Heart Choice (45 page)

Mitchella tied the ribbon around his hard biceps. The ends fluttered in the small breeze. She frowned. “Won't this be a distraction?”

“For me, no. For Stachys—depends on his experience in swordplay, maybe,” Straif said. He kissed her cheek again and walked to the center of the square, his mind focusing on imminent battle. As he passed over a gleaming forcefield denoting the Field of Honor, it sent a tingle through him, priming him to fight.

Straif faced his distant cuz, the man who'd caused him so much trouble, the man who wanted what Straif had for his own. Anger welled, and Straif squelched it. No place for anger in a duel.

Stachys appeared pale but determined.

Straif nodded to him, “GraceLord.”

He received the briefest dip of the chin in return. A hint of wildness showed in Stachys's eyes—panic or anger?

“Does either of the duelists wish to apologize to the other?” G'Uncle Tab's voice boomed, startling Straif. He jerked and saw a certain satisfaction enter Stachys's gaze.

He smiled himself, feeling wolfish anticipation, and the man took a step back. “No!” Straif said.

“No,” Stachys said.

“I declare this duel has begun,” Tab said. When he withdrew his hand from his staff, it stood by itself. Tab unrolled a papyrus scroll. “I will read the controversy between these two.”

“Not necessary,” Straif said. He didn't want all his troubles detailed by Tab in loud, rolling tones that everyone around the square could hear. “Not necessary, is it, cuz?”

Stachys narrowed his eyes, then shrugged. “No.”

Tab huffed, frowned. “Very well.” He said a Word, and the scroll disappeared in flame. The crowd oohed.

“Let's inspect your weapons. Broadswords, no longer than a meter and a half.”

Straif whipped his out, gave it to Tab. It gleamed in the sunlight. He'd had it made a few years ago by T'Ash while on a trip. T'Ash had renewed the edge the night before.

Tab, Tinne, and Stachys's seconds looked over the blades. Tab grunted. “Good work,” he said of Straif's, handing it back to him, then gave Stachys his sword back.

Taking his staff, Tab thumped it three times. “Proceed to the center of the dueling field. When I say ‘go,' you may start the fight. Neither of you are to face the sun.”

So Straif separated from the men, took his stance in the cleared rectangle of grass, and stamped a couple of times to get the feel of the earth beneath his feet. He felt a slight connection with it—as if Blackthorn blood had been spilled on it before.

Stachys trod heavily to the field, stood beyond sword length from Straif, and shifted his shoulders, looking grim.

“Salute!” Tab said.

Grinning, Straif carved the air in the most intricate pattern he knew. Stachys lifted his blade vertically, dipped it, and held it in first position guard.

“En garde!”
Tab shouted.

They settled into their stances. Straif's eyes narrowed.

“Go!” Tab shouted.

Their blades clanged together. A fierce joy at finally fighting his enemy filled Straif as the vibration of the blow shot up his sword arm. For a couple of minutes he rejoiced in the sharpening of all his senses—the touch of the sun, the scent of the cut grass, but then things changed.

As they fought, a thread curled between them. With each sweep of blade against blade, each circling step on the other's previous place, the blood of the Blackthorns rose to weave between them. By ten passes, Straif was grim himself. He knew he couldn't hurt Stachys, not the last member of his Family that shared his blood. Not the father of children who shared the same heritage. Straif couldn't bring himself to even scratch the man. He'd spill no Blackthorn blood.

So the fight went on as Straif figured out a new strategy. He saw Tab and Tinne frown at him, knowing that he failed to press his attack, used all his skills to defend while he was deep in thought. Then he put his plan into effect.

Twenty-nine

A few sword clashes later, Straif and Stachys were hilt to
hilt, eye to eye. “What do you really want?” panted Straif.

Stachys grunted, “The Blackthorn estate.”

“Never!” Straif smiled with all his teeth, but wondered how long he could fight defensively and not lose the duel.

Five minutes later sweat ran down his spine, coated Stachys's face. Through his link with Stachys, Straif knew his cuz was tiring faster than himself, but Stachys's less superficial emotions had peeled away to a deep and burning anger, and the uppermost fury was that Straif had abandoned his estate.

Straif had swallowed the bitter guilt of that often enough—but hadn't acknowledged it publicly. Again, he manuevered until their sword hilts clashed. “I neglected the estate, but it won't happen again. I'll work and fight for my land forever. Let us quit this duel.”

Stachys snarled, tilted his blade, aiming for Straif's eye.

Jumping back, Straif let the revitalizing surge of his own anger fill him—but only until he realized that Stachys's core anger was the treatment his mother and MotherDam had received from Straif's FatherSire. Contempt, disregard, neglect,
abandonment.
Exactly how Stachys believed Straif treated the Blackthorn estate, now and in the future.

The murmur of the crowd hummed in Straif's ears. He thought they realized he wasn't pressing the attack. Did they think his hesitation meant he knew he was guilty?

Neglect—yes, but not complete abandonment, and not a disregard of all his responsibilities as a GrandLord, and nothing he would
ever
do again.

Stachys didn't know that, he was wrapped in unseeing rage—fueled by memories of past ills.

Straif pounced and caught Stachys's gaze with his own, tangled Stachys's blade with his own. “You aren't angry at me, not enough for a duel. You are angry at my FatherSire! Think, man!” Straif sent the reflection of Stachys's old anger back at him through the bond. The man reeled back.

They continued to fight, Stachys awkwardly as his mind pondered words and slowed his reflexes. Straif practiced standard thrusts and ripostes. He wanted Stachys as a member of the Blackthorn Family again. Through his
other
familial bond, the Holly connection, Straif felt Tab and Tinne's grumbling at his reluctance to end the duel.

Then Stachys pressed Straif, his foot slipped, he fell, rolled, recovered to find himself gazing over crossed swords into Stachys's serious, clear eyes.

Stachys said, “I want to be acknowledged a Blackthorn.”

Straif pushed the man away with all his strength, hopped back himself, lowered his sword. “Done!” he shouted loudly. “I hereby acknowledge this man before me, Stachys Betony and all his Family, to be legitimate Blackthorns.”

When the crowd entered into loud speculation, Straif ignored the comments. Stachys goggled at him, let his own sword point drop, and took a couple of steps toward Straif, who kept his sword pointed to the ground.

“It was ill done of my FatherSire not to acknowledge his child, welcome her into the Family. My side of the Family owes you that, and since you have risen so far on your own, you deserve it. I'll file the documents immediately.”

Stachys's mouth opened and closed.

Straif smiled. “You think I'm not glad to have more Family,
cuz?
” He offered his hand.

Stachys hesitated, then set his fingers below Straif's elbow. They clasped arms as male relatives. Straif hoped his eyes hadn't sheened like Stachys's, but Straif swallowed and cleared his throat. “I've done some investigating, too. I know that your Lady's health,”—he couldn't say HeartMate—“would improve if you lived in the country. What do you say to owning the T'Blackthorn estate south on the Ruby Ananda River?”

Stachys's jaw dropped. “That's half the T'Blackthorn's holdings.”

Straif shrugged. “It's yours, free and clear.”

Stachys's brows knit. “Without swearing a loyalty oath of obedience to you?”

Straif's head came up, he broke the arm-clasp. “Only if you want to,” he said simply. He wanted Family again, and there were too few Blackthorns for Stachys and he to be estranged.

They stared at each other for a long moment. Stachys inclined his head. “I'll take the estate and cherish it well.”

Straif smiled. “I know.”

Stachys pursed his lips. “I'll think on the loyalty oath.”

Straif nodded.

Tab strode over. “This is my G'Uncle Tab on my mother's side of the Family,” Straif said and introduced Stachys to Tab.

Jerking a nod, Tab said, “I take it your quarrel has been settled?”

“Yes,” Straif said.

“Yes,” Stachys said.

Tab grunted, shook his head. “Very unusual.” Then he shrugged. “But a good outcome. I hereby decree this duel is
over!
” Tab announced.

The woman on Stachys's side of the square jumped from her bench and flew past the golden line denoting the Field of Honor and up to Stachys.

“My love,” Stachys said, his face softening.

Her color was too high. She coughed, then found her voice. “You stup!” she cried. “You should be ashamed of yourself. And you, too.” She shook her finger under Straif's nose.

“GraceLady—” Tab said in a forbidding tone.

She ignored him, put her hands on her ample hips, and glared at Straif and Stachys. “I don't think I want my children associating with either of you! You Blackthorn men are a bad influence.”

“Agra, dear!” Stachys half sputtered, half choked. He snicked his sword back into its sheath, grabbed his wife, and kissed her hard.

Tab, Straif, and Tinne raised their eyebrows. A great bubble of happiness grew in Straif. Family.

Stachys broke the kiss, and his wife gasped, firmed her mouth and said, “
My
children—”

“Let's go make another,” Stachys said, still hugging his wife. “Can't have too many children in a Family, right . . . cuz?” He looked hesitantly at Straif.

“Right.”

“Excellent tactics,” Tab murmured.

Stachys started moving away, but said, “I can't stop the Councils's procedures. Several members believe you've been too irresponsible. You will still have to prove yourself at the open house.”

“We're ready,” Mitchella said, and Straif saw she waited just beyond the boundary of the Field of Honor.

Tab sighed. “Get these women out of here.”

Straif sheathed his sword, bowed to Stachys's friends, Tab, and Tinne. “My greatest thanks for ensuring this duel was properly conducted.”

The others bowed, then Tinne took a laughing Genista's arm. The crowd was dispersing from the square. Straif slipped his arm around Mitchella's waist. “Let's go back to the Residence,” he whispered in her ear. He tried not to think that their lovemaking would produce no children. “I have a surfeit of energy.”

She laughed, but before they could leave, T'Ash joined them. “I heard from Ship about its vaccine for you.”

Mitchella stiffened beside him, slipped from his arms. He wanted to follow, but a clump of common people gathered around her as she walked away.

T'Ash continued with his story. “Ship consulted with me after it reviewed the mine scrapings Winterberry sent Ship and the scientist Culpeper. It wanted my notes and the scrapings I took on my visit to the mine. At the time, I got a sample from the empty socket where your ancestors tore the living gems from the rock. There were indications of some sort of virulent pest in the rock that was long dead when I got there, but which would have been live and fearsome when your ancestors were there. Very infectious, too.” T'Ash shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Ship babbled its scientific language at me, but that was the gist of it. Your ancestors freed something living within the rock or attached to the lambenthysts, were infected, spread the infection to the rest of your Family members who worked in the mine, and that pest killed your immunity to the Angh virus, or something like that.” He waved. “You can sort it out.”

Straif only wished he could, but it didn't sound as if there was anything he could do about it now. “Thank you,” he said in a stilted voice. He'd lost sight of Mitchella.

T'Ash grimaced. “Much good it does you. When I set the gems back into the mine, I did the best I could to Heal them; Danith and I did a Ritual, too. I believe the stones were pleased to be back in their proper place, but crippled for the next few millennia.”

Just as he was—Healed but crippled. Truly, fate cycled around.

 
 
For Mitchella, the remaining days until the official
T'Blackthorn open house passed with unprecedented swiftness. The hours of light were filled with restoring the Residence, particularly the ballroom. In the nights she barely slept, steeping herself in lovemaking with Straif. As often as she reached for him, he took her, until the dark hours became a blur of wondrous sensation.