Heart Duel (45 page)

Probing a little deeper into his own emotions, he realized he still hurt outrageously at Lark's earlier rejection. There was something more. His stomach knotted as he realized what else bothered him. He'd failed today. Failed to protect Tinne. Failed to evade capture. Failed to even save himself—again.

If it had been left to him, he'd have died. Lark had saved him.

Irrational, but the guilt was all too real. Something that burdened him and hurt. He was ashamed of the irrational feeling. He set his jaw and stopped thinking about himself. If he continued on this way, he'd be a sniveling, self-pitying coward. A depressed sniveling, self-pitying coward. Just tuck those damned stupid emotions away.

On to the next topic. “I'm going to Gael City and will establish a salon there,” he said.

“A good idea.”

Holm said, “I could stay here and fight—fight T'Holly and try and make him recognize me. But that would only entrench him in his position. The more I battered against that wall, the thicker and higher it would get.”

Straif tilted his head, nodded. “Right.” He glanced at Holm, then straight ahead. “You know,” he said softly, “I don't recall T'Holly ever admitting to a mistake in his life.”

A bark of ironic laughter tore from Holm. “No.”

Shaking his head, Straif said, “It's odd how the Family thing worked out. Lark and T'Hawthorn. You and T'Holly.”

Holm's throat closed and he could only nod.

They lapsed again into quiet.

When he looked up, he faced the greeniron gates of the T'Holly estate, behind which was the glider drive, then the moat and iron gates of the outer wall. Sweat gilded his muscles. “You'd better say the spellword, Straif. I doubt it will let me in.” He hoped he sounded matter-of-fact even though his voice was rough. At least it hadn't trembled.

Straif shot him a glance, then opened the gates.

 
 
Holm waited until Straif delivered the sword before con
fronting T'Holly. Holm stood at attention in front of his father's desk. He refused to sit in the damned wingchair ever again. He wasn't HollyHeir now; he was a nameless man. His father had renounced the loyalty tie between them.

To his shock, the Hawthorn sword on T'Holly's desk was broken in two. With the connection between a Lord and his sword, that must have hurt T'Hawthorn. It was one more thing indicating his father's state of mind. Holm could only pray that with D'Holly on the mend and
home,
T'Holly would find some balance.

His Mamá was nowhere in sight. This entire discussion was T'Holly's idea, though D'Holly would never contradict him.

Holm was glad he'd murmured a cooling spell before he'd entered the ResidenceDen; at least T'Holly wouldn't see how Holm sweat. He kept his face expressionless.

“We do not accept your choice of wife,” T'Holly stated gutturally.

Going on the attack.

Holm was weary of being wretched. He may have been nameless and houseless, but he would be treated with respect. He'd answer rudeness with rudeness. “She's my HeartMate.”

His father didn't meet Holm's eyes. “We don't accept her. She's not a suitable bride. We won't allow the marriage.”

“We? Meaning you and Mamá? Or is it just
you
? Did you talk with her?”

T'Holly's mouth set. “I affirm that you are disowned.”

“I accept that.” It was just as hard to hear this time as it had been the last. “I will remind you that you and D'Holly promised upon your Words of Honor that you would accept my HeartMate. I regret that you and Mamá will have to deal with the spiritual and physical consequences of breaking your Words.”

His father looked stunned, as if he'd received an unexpected blow. He rose from his chair, nostrils widening. “You fliggering young whelp!”

Holm flinched.

“You
knew
.”

“Perhaps. At the time I believed that our Family was flexible and loving enough to accept the daughter of a feuding Family. A daughter who was estranged from her Family. A woman who is greatly Flaired. A Healer.”

His own eyes were probably the same cold pewter hue as T'Holly's. “I would never have believed that my Family would be so ungenerous as to deny me my HeartMate.” He unbuckled his main gauche, sword, and blaser and placed them on T'Holly's desk. They all had Holly symbols.

His father stared wildly at the weapons, as if trying to gather his wits.

Holm summoned the ceremonial HollyHeir sword from his suite. The intricate hand guard and central ruby gleamed. “I see you are collecting swords today,” Holm said.

He looked down at his clothes. With a Word he retinted his trous from dark green to black. The coloring wasn't altogether successful. It looked as if he had a scabrous disease. He shrugged. He had failed in
everything
and was past caring about appearance.

He shucked his vest and dropped it on the desk, then turned and left.

“You can't go out into the streets defenseless!” T'Holly shouted.

Holm didn't stop.

He closed the door behind him and nearly ran into his G'Uncle Tab. Something seemed wrong with Holm's vision.

“Here, boy.” Tab steadied him. The weapons he carried clanged. “Damn' stupid Lord, stubborn, thick-headed . . .” he muttered as he strapped a plain broadsword and blaser on Holm.

Holm adjusted the weapons. He recognized them as those he'd practiced with for years, and was grateful they were familiar.

“T'Holly ain't thinkin' straight. We talked. He thought I'd agree.” Tab's eyes blazed silver. “I don't. A person gotta HeartMate”—he slashed the air—“that's it. They're two inta one.” For an instant Holm saw deep loneliness in his G'Uncle's eyes—loneliness that he'd begun to know himself. “The Family that can't welcome a HeartMate has deep problems. An' everyone knows your gal's a Healer and more Heather than Hawthorn. Pure deep fear, your father's feeling.” Tab shook his head. “I wouldn't have expected it of him.”

Pure deep fear. Just like Bélla's had. Just like he had now.

“Ya want anything from your rooms, just send me word, I'll get it to ya. Talked to T'Apple. He's shocked. He don't disown ya. Call yourself Holm Apple.”

Holm winced. He loved his cuzes, but the Apples were artists, painters, wimps—not fighters. “Apple” sounded sissy.

“I'll call myself Blackthorn.”

Tab buffeted him on the shoulder and Holm staggered. “Call yourself Apple or ya'll irritate your MotherSire. Need all the allies you can get, boy. Glad ya are bein' staunch, though. Good thing.”

Apple. Sissy. Holm recalled the lips pendant. He reached for it.

Tab smacked his hand away. “You just leave that be.”

“It was paid for by Holly gilt.”

“Paid for in the
past
. It's also a gift from a good friend. By the way, I'm havin' Clam moved into a smaller tank. He's yours, he'll go with you. No one else wants the ugly son-of-a-mollusk. We'll 'port him nice and gentle to T'Ash's.”

“I'll send a scry to Mamá and Tinne.”

“T'Ash scried with the coordinates to 'port your stuff, and Clam. T'Ash and D'Ash can use help in makin' T'Ash Residence a home.”

Holm inhaled his first deep breath since entering T'Holly Residence. The tightness in his chest loosened. “Lark and I will be moving to Gael City. I'll open a fighting and fencing salon. Think I'll call it The Green Man.” He twitched the corners of his lips up in a semblance of a smile.

“You'll do.” Tab nodded. “Go and don't look back.”

“I won't. I can't.” He'd failed. He didn't know how he could bear it, except that he already was, and Tab had lifted his spirits. There was nothing to do but go on.

Plop. Slide. Clink. Plop. Slide. Clink. Plop
.

Holm turned to see Meserv dragging a large satchel.

Our stuff
. The bag was full to bursting and about ten times the size of the young cat.
We all have fine fate.

Holm wanted to believe that was true.

 
 
T'Ash, D'Ash, and Lark sat in a small, comfortable sit
ting room with pre-dinner drinks, accompanied by the cats—Phyll, Princess, and Zanth. Their conversation was desultory, as they all waited for Holm.

“It's a lovely room.” Lark sipped her wine.

Danith smiled with genuine delight. “Thank you. We're slowly but surely furnishing the Residence. My friend, Mitchella Clover, is an excellent interior designer and a great help.”

Lark closed her eyes a moment. “Good friends are precious. One of my best is Mitchella's cuz, Trif.”

Danith beamed.

“I'll miss Trif if Holm and I go to Gael City.”

“True, but I think that would be best,” T'Ash said.

Make sure little Cats go, too,
Zanth said. He sprawled on a big, tattered-carpeted platform that streamed hunks of unraveled rug.
Kits cramp my style. They want to hunt with Me. Too puny.

Phyll huffed from Lark's lap. He lifted his nose.
I no longer hunt. I am HealerCat. First HealerCat of Celta. Sounds good.

Zanth snorted.

Tinkling chime-notes whispered elegantly through the room. “Holm Apple and Meserv Fam come,” said T'Ash Residence.

T'Ash looked startled. “Holm Apple.”

“The former Holm Holly's MotherSire, T'Apple, sent adoption papers to the FirstFamilies Council,” said the Residence sternly.

“Apple.” T'Ash snickered.

“What's wrong with the name Apple?” asked Lark. Danith stared at T'Ash, too.

“They're artists.” T'Ash leaned back on his sofa and hooted.

“As you are, T'Ash, with your jewelry,” Lark pointed out.

Princess mewed and stretched her neck to show her collar of earthsuns that matched her eyes.

T'Ash scowled. “I'm a blacksmith,
Mayblossom.
Though it's true that Holm has a good hand at calligraphy.” He looked at her slyly. “Have you seen it?”

“I have some pieces,” Lark replied.

T'Ash's lips twitched. “Anything special?” he asked casually.

Lark wondered what he hinted at.

Zanth hopped down and cocked an eye at Phyll.
They in entry hall now, Me will show them to our beau-ti-ful new room.
Zanth trotted out the door.

A moment later Holm stood on the threshold, Meserv curled around his neck. Nothing about his clothing proclaimed him a Holly. Lark's heart sank. Despite the angry and ravaged emotions she'd experienced through their link, she'd hoped beyond hope that all would turn out well and he would return triumphant as HollyHeir once more.

But his face was stark and pale, his eyes dark with hurt and an edge of what might possibly be fear.

She rose and Phyll hopped from her lap. She ran to Holm and his arms closed around her tightly. She knew then. When she was with him, she was home.

Twenty-nine

Lark watched Holm all evening. She tried to appear as a
newly HeartBonded woman who couldn't keep her eyes off her lover, but in fact, her Healer instincts were roused.

Now and again Holm would automatically lapse into his old manner, then a lost look would enter his eyes and he'd falter. They all felt the strain.

After dinner they retired again to the sitting room.

Zanth strolled to Danith and gave her a sickeningly sweet smile before flopping down on his side on her feet.
Time to Heal My ear
, he projected smugly.

Lark watched with professional curiosity as Danith stooped and set the cat on his platform, then placed her hands on Zanth's head and cupped the broken ear between her fingers and thumb. Lark could only imagine trying to match energy and vibrations with another species. She shivered. And Danith did it with so many other species. How odd. And how wonderful Flair was.

Zanth stretched his neck for more of Danith's touch, and Lark saw a collar of emeralds. It was fashioned in the tradition of the formal jewelry for a GreatHouse Heir. A very expensive bauble for a cat that spoke Downwind short-speech and looked like a tough brawler, a cat no one could call pretty.

Holm's hand rested on her shoulder, and tendrils of her hair tickled her ear as he whispered. “Don't comment on the jewels. I've convinced Meserv that jewelry is something a cat only receives upon maturity.”

She let out a slow breath. “Good thinking,” she murmured.

“There. Done.” Danith took her hands from Zanth's head, shook them as if ridding them of cat-energy and clapped hard. “You look gorgeous, Zanth.”