plant to have it on hand—crush the leaves, distill and drink them within a few moments of the process. The immunization must be imbibed on a daily basis.”

“Daily.”

“Yes, it must be freshly brewed daily.”

“No no-time?”

“I am aware of your no-time spell facilities.”
Nuada's Sword
sounded disapproving of Celtan technology. “I do not know the effects it might have on the plant properties, so I would advise an old-fashioned stillroom such as we have here.”

For a moment Straif envisioned trekking to the Ship every day for the rest of his life. “You can help me with the—equipment and process?”

“Indeed. I recommend that since you are the person most concerned with the quality and efficacy, you should be the one to prepare it.”

“Fresh daily.” Now he imagined himself in the Residence's stillroom.

“What efficacy do you project for the immunization, Ship?” asked Ruis.

“Made and taken daily, the beverage should prevent the Angh virus from spreading inside a person of the T'Blackthorn line with an effective rate of 99.97 percent.”

That stunned Straif. Time telescoped until he saw the past—before the virus had hit the Family—the last big gathering. All those people, all his loved ones might have been saved. If the Ship had been activated at the time. If it had discovered this cure. If
they
had taken it. If, if, if. Too many ifs to ever know how many might have lived instead of died.

“I have a sample,” Ship said. A little mechanical box on spindly legs minced up to Straif carrying a tall glass of gray brown liquid with bits of material floating in it.

Straif picked up the glass and gulped it down, choking. It was the nastiest thing he'd ever tasted.

He stood. “Please have the plants, equipment, and instructions delivered to my Residence as soon as possible.”

“The dosage has been calculated for your mass,” Ship said. “You will have to drink it on an empty stomach and eat no sooner than a septhour later.”

Straif frowned. He glanced at the babe Ruis Elder held and thought of forcing such a vile drink on a tiny child every day of its life. He couldn't imagine doing so. But then, he'd have a long time to accustom himself to the notion. If the potion saved lives, it would have to be done.

Turning to Captain Elder, Straif said, “As for payment—”

“There is no payment due,” Ruis said, rocking his baby. “You provided the best Healers on Celta to attend to my wife when she delivered our baby, as well as a traditional Oracle. Though Ship wanted Ailim to have the child here, I know Ailim was anxious. Her time at T'Blackthorn estate was a blessing.”

“A blessing for me and my land, too,” Straif said.

Ruis nodded. “You also graciously allowed me on your estate, even though you knew I could harm spells. I appreciate that. There will be no payment for these consultations or anything else we've done so far.” He winked. “We'll negotiate other services in the future.”

Straif bowed. “My thanks.” And with that, he took his leave, a foul taste still coating his tongue.

He walked home. The incredible surging joy he'd always thought this moment would bring didn't come. Instead the dread he'd lived with a long time increased. Didn't he think he was allowed to feel joy?

Of course he was allowed joy. He'd come to terms with the guilt of surviving when the rest of his Family died. They'd want him to have a full, happy life.

But he couldn't envision such a life without Mitchella.

The more he had her, the more he wanted her, and not just for sex. When he thought of how she'd defended him to the delegates the day before, his whole being warmed. How could he have managed without her? He had the lowering feeling that he could very well have lost his estate—even lost himself in grief in the echoing empty rooms of his Residence, if she hadn't helped him.

But he also thought of his line, and that yearning was so old, so ingrained—healthy children of his own body, carrying his name and Flair into the future, linked to all their ancestors of the past—that he couldn't give up his heritage.

The two desires tore at him, mutually exclusive. He could only follow one path, must discard the other.

He'd keep Mitchella as long as he could. Yet he felt her slipping away, like water through his fingers—both his withdrawing to shield himself from hurt and her own.

When he arrived home, he found the duel had been set for the next morning. Mitchella gave him the news, but didn't ask about his appointment on
Nuada's Sword
. Instead, she made love to him with a wildness that shattered him.

 
 
The next morning dawned clear and bright, and warm
enough that no outer garments were needed on the walk to the dueling field.

They'd chosen Tureric Square, the most ancient dueling ground. Both it and the day were dedicated to the Lord instead of the Lady. Fighting done in a roundpark on a Lady's day tended to have an odd outcome.

No Council or Guild member had objected to the duel. On the surface, the opponents seemed well matched. It was understood that no Flair would be used, and both men had been trained with knife, sword, and blaser since they'd been young adults.

Stachys may have had T'Blackthorn blood, but Straif also had Holly blood, warrior blood, Mitchella assured herself, worried for Straif. Stachys may have trained with a good, middle-class salon, but Straif had been taught by the Hollys in the premiere fighting salon on Celta. While Stachys had been leading a sedentary life, Straif had been trekking through wild Celta, sometimes hiring out his sword. No, Straif would win the fight. She hoped.

Mitchella, Antenn, and Tinne Holly walked with Straif to the square. The duel had elevated Straif even higher in Antenn's eyes. For Mitchella it was a clutch of the heart at the thought of an accidental hurting of her lover, and a resignation.

Tinne, however, grumbled all the way. He'd wanted to hold it privately, in the exercise yard behind The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting salon, but that hadn't suited either G'Uncle Tab or Stachys.

“First blood only,” Tinne said. “But you have my permission to beat the snot out of him.”

“Is that a special dueling phrase?” asked Mitchella. “Beat the snot out of?”

Tinne laughed, his expression lightening. “The man deserves some hard bruises. He's been nothing but a black thorn in Straif's side.”

Looking pained, Straif said, “Another miserable pun on my name.”

“Perhaps you should beat the snot out of him,” Mitchella suggested.

Straif pretended to look struck with surprise. “An excellent idea.” He lifted her hand and covered it with noisy kisses. She laughed.

But as soon as they reached the square, any amusement faded. It was surrounded by people, and there were even a couple of food and drink vendors.

Tab Holly stood in the middle of the place, tall and impressive, a huge staff in his hand. A shorter, burlier man stood with him, looking nervous. Mitchella noticed the grass had been clipped in a large rectangle.

Straif loosened his sword in his sheath. “Stachys chose swords.”

“He'd have been better off with blasers,” Tinne said, eyeing the crowd. “Faster, not much as a show.”

Snorting, Straif said, “With G'Uncle Tab presiding, it was bound to be a show. Looks like he has Stachys's man cowed.”

“We march in there.” Tinne waved to a corridor lined with bright spelllights.

Mitchella tried to hang back, but Straif kept a firm grip on her hand. “Please come,” he whispered. “I promise it won't be long or messy.”

Mouth dry, Mitchella had difficulty in replying. “All these people—they'll think I'm a Commoner seduced by a FirstFamily Lord.”

“They'll think you're my
Lady,
and you have the presence of the highest Noblewoman. Where's that charisma Flair of yours?” Straif teased.

She couldn't believe how lightly he was taking this.
Men
. But she lifted her chin, straightened her spine, and rolled back her shoulders—and added a little glamour spell as they walked through the crowd to a padded bench on the sidelines where Straif seated her. Her stomach jittered with nerves, but he seemed as cool as if he were in the park for a walk.

Tinne said, “Make sure you take care. There was dew on the grass this morning, it may still be damp near the soil, though we've rolled the dueling area to smooth it. Anything can happen in a swordfight, one slip of the boot . . .” He shook his head.

A murmur rose as another lady walked in, Tinne's wife, Genista, escorted by T'Holly.

“I should have known,” Tinne murmured. But he hurried up to take his Lady's hand and seat her beside Mitchella.

Genista whispered to Mitchella, “Isn't this exciting?”

A lone woman sat on the opposite side of the square, hands clenched in her lap. Though she was dressed in fine, GraceLady clothes, she looked more uncomfortable than Mitchella—Stachys's wife. The man himself strode to the center of the square.

Watching Stachys, Straif flexed his fingers, then he bent and brushed Mitchella's lips with his own. “That favor you're supposed to give to me?” he asked, prompting her.

She took a length of silver and gold ribbon from her pursenal. As she opened the small bag wide, Straif reached in and touched the little carving he'd given her two nights before. The two porcupines touching noses nestled in a corner of her bag.

His smile was full and brilliant, and her heart twinged. “I see you carry my favor. Good.”