Hearts and Stones (Celta HeartMate) Read online

  “You can if you want,” Ash sneered back. “I could give you a sword or main gauche or dagger or two.” He drew his sword. “You won’t find any better than this.”

  Holding his weapon so the light slid down the long and heavy blade, chased with elegantly inscribed spellrunes, he showed off his work, then shoved it back into a plain black sheath.

  “Wait, I want to see that. Wait--”

  Ash clapped a hand on his acquaintance’s--no matter what the Holly said, they weren’t friends -- shoulder. “You ‘port home.” Ash winced at his downwind shortspeech, the way he’d talked since he’d been six. Clearing his throat, he practiced the words and accent he’d paid a noblewoman to teach him. “You should teleport home now, HollyHeir.”

  “I would, my friend Rand, if I could. Head is muzzy. Dizzy.” He began to slide down the wall.

  A distant timer tolled Four Morning Bells, three septhours before Ash started work. Irritation flashing, Ash slapped the man back against the wall. “Stay up or leave you to die,” he lied.

  HollyHeir blinked. “Those are quite harsh words.”

  “’Zactly what’ll happen.” Rand scowled, thought what he could say to make the guy stay upright. “You Holly, control self!”

  Holm jerked, his boots began slipping in the slime, he caught himself on the lightpost for balance. Remained on his feet.

  “Good,” Rand said. He reached into his pockets and pulled out a stone. Good stone and good work on his part with his Flair, but he considered giving it to Holly an investment, like the rest of the whole night. Lord and Lady knew that Family held such generational wealth that no one Holly could ever spend it all.

  Tapping the round black stone embedded with silver sparkles, Ash put it in Holm’s tunic pocket. “Think of home or person and there you get. Called a homing stone.”

  “Oh.” Holm unwrapped one arm from the lightpost, leaned his whole body against it, then patted his free hand against his pocket. “Good Flair. Yeah, think this’ll get me home.”

  “Go, then.”

  “Thank you, for everything.” The nobleman counted down his teleportation beats, wavered, then disappeared. Leaving Ash in the dark and quiet stink of Downwind.

  Ash sheathed his sword, wiped his arm across his forehead. The nobleman had impressed him. Not only with his fighting ability, though he demonstrated moves Ash had never seen before, was the best fighter Ash had ever known. But Holly’s cheerfulness, and his ... honor ... Holm Holly hadn’t pulled any dirty fighting tricks. He hadn’t had to. His reputation remained ... clean. Yeah, remarkable man.

  All Ash’s hurts throbbed, and he walked slowly but with extreme precision back toward his home, hand on sword hilt, forcing his senses to acute wariness. Couldn’t let his guard down. Some tough might be watching.

  HollyHeir would probably soak in herbal soothing waters, have all his aches banished by an expensive Healer, roll into the softest of beds between the best of linens. Maybe even have some Family members, women even, cluck over and tend to him, wrap him in loving affection. Dream noble dreams.

  Ash would plod back to the street level lean-to he rented behind his forge. Zanth, who’d stayed at the docks, might or might not show up that night, bringing the stench of himself and sewer rat or celtaroon guts. Ash would fall on a cot and dream of fire and fear, smoke and running ... and death.

  Holm woke the next morning with a wretched headache. Probably from passing out and staying in one position all night. Other echoes of aches indicated that he’d had cuts and bruises all over his body and more than a few strained muscles, but had been Healed.

  “Initiate lightspell,” said FirstFamily GreatLord T’Holly, Holm’s father.

  The small lightspell, modeled after their sun, blue-white Bel, glowed on and circled the ceiling.

  His father, the greatest fighter in all the world, fixed a sapient gaze on Holm. “Second night of SecondPassage done,” he stated gruffly, but Holm could feel the relief and the love. “Glad you made it back home again. Your mother prayed all night long to the Lady and Lord in our chapel.”

  “We still weren’t able to track you after you teleported away when your fever hit you, and we’re hoping you remember something this morning.” T’Holly paused slightly.

  “I think so,” Holm ground out in a gritty morning voice.

  A creak came from the other side of the huge wooden bed, the Heir’s ancestral bed, and Holm’s G’Uncle Tab, the owner of The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon, rose from a groaning chair. “Obviously challenged others to death duels. I heard of nothing with regard to fights with any noble houses.”

  Holm sat up, found himself naked, didn’t care. He scratched his head, flakes of green herbs fell from his scalp and hair. He must have soaked in the bathing pool, but didn’t remember.

  He didn’t recall much. Rubbing his temples, he frowned, pulling out dim memories, mostly images, and, yes, definitely dark-hued. “I didn’t stay here in Noble Country, not even in the main Druida City proper. I went Downwind.”

  Both his relatives sucked their breaths in between their teeth.

  “Then I’m a’thinkin’,” Tab said with that seafarer’s lilt from his past, “you had help.”

  “Yes, I did have help with my fights.” The young man’s swarthy face swam before Holm’s mind’s eye. “Rand. Not sure I got his last name.” Holm frowned. “He looked somewhat familiar. He’s about my age, and heavier.”

  Another mind-pic, this one gleaming, “Had a fabulous sword.”

  “Sword?” both men asked, leaning forward.

  Holm shrugged, worked those back and shoulder muscles. He needed to seriously limber up before Passage fever yanked him by the balls again, flung him into mindless death duels.

  G’Uncle Tab buffeted Holm on the shoulder, he hadn’t been braced, and had to use his core strength not to topple over. “All right, good reflexes, but need to be better if you’re heading for Downwind again tonight.”

  “We’ll prepare you all day,” said T’Holly.

  Which meant sparring bouts and surprise attacks and three-on-one fights with GreatLord Holly, G’Uncle Tab and Holm’s younger brother, Tinne. Joy.

  Holm had rather thought he could rest and maybe try to meditate, though that tended to slip around his active mind. He’d soak some more, be massaged top to bottom, eat well ... but no.

  Tab hauled him out of bed. “Dress and put on your training robes. Meet us in Sparring Room Four in half a septhour. I’ll pick out some clothes appropriate for Downwind tonight. You don’t want to go in looking rich and noble.”

  “Too late,” Holm said. “All the bars Downwind know me, or know of me, I believe.”

  “We’ll school you in wariness today, then,” T’Holly said.

  “And the dirtiest street fighting,” Tab added.

  Fabulous, just how he’d wanted to spend the day, actively preparing for an exhausting night. For an instant his friend’s face--any man who’d saved his life more than once Holm considered a friend--swam into his mind again and he wondered what Rand was doing, easy work, maybe.

  Then Tab kicked Holm’s feet out from under him and they began the day.

  Ash rose later than usual, after sunrise, and stared at his papyrus schedule tacked to his flimsy bedroom wall. No one he knew could afford the gilt or psi-power Flair for a calendar sphere construct that could be programmed and alert a person to upcoming appointments. Not that full work-days needed to be noted.

  Naturally, he had commissions, but not as many as he liked. He’d worried about that--last month. Grunting, he continued staring at the papyrus, his thoughts seeming to form slowly, as he considered his blacksmith work.

  His sword, hell, all his weapons, were equal or better to what the Holly carried. Ash’d shown his sword to the man, who’d been interested in the quality, right? Yeah, just before the guy teleported home ... with the homing stone Ash had made. Another piece of good work.

  Could maybe sell weapons to the nobleman, get gilt to live
on and for the Vengeance Stalk to find and destroy his enemies--first the Rues, then the Flametrees who’d given a terrible spell to the Rues.

  Nothing to worry about right now, today. Holly liked Ash’s sword, would commission a weapon, Ash felt it in his bones ... his increasingly warm bones and he hadn’t stoked the forge yet. Even selling a dagger to the man might keep Ash and Zanth in food and rent for ... maybe for a year, even! Calculations sludged through this morning, even financial totting ups that he liked.

  When his unmarried and miserly master had died from a sickness that ravaged Downwind two years ago, Ash had taken over the forge and business. He’d claimed the tools, had even discovered some good metals and a tiny cache of gems.

  That was past. Now, he blinked, thinking of the simple knife to finish by the end of this eightday, two days from now. Next week two sets of pretty eating utensils as a marriage gift were due. Ash would work on the knife today since he’d be spending all night long for the next-however-many-nights with Holm HollyHeir in his fever dreamquest of SecondPassage.

  Ash’s body had folded into a slump, so he straightened and stretched, glanced around his room. No Zanth. Frowning, he considered if his FamCat been a real benefit in the night before. Probably. Didn’t matter, Zanth would want to “play” tonight, too.

  Ash let out a shuddering breath, once again aware of all his throbbing aches, a couple of slices, even. He’d tend to those, then head to work.

  “Fligger!” Ash swore as he stepped away from the anvil and the knife he’d been forging.

  You burnt Yourself, Zanth said, sauntering in close to NoonBell. He leapt to a shelf Ash had put up when he’d reinforced the walls of this rental for his blacksmith space.

  “I know that,” Rand growled at his Fam, using both Flair and Healing ointment to treat his hand. He’d stripped down to his raggedy trous, coating his body with a strong protection spell. He could work naked if he wanted, if his forge hadn’t bordered on a busy Downwind lane where he’d attract more attention and sexual offers than usual.

  That shielding spell shouldn’t have caused the heat surging through his body. Or made his fingers tremble when he worked, his hand jerk to burn himself.

  “Fligger!” He realized the problem. Holm’s death duels had triggered his own SecondPassage. He should stay home tonight, prepare his lean-to, business, and self for however long it would take for the dreamquest fever to move through him.

  Couldn’t. Ash hadn’t promised Holm HollyHeir they’d meet, but Ash figured the guy would expect him. The nobleman had called Ash “friend,” and he’d pondered that as he worked on the knife. He didn’t have any good friends, but looking back, he’d liked the man more than Ash had expected.

  Maybe they could go beyond exchanging saving-each-other’s-lives ... The notion had seeped into Rand’s brain that HollyHeir, Holm, his soon-to-be friend Holm, would probably consider a hands-on approach to helping him. Would fight with Ash on the Vengeance Stalk, that could include a number of duels, or the initiation of a formal feud.

  So he and Holm might not only be fighting this night, but for ... months. Until Ash punished the Flametrees for selling the firebombspell to the Rues and yanked his properties and wealth back from the Rues, got his title restored. Yeah.

  Despite how he felt, he had to ignore his own onset of SecondPassage and work through it to support Holm during his death duels.

  Ash stared at the knife. A few more folds of metal to make and pound, then the finishing and polishing and honing.

  When he turned to put it away for later, he tripped over Zanth.

  Yowl! Zanth hopped back. Hissed. You look bad.

  My Passage starting. Ash narrowed gritty eyes. We can’t afford to NOT help Holm HollyHeir tonight.

  Zanth sniffed. We want Our gilt and Our title and Our new Residence with good pillows.

  “Yeah,” Ash croaked aloud. “And Holly will help us get that.”

  Prowling around Ash, Zanth said, Maybe You should sleep now, wake later.

  Not feeling up to replying aloud, Ash sent mental words to Zanth. Lie down to sleep and I won’t get up.

  With a growl, Zanth said, Don’t want you to die tonight.

  Really don’t want that neither, Ash replied. Brain continuing dull, he thought of stimulants he might take. That could be good.

  Get good herbs, Zanth said, echoing his thoughts. He zipped away too fast for Ash’s fixed gaze to follow.

  Yeah, Ash said, pummeled his brain some more about what he should do to weather Passage. No one around here to talk to. Any Downwinder with good psi-power got out of the slum.

  Holm HollyHeir, Holm, displayed great Flair which led to extreme Passages. Because he was a FirstFamily son, inherited psi talent from a long line of people. All the way from the original colonists who’d funded the starships and the journey from Earth to Celta, who colonized Celta.

  Ash, though he had no title or wealth or property, had the blood of the colonists running through his veins, too. Great Flair leading to extreme Passages.

  Fantastic.

  Zanth swatted his calf, huffing, Here is medicine pouch.

  The leather bag lay on Ash’s feet. Being a saving sort of guy, Ash only used medicinal herbs as a last resort. Hadn’t occurred to him to take anything this morning for his bruising aches, for instance.

  And being a planning sort of guy, he’d intended to have his room ready and his forge closed and himself prepared before his SecondPassage.

  That hadn’t happened and now the event hit him. But he’d thought he’d suffer through the dreamquest during the month of Ash. The month assigned to the Ashes as a GreatHouse FirstFamily ... and that month would start at the end of next week at dark twinmoons. He’d anticipated having plenty of time.

  He looked at the wall timer, an outline of a round clock he’d made of iron with actual moving hands. He had about six septhours before sunset and the arrival of an impatient Holm.

  First, Ash must close down the fires of his forge, bank them completely. Tidy the forge manually with broom and cloth, no cleansing spells. He sensed he’d need all the Flair he could get during the death duels. And he wouldn’t be able to count on his usual well of psi-power, Flair, since it notoriously fluctuated during Passage.

  He moved slowly and found himself standing blankly, shuddering with fever, and only being brought out of it by the prickling of Zanth’s claws in his flesh, and Ash figured he’d need every one of those six septhours.

  TAKE HERBS! yelled Zanth, right in Ash’s ear. The FamCat had hopped onto his shoulder -- his now shirt-clad shoulder -- and his room looked good, his bed prepared for him to crash, and on the side table a stack of foodbars and a large cauldron of water along with a chipped mug.

  He opened the door to the forge and it smelled ... clean, looked fine. No fires.

  I’ll check to make sure the fires are out in the forge, he sent to Zanth, who swatted him on the ear. “Ouch!”

  You check on fire THREE TIMES now.

  Oh. He paused, saw that two septhours had passed since he’d begun preparations. What else do I need to do? Maybe the Fam would know.

  You making sign.

  Oh.

  Here! Zanth leapt down to the bed and sat, crinkling a sheet of papyrus gray from multiple uses. He wiggled his butt and around the fat ass, Ash saw a “Closed,” sign in words and symbols and pictures. He took a corner of the sign and yanked, tumbling Zanth over, but not ripping the papyrus. Sturdier than he’d thought for such an old piece.

  He went through his forge to the outer door and onto the narrow sidewalk, walked carefully, one foot placed after another, to the wide and barricaded door of his forge, found the nail head sticking out, and shoved the papyrus onto it. The sheet flattened, spread thin and stuck.

  Oh. He’d used too much Flair. Or too much Flair spiraled out of him.

  “Ash, you don’t look well,” said an older woman dressed in layers of clothes, peering at him from under a scarf-shawl and the low brim of a hat.
<
br />   No use saying “Passage.” Downwinders, the lowest of the low, most with pitiful Flair, wouldn’t believe him if he gave that excuse.

  “Sick,” he said instead, raising his arm and wiping it over his sweaty face. Smelled not-too-bad, not work-sweat or fight-sweat, but Passage-sweat, with a sweet note. Helluva thing.

  She hesitated, dug through her tunic layers for a pocket, pulled out a button of plant-material he recognized as prime Healing herb with a spell for fever and clear thinking. Better than anything he had in stock. “Here.”

  “Pay you back when better,” Ash offered.

  With a smile, she sighed. “Yeah, later.”

  “Later.” He eyed the thinned and stretched sign. Looked odd, but definitely announced “Closed.” Good enough. He’d lose custom, but he’d rarely been unavailable, and never for sickness, so no one would bother him.

  Zanth rumbled a loud purr. The woman dipped her knees to pat him on his large, round head, then walked away.

  With another thwack on Ash’s ankle, Zanth said, Follow Me inside. You sit and eat and drink herb water. When close to sunset Me make sure you wake and take good herb-tab and get ready for fun tonight!

  “Fun,” said Ash and sat in the one battered chair in his room near the antique no-time food storage unit and the little eating table.

  His vision darkened and soot-smoke swarmed around him with flicks of bright cinders for a long time.

  Wakie! Zanth sat on his lap, angled his head and licked under Ash’s chin. He shuddered out of a stupor, took an old cloth and wiped his head and neck down, sniffed at his armpits. Not terrible.

  Take pill now! The FamCat snapped his paw down next to the herb disk that the old woman had given Ash. So he did, and initiated the Healing spell, too.

  After a couple of minutes, Ash rose and began to move, ignoring the fever aches in head and body and old bruises from the night before. He stood and flexed and lunged, warming his muscles, making his blood course through his body, hoping to give the herbs a boost.

  He buckled his sword sheath around his waist, then pulled out his weapon and did passes as Zanth hunkered under the bed. As the spell and herbs mitigated the fever and his body moved better and his mind cleared of fog, his determination grew.