Heart Duel (34 page)

Phyll gave up his pounce-on-papyrus-ball play and trotted to her.
We all have fine fate. Vinni said so.

Lark picked him up and nuzzled him. “Of course you do.”

Lark sighed. “If you say so.”

Phyll rumbled a small purr.
I do,
he said smugly.

She laughed and settled into her favorite position to meditate, Phyll on her lap.

I will med-i-tate, too. I med-i-tate good. Meserv falls asleep,
Phyll reported virtuously.

Her amusement at her kitten steadied her mood, and she was able to take them both into a deep trance.

 
 
When she awakened the next morning, her restlessness was
back. This would simply
not
do, obsessing over a man.

So she'd occupy her mind and body with something nearly as exciting. Time to solar-sail.

She went to her bedroom cabinet and got her flying outfit, a onesuit of layered and insulated material. It unrolled in her hands, feather-light and thin, but strong and warm for sailing in high air. Automatically her fingers checked the suit for tears, but found none. She smiled. The clothing, as with all her solar sailing equipment, was expensive and fashioned completely by hand, with only minimal Flair.

She prided herself on her sailing skill—no Flair, only muscle and timing and expertise. Lark checked the large front pocket that curved over her breasts and opened near her collarbone. It was empty. She gauged Phyll's size and weight.

“Do you want to go solar sailing?”

The kitten knew she sailed. He'd found the suit in a cabinet drawer, and she'd been upset at his kneading it.

Phyll sat down and raised a back leg to groom.
If Lady and Lord had wanted Cats to fly, the Two would have given Cats wings,
he said as he licked fine bits of hair back into place.

Lark kept her smile to herself, then frowned as the cheerful melody of her scrybowl announced a caller. She went to the bedroom door and looked into the mainspace. The light that glowed from the instrument was Holly green.

Relief that he still cared warred with distress that she'd have to battle him—and herself—again. “I'm not going to answer, Phyll. I'm going sailing.” Stretching, she tested her muscles. Lately the most physical activity she'd had was weeding T'Horehound's garden. Sailing sounded better every moment.

Lark slipped from her robe and donned her onesuit, stuffing her hair into the headcovering and tightening it with tabs. The sound of the scrybowl muted. She slid her thumb down along the rest of her tabbed seams to close them.

Phyll jumped onto the table that held her scrybowl.

Lark grabbed her bag and scanned the mainspace for anything she might need. Gilt, quickfood, and her Healing Tools were in her bag. A gleam of green caught her eye. The music flexistrip. She recalled the loveliness of the lilting music that she'd programmed to waken her. Music that held within it the very essence of solar-sailing—the swoops and the curves, intricate figures to soar through.

Now that D'Holly was healing, Lark could bear to listen to the music again. She plucked up the flexistrip and inserted it into her collar, pressing the tiny jewel to ready the spell.

Phyll would delay Holm enough for her to leave. “Yes.”

Circling the scrybowl with an orange paw to answer the call, Phyll mewed.
Phyll here
.

“Good morning, Phyll. May I speak with my Bélla?” Holm's voice caused a melting in her lower body, a softening of her knees. No, it would be a softening of her head if she continued to keep him in her life.

Phyll's head circled as if following the water before it stilled. His gaze slid toward her.

Feeling her temper rise, she decided to spend her energy in teleportation to the last public carrier stop departing for the jutting rocks known as the ShipProws. She popped from her space.

 
 
Holm heard the distinctive whoosh of teleportation over the
scrybowl and set his jaw. He hurt and tried not to show it, tried to suppress it. He shouldn't hurt so, not over something so trivial. He felt as if he'd been ripped inside.

Phyll's whiskers quivered.
FamWoman gone sailing
.

Holm was glad of the translator spell he'd set on his scrybowl, and the practice with Meserv. “Sailing?” Holm's spirits lifted. His G'Uncle Tab had taught both Holly boys to sail well. Holm had a sweet yacht that would catch whatever craft Bélla rented. He knew she didn't keep a boat. Surely she'd prefer dancing over the waves in a tip-of-the-pyramid craft instead of whatever miserable rental thing she used. He'd be charming. He'd even promise to keep the length of the boat between them—until she warmed up to him again. He'd dazzle her with his yacht and his skill.

An enlarged paw dominated the scry-vision. If it touched the water, the call would end. There were many marinas along the coast. . . . “Phyll, wait! Where did she go?”

ShipProws.
The paw dabbed the water. Phyll hissed and Holm's bowl went clear.

“ShipProws!” Holm repeated. The ridge of tilted sandstone rock to the south of Druida was an outshoot of the Hard Rock Mountains, named by the colonists for the upthrust triangular peaks that looked like starship prows. There wasn't a patch of water larger than a pond anywhere near there.

He shouldn't snoop into Bélla's life any further. He should save learning about her from her own words, from the link between them, from his hands touching her body. For a moment the thought distracted him. When tension coiled in his loins, he brought his mind back to the fact that he wouldn't even see her if he didn't solve the little puzzle.

Holm paced up and down the length of his sitting room. He'd been ready to beg to see her.

A simple question to the ResidenceLibrary wouldn't be prying into her life.

Showing up at a public place wouldn't be too pushy.

He hoped.

He cleared his throat. “ResidenceLibrary, please define the use of ‘sailing' in relation to the ShipProws.”

“The ShipProws are the center of personal solar-sailing around Druida,” ResidenceLibrary responded.

Holm gulped. Personal solar-sailing. Flying on gossamer batwings. Naturally he'd tried it as a child, but his Family preferred water to air and yachting together to personal solar-sailing. Wherever his suit and wings had gone, he didn't know, probably to some cuzes, but they sure wouldn't fit him now.

Throwing off apprehension, he made his voice as strong as his resolve. “Don't we have a solar-sailing harness somewhere in storage?” He thought he'd moved a box or two from the storerooms that had been his new pool and conservatory to another area.

“Osmanthus Holly, three generations ago, solar-sailed. The equipment is in new Storage Room Six,” ResidenceLibrary replied with disapproval.

“Ah, I knew it.”

“The spells on the solar-sailing harness have deteriorated.”

“I have the energy to renew them.” The feast and the Ritual last night had energized everyone. Holm's HeartGift had turned out surprisingly well and had also given him power. He hadn't used the DepressFlair bracelet and hadn't nightported to the Great Labyrinth. He was rested and ready.

Holm rolled his shoulders and left his rooms to walk long corridors to the other side of the bailey square. He considered teleporting, but decided to save his strength. Solar-sailing after so long might be a little tricky.

“The solar-sail wings are of an old design and substance.” ResidenceLibrary's admonitions echoed down the hallway, surrounding Holm.

“Osmanthus did it. I can. I'm smarter and stronger than he ever was.”

“Osmanthus injured himself badly solar-sailing. There's blood on the sails. Techniques have changed.”

Holm knew he couldn't escape ResidenceLibrary, not even turning corners and loping down the hall, but the action felt good. Any action that would bring him to Bélla felt good.

A mew sounded in his mind with an image of Meserv sitting with ears perked.
Solar sailing? Flying? Zoom like Samba on her Saucer? I want to go, too!

Holm laughed and 'ported the kitten to his shoulder. “We'll go and impress Bélla and Phyll.” He scratched Meserv's cheek.

“Osmanthus,” the Residence warned in tones of doom.

“I have greater Flair. I can teleport to safety in an emergency. As for hurting myself, I'll be with a Healer.” With luck. He'd ask if he could join her, of course, no need to cause those white flashes of hers. If she missed him as much as he missed her, she'd want to see him.

This time he wouldn't slip up and make a fool of himself like he had on the beach. The memory caused his neck and face to heat. This time he'd dazzle her. Everything he knew about solar-sailing would come back to him.

If she wanted to see him. He gritted his teeth. As much as he longed to spend time with her, if she refused his company he would leave—perhaps work his restlessness out on
sea
sailing. But how he yearned for her!

 
 
By the time the public glider reached ShipProws Town,
Lark's blood was buzzing with anticipation. It had been far too long since she'd experienced the complete freedom of solar-sailing. She treasured the long septhours of gliding as she angled her gossamer wings to Bel to power her flight, the skill of using thermals and cross-winds to soar in elaborate patterns that were the hallmark of the craft.

She hummed as she walked to the primary-colored cabanas where she and Painted Rock kept their gear. Her cabana was bright red. She snapped the security spell off with a Word, opened the door, and stepped inside, shivering at the cool air that preserved the molecular wings. They hung in ethereal swathes. A few molecules thick, they shimmered with a lure of the only unrestricted septhours Lark had ever had.

She frowned briefly. Ethyn had never wanted to fly. He said he'd worked too hard to become a Healer ever to endanger himself. She had sailed less and less when she was wed to him, preferring to spend time with him and his hobbies.

“Lark? Lark?” Painted Rock called. She ducked into the cabana and closed the door.

Lark turned to her with a smile that faded. Painted Rock's tall, thin frame looked even more emaciated, her eyes more haunted. Her suppressed emotions over Ethyn's death could not be allowed to continue. Though not a mind-Healer, Lark knew enough from her studies that ignored emotions generated unhealthy results both physically and mentally.

Lark, herself, had been angry and bitter and grief-stricken, but she'd been open about the emotions and worked through them until they were in her past. She was sure Painted Rock never acknowledged her feelings—pushed them aside and hid them until they dammed up to eat away at her. Lark sighed. She could only do her best, try and link with Painted Rock, and hope the inner wound was ready to be lanced.

Brushing Painted Rock's mind with gentle encouragement and love, Lark stepped to her and hugged her tight. “I'm glad you came.”

Painted Rock's brooding eyes searched her face. “I've been thinking about what you and
that Nobleman
said. I
do
wish you happiness. But I don't think you can find it with
him,
” she ended defiantly.

Lark shrugged and kept her smile. Though the words hurt, they only echoed what her own reason told her. She took Painted Rock's hands. They were icy. Lark warmed them with a two-word and squeezed her fingers. “Let's not discuss that. Let's
sail!
”

They put on their wings, then checked in with the Solar Sailing Society and listed where they'd be sailing and the septhours they'd be in the air. They went to a high jutting hill where the up-drafts would lift them into takeoff. They'd chosen a less popular area with trickier crosswinds and were the only sailors in the vicinity. The better to bond again, Lark hoped.

Running and laughing, they jumped off the cliff and were borne into the blue, blue sky.

Lark reached for the connection between herself and her sister-in-law, and for the first time in years, Painted Rock allowed it. Lark thumbed the jewel to start D'Holly's music and amplified it to Painted Rock to increase their joy. Using little Flair and the skill they'd learned together, they began with simple patterns and alternated the progression of each series until they swooped in the most intricate designs.

They soared together, reveling in the freedom of the wide sky above verdant Celta. Exhilaration passed between them and they grinned, but Lark sensed a huge black mass of emotional pain in Painted Rock. After this respite Painted Rock would return to that darkness—black grief and hurt that blocked her artistic talent to a trickle, causing even more despair.

For a while they sailed in silence, Lark trying to loosen and smooth Painted Rock's awful tangle of feelings. Then Lark's probing neared Painted Rock's deep hurt, and she found a great thermal flow, waved to Lark, and let the wind take her up and up.

Lark accepted the retreat with resignation and relief. Now she could truly enjoy herself. Concentrate on nothing but the moment and her own sensations . . . the soft chill of the wind against her face, the sight of playing hawks a kilometer away, and most of all the freedom to dip and sway and dance in the air to D'Holly's music. She cruised level, horizontal winds—soaking in the serene sight of lush fields and groves. Letting the greenness of healthy growing plants soothe her.

Half a septhour later Holm touched her mind with a gentle caress.
Bélla.

Exactly what she needed to complete a perfect moment.
Yes, Holm?
The link must be very strong if she could hear him so well when he was in Druida.