Heart Fire (Celta Book 13) (16 page)

Her Flair sparked and the words flowed, and she could
see
the ritual, the rising of crescent twinmoons blinking white and streaming light over the black horizon beyond the plateau.

Chanting came in the rhythm and the beat she now wrote to, voices singing and praying and lifting bass to soprano in the song she penned. She smelled the incense she’d recommended for the ritual, the drifting fragrance of sage and sweetgrass, the light perfume of violet, the darker note of cedar. She walked in a line—not a circle this time—with bodies before and behind her. This was not a
true
foreseeing of the event, but a total immersion that seemed real. That was what she told herself and others.

The procession of those celebrating the childlike self met and flowed, intersected with the other three lines, strode on and spread out. They stood close to the low jutting walls outlining the cathedral. Night had fallen with a gauzy haze over the night sky that let only the most brilliant stars shine through. The mass of voices fell silent and Chief Minister Younger spoke the spell she wrote . . .

As always she lost herself in the vision as she worked, lost track of time, only knew the experience of the ceremony.

She came to herself, dizzy yet buzzed with creative delight, when her mother touched her arm and quick static electricity snapped between them. Tiana’s brain settled and she blinked at her mother.

“It’s done,” Quina Mugwort said softly. She gestured to the sheets of papyrus before them on the table. “You’ve written all four parts and the spellshield. Put the writestick down now, Tiana, love.”

Without waiting for an answer or movement, Tiana’s mother plucked the writestick from Tiana’s fingers. Shaking her head, Quina said, “Your Flair always amazes me, and I can see this fulfills you. I don’t know why you’d want to do anything else.”

“Like be the High Priestess of Celta?” she said lightly, and found her mouth had stretched in a strange smile.

“Like that.” Quina stood. “I’m going to get you a drink with cocoa so you’ll sleep well and deeply for the short amount of time you have.”

“I’d rather have a cocoa square.”

“No. Go up to bed.” But Tiana’s mother stroked the papyrus. “Even your writing is beautiful when you do this, so easy to read.” She met Tiana’s eyes. “It will be a very special ritual. I’m proud of you.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No, it wouldn’t have been right without me, but that is because I am a member of the Intersection of Hope and believe in the journey.” She leaned down and kissed Tiana’s forehead. “For your own faith, your rituals are deep and true.”

*   *   *

T
he day had been crammed with events. Almost enough to distract Antenn from the kiss he’d shared with FirstLevel Priestess Tiana Mugwort. A
priestess
. The kiss itself hadn’t been too carnal, but the effect on him had been. He’d barely gotten his body under control and his mind nailed to the project by the time he’d had to stand in front of a bunch of newssheets people and explain the cathedral. Then the others—the religious folk—had done a little group telepathy and decided that talking was less exciting than showing, and he’d been front and center with models of the structure. He’d had to do some quick translocation and it was a damn good thing that the briefing took place a few doors down from his office.

There’d been a lot of interest and questions since nothing like the cathedral had ever been built on Celta. He’d done a little spiel about old Earth.

In the end, everyone had seemed satisfied and the Chief Ministers had formally accepted his bid and signed the contract. The only anxiety he’d felt with regard to the project was from Tiana.

Antenn returned home to T’Blackthorn Residence late in the evening after the free melee at The Green Knight Fencing and Fighting Salon among his age group. For some reason—no, he was
not
thinking about the sexy priestess—he had a lot of energy to burn off. And after the fighting, he’d treated his friends to a round of drinks at a social club. While he discreetly rambled about the cathedral, he watched his friends—most of them Nobles. Even the Clovers who’d been commoners like him when they’d met were now Nobles.

None of them seemed like they’d have a problem with the Intersection of Hope building a large place of worship. Vinni T’Vine said nothing about security or threat. Relieved, Antenn took his business glider home, letting the vehicle proceed on automatic as he relaxed and muttered some minor pain spells that would ease the aches of being thrown around the floor of the fighting salon. He’d managed to be one of the last five to go down, a personal best.

Good day and evening all around.

He entered T’Blackthorn Residence by the door on the end of one wing. As the oldest and first child adopted by Mitchella and Straif, he got the preferred rooms closest to an outside exit. His suite itself was a little cramped and consisted only of a small bedroom and sitting room and a tiny waterfall room.

The minute he opened the door to his rooms, he saw his father on the stool by the drafting table looking at the holos of the cathedral.

A
ntenn’s stomach knotted, even as he
knew
he hadn’t done anything that would have disappointed his parents and resulted in some fliggering father-son chat. Though he reckoned he’d never grow too old for that, and what a damn shame.

“Helluva project you’ve got here.” Straif swiveled on the stool to face Antenn. “I heard congratulations are in order.”

Antenn let his shoulders sag a bit. “Yeah. Got the approval and contract today. Started the excavation mages on it.”

“Beautiful building,” Straif said, tapping the table and bringing up the three-dimensional model.

“Yes, it is.”

“You do me—us—proud. Not sure I’ve said that lately.”

This was just getting weird. Antenn cleared his suddenly tight throat. “I appreciate hearing that.”

Straif waved toward the holo. “You know if you need any help we can give, you’ve got it.”

Slinging his jacket on a coat stand, Antenn said, “I’m not letting Mitchella decorate it. The Intersection of Hope Chief Ministers have already chosen an interior designer for the rugs and chandeliers and pews and stuff.”

“Pews?”

“Wooden benches.” The Celtic religion used huge pillows in a circle if sitting. The Intersection of Hope used benches lined up in squares.

“Odd.” Straif stretched out his legs. “Rumor has it in the FirstFamilies that you’ll be wanting some folk to take part in a strange ritual to raise spellshields for the building.”

“The cathedral,” Antenn corrected.

“The cathedral,” Straif said amiably. “I’ll go, and your mother is avid to see the space.”

“Thanks. Where do you think those rumors started?” Antenn dropped into a black leather chair.

Straif shrugged. “Dunno. Might be from the High Priest or Priestess?”

Antenn grunted.

“Might be from Vinni T’Vine.”

Antenn grimaced.

“Might even be a round of whispering through the network of Residences. Don’t know.”

“All right.”

“And speaking of Residences, that’s why I’m here,” Straif said.

Straightening from his lounge, Antenn said, “What? Does our Residence finally want a little upgrade, maybe in the paneling?” His mind whizzed with old ideas, reevaluated, revised.

“No. The Residence is perfectly happy with the renovations we did before I wed Mitchella.” A slight smile curved Straif’s lips. The man was remembering that time, years ago, and pleased. “I’m happy with the Residence as is, too.”

“So, what does it want?”

“I was asked if I minded if you slept in the HouseHeart tonight,” Straif said, in his I-am-a-FirstFamilies-Noble-GrandLord tone. “Naturally I replied I did not. So, the Residence and the HouseHeart want you to spend the night there.”

“Why?”

Straif raised a brow. “I was not informed.” He rose, flicked a hand at Antenn. “I didn’t ask. Just passing on the request.”

A request Antenn couldn’t refuse . . . not that he wanted to. “All right.” He stood, moved close to Straif, and hugged the man. “Thanks.” The guy smelled like the only father Antenn had known.

Claws of memory of
before
, when he’d been a child running with his older, crazy brother and a gang, raked Antenn, and he held the man close and harder for an instant before letting him go. Straif patted his shoulder, avoided meeting his eyes; maybe his were damp, too.

“See you at breakfast,” Antenn said.

“Right.”

With the loose and silent tread of a tracker, Straif left the room, and Antenn let his breath whoosh out. Memories were a bitch.

A quarter septhour later Antenn slipped through the secret door and descended the tight spiral stairs cut from the bedrock of the earth beneath T’Blackthorn Residence to the HouseHeart, chanting ancient Earthan Words of a special blessing. All of his adopted father’s children had equal access to the HouseHeart.

And though Antenn
was
adopted by Mitchella and Straif Blackthorn, at their behest he kept his birth mother’s name, Moss. Neither he nor his lost brother Shade had known their fathers. He remembered his mother, and men sleeping with her, and her death.

The day he’d been hauled before the SupremeJudge and Mitchella had taken him under her wing had been the very best of his life.

Remained the best day of his life.

The day his small cat had managed to expand his consciousness and become a Fam—something Pinky still didn’t speak of—had been the next best.

Sort of sad that his best days were so far in the past. Well, becoming a Master Architect, being designated as FirstLevel—those had been great days, too, but he’d been aware of all the damn toil he’d put into making those grades. He’d been sweaty with nerves awaiting the results of the various tests.

Come to think about it, he’d been covered in cold sweat as a child when he’d been in JudgementGrove. And he’d been so worried about Pinky . . .

Huh, all the best days of his life had been accompanied by sweat.

Today the Chief Ministers had signed the contract with him to build the cathedral. That had happened just before the press conference. So, yes, it had been the most successful day for his career . . . so far. And not so much sweat, except for the morning when he’d awakened from a sweaty, sexy dream.

Just the word
sex
got him thinking of Tiana Mugwort. He both wanted to work with her and feared working with her, and the attraction between them.

He’d reached the HouseHeart door, also carved stone and nearly blindingly white, with intricate carvings of an infinite Celtic knot. He’d said the chant by rote and had finished the last Word, but stood and caught his breath and admired the door, as usual. Some distant Blackthorn had been Flaired with stone.

Antenn studied it. Would the Chief Minister like something like this for one of his doors? It echoed their culture, sure, but wasn’t overtly religious. There had to be some ancient Earthan Celtic knotwork that showed an equal-armed cross. If the Chief Ministers didn’t have such art, Antenn could make another visit to the starship
Nuada’s Sword
to mine its history and art data.

He placed his hand on one of the portions of empty space in between the lines and received the typical small jolt. Because he didn’t have any true Blackthorn blood in him. Nope, he was as common as . . . Moss. No knowledge of his MotherSire or MotherDam, or other antecedents. Never any father, FatherSire, or FatherDam in the picture.

When he shucked his clothes and folded them, he wondered, as he often did, whether his cuzes, of a minor Blackthorn line, felt such a shock or not. He knew his sisters and brothers did.

The door swung open silently and the voice of the HouseHeart, some wise-old-woman-type voice, said, “Welcome, Antenn Blackthorn-Moss.”

With his first deep breath, he smelled the scents that meant
HouseHeart
to him . . . ingrained incense, a mixture of blackthorn blossoms, birch leaves, and St. Johnswort. Harmonious, powerful. The sound that pleased him most wasn’t the crackling fire but the bubbling of the round tiered fountain.

This room was circular. He wasn’t sure how many HouseHearts were, and as he’d experienced one after another, he’d been surprised how many were rectangular or square. The Celtan religion celebrating the Lady and the Lord tended to prefer round and curved and even digits. He wasn’t quite sure what the Cross Folk preferred . . . one times four? An individual moving through four stages of life? A spirit divided into four parts?

Tiana Mugwort would know. Might even have a bit of that knowledge deeply embedded in her mind, since her mother was Cross Folk.

Greetyou, Antenn. You have much on your mind?

Uh-oh, please, not another lecture session. He cleared his throat, bowed to the ring of clear and polished cabochon quartz crystals. Some Residences could “see,” and it was wise to believe all could. He thought this one could. “My apologies, T’Blackthorn HouseHeart. My mind was elsewhere.”

Your mind so often is
, the sentient being, the core being of the Residence, said indulgently. It—she—preferred to speak with him telepathically. He thought she might also be monitoring his brainwaves somehow but hadn’t been rude enough to ask. After all, he wasn’t a real Blackthorn.

You are Blackthorn enough!
Scolding, now.
Bonds of love are more important than bonds of blood.

Yeah, that’s what his parents always told him. He answered aloud. “Let’s face it, bonds of blood can last longer. A man or woman with the Blackthorn blood in his or her veins will always be welcomed by you. And they might not get shocked by the door, either.”

“What!”
The woman’s voice actually echoed through the room and pulsed against his eardrums, raised from mature calm.

He turned over his palm and showed his slightly red skin to the crystals.

I am appalled. I must check the door. Place your hand in the fountain and I will add a Healing balm to the water to cure your small burn.

“Thanks.” He walked over and held both hands under the water . . . and realized that the effervescence he felt came near to equaling when he touched Tiana Mugwort. He continued, “And all of us adopted children would appreciate it if you did something to the door.” This close to the fountain, the tiny spray of droplets from the fountain coated his skin and added to the natural humidity of the room, offset by the dry, hot air pumping from the fire. He glanced at it. Unlike the rounded oven of the restaurant and tearoom, Darjeeling’s HouseHeart, this one was near bonfire proportions in a large square fireplace. Perhaps it made so much more impact because of the square against the curved wall, which continued to curve up into a domed ceiling. The room was half a sphere.

The thick grass represented the element of earth, lovely to swish through, nice enough to sleep on, but deep within himself, Antenn yearned for a moss floor. Somewhere. Somewhen. He could have made one in his rooms . . . but this was T’Blackthorn Residence.

There! It’s done!
said the HouseHeart with satisfaction.
My door will no longer harm any of
my
people, Blackthorn blood or no. And your burn is Healed.

Antenn supposed so. He pulled his hands from the fountain and went toward the airshaft announced by a tinkle of small, melodious chimes. Obviously the early Blackthorns who’d built and modified the HouseHeart felt more in tune with the fire and water elements, even liked earth, but didn’t care much for air. Still, the warm breeze dried his fingers. He found a spot an equal distance between the fireplace and the fountain and lowered himself onto the plush grass.

I heard the congratulations of the Family for you, Blackthorn son.

“Blackthorn-Moss,” he corrected.

It is honorable that you do not forget your mother’s surname.
The older woman HouseHeart persona approved. So Straif T’Blackthorn had told Antenn when he’d wanted to ditch the name. No great honor attached to Moss. In fact, great dishonor did, with the deeds of his brother Nightshade. Not that Shade had gone by any other name than Shade.

And it was obvious where Straif T’Blackthorn had come by his standards. His father probably would have said the same thing, as taught by this being here . . . ad infinitum back to the first colonist who’d funded the starship and called himself Blackthorn.

Let me also say how proud I am of you.

He flushed. “Thank you.”

We are VERY interested in having a cathedral built!
She sounded more than interested, thrilled.

“We?” Was it thinking of itself as the HouseHeart
and
the Residence . . .

We, the FirstFamilies . . . and other . . . Residences, the PublicLibrary, the starship
Nuada’s Sword
.

He shifted uneasily. “Oh, yeah, I’d heard that you all talk to each other now.”

We have a circle.

He wasn’t sure what that meant and repeated, “Oh.”

You can call on all of us or any of us for information. I will be pleased to relay it to you.

“Thank you.” He’d sort of thought he’d have a nice meditation session here during his allotted septhours in the HouseHeart today. Guess not.