Fires of Aggar (2 page)

A pair of stub-tailed sandwolves, taupe and beige in fur with massive shoulders tapering to slim hips, shambled along well ahead of the horses. Long trained as scouts, the canines moved with their heads hung low and swinging from side to side as they loped along, being cautious of scents that may or may not be found. The shadow of the eitteh passed before them, and they halted, lifting high blunted muzzles of hairless hide. Eyes as clear as the sands of their ancestral Southern Continent reflected a quiet intelligence; they recognized their winged visitor. The smaller of the sandwolves turned and trotted back along the trail while the other continued forward.

The horses behind were plodding along with heads down bent into the winds, and they paid no heed to the sky above nor to the sandwolf returning from the front. There were three mares. Each of them was well-muscled, broad in the chest and square in build, and each was a blood bay of rich ruddy-red with high black stockings to match both mane and tail. They were obviously not simple pack animals, and in fact, even the packs on the leading pair seemed too small and light to be of much consequence.

Instead of canvassed packs, the third mare carried a lone Amazon. Dusty ash had obliterated the color of her long coat-like garments; her hood and scarf were equally as layered with grey. The dozing slouch of her shoulders and the size of her mare belied her true height; but right now there were no raiders to warn off with impressions here. Nothing was ever very exciting — unless of course, darkfall found one still astride a beast and still leagues from the shelters; then it could become all too exciting along these steep paths.

A sudden shriek rent the afternoon stillness. The sandwolves spun, noses to the air — the Amazon wakened, sword half unsheathed. Again came the cry. The haunting echo blew apart, heart-piercing and unsettling in its humanness. But it was only one of the men-cat.

Both the sandwolves and Amazon breathed easier as the sword was resheathed. They were in no danger from those mournful beasts. There was no way down from the upper heights onto this trail. Besides, no matter how savage the eitteh males were, one lone men-cat would have had no chance against the larger sandwolves.

The smaller sandwolf waited until the horses finally began to pass her. Then crouching, she darted beneath the last mare’s belly to the rider’s right — protectively placing herself between her favored human and that fathomless precipice of the trail’s edge.

The Amazon pulled the scarf down from her face and leaned over, curious of the sandwolf’s appearance. The creature whined, then with a single yap tossed her head up, and the woman’s copper gaze went skyward.

The female eitteh was circling again.

With a muttered half-oath, the woman recognized the messenger of Valley Bay. It was no wonder the wailing men-cat had awakened.

With rueful disgust, she glanced at those Firecaps in the north; because of them the air currents were too dangerous for the winged-cat to risk landing on this trail. She twisted behind, looking for bearings, then ahead and confirmed they were indeed near the end of this isolated stretch. Soon, barely shy of two leagues, the path would cut south through this ascending cliff, and a league after that they would drop beyond the scent of sulfur and find the southern Gate House. Whatever was happening, the news would best wait until that hearth was reached.

News — what could be good? It was always a risk sending the winged-cats to any of these ranges during the spring mating season.

Resigned, the Amazon waved the airborne messenger on, then touched her heel to the bay. The sandwolf bounded forward to herd the pack mares along faster, and the small troupe picked up their pace. There had been enough napping. It would be better not to tempt the Fates so soon in this journey; it appeared, there would be enough opportunity for that later.

Darkfall had not quite reached the southern side of the embankment as the group rounded the high rocks which marked the haven of the Gate House canyon. It wasn’t much of a canyon, but it was large enough to corral a good dozen beasts and to support a stone cottage to house as many riders.

The horses livened their steps at the smell of fresh water, and the sandwolves shambled aside to let them pass. The rider swatted at her sleeveless coat and hood, sending up clouds of dust in the twilight and bringing forth the bright copper-bronze color of the fabric with the golden threads and buttons of its quilting. The larger of the sandwolves sneezed, shaking her head with squinting eyes and a huff or two as the dust threatened to engulf her.

Laughter rang clear as the Amazon uncovered herself, pushing her hood back as the youngest sandwolf sneezed again. She shook her hair loose, its copper shade exactly the match of her sparkling eyes. It was an unruly tousle tied back at the nape of her neck, caught in the folds of scarf and hood.

“You would do well to trot a wider circle, Ty,” she teased, and the older sandwolf, Ril, expressed her agreement with a drooling, long-toothed grin.

The sound of her voice brought another Sister from the stone hut, a tall figure clad in plainer garments of green and tan. She carried a wooden bucket of grain for the horses, but her empty hand lifted in a friendly greeting. “Mother’s blessings, Royal Marshal—”

“Marshal indeed!” taunted the newcomer. “Have I been gone so long, Tawna?”

The horses drew nearer in the dimness, and a sudden smile brightened the other’s face. “Gwyn! I didn’t recognize you bundled so neat. Come in, Soroe! So late in crossing? You’re lucky to have made it — I was sure you must be a lowlander or some Sister returning. What makes you dally or have you done the two days crossing in one!?”

“In truth, I did just that,” and the young woman sighed as she stepped down from the stirrup. The saddle creaked and the bay, Cinder, grunted in relief as the girth uncinched for the first time since dawn.

Tawna squinted, her dark eyes shrewd as they took measure of her guest. The lines in Gwyn’s faced underlined her fatigue. Between the grit and the apricot gold of her skin, the creases seemed almost to be worked into wood. Gwyn was a Royal Marshal by trade as her bright copper-bronze coat declared; she was Niachero — Daughter of the Stars — by birth as her height and tan attested, but she was a young Sister too. Twenty-seven by the reckoning of the ancient home stars or thirteen-and-some by the tenmoons of Aggar, not so very old and not so very young. Yet Tawna noted the weary tightness about her lips and that all-too-knowing squint about her eyes. That sensitive, assessing face should have belonged to someone much older. It wasn’t fair, Tawna thought, even without knowing what the duty was this time; Gwyn was too young to be cheated of her own youth. But then Niachero were born with that bittersweet brilliance — that stubbornness of ability — to carry what must be carried.

“Has the eitteh arrived?” Gwyn asked abruptly, stripping the red leather saddle from her mare and heaving it onto the corral’s stony fence.

“Aye, it was Sable. But she wouldn’t wait to take an answer.” Tawna felt her throat close with momentary despair. The business must be more serious than she feared, if the eitteh was sent out so quickly after Gwyn’s home departure. Then with a sudden shake of her head, Tawna gathered her resolve and opened her arm to hug the taller woman close. Gwyn was Niachero, she could take care of herself.

Surprised, Gwyn returned the embrace and looked at her friend questioningly, “Nehna?”

“Rash fool,” Tawna muttered, her mouth curling with a strained smile.

“We both,” and her eyes glinted with an old teasing.

The sudden strength of Gwyn’s mischief broke Tawna’s misgivings like a prism does sunlight, and the woman caught her breath.

Gwyn laughed as the bucket of grains was suddenly dropped at her feet. Tawna shook her head, striding away with an exasperated cry, “See to your poor beasts! A single day’s crossing? They’ve been abused enough without waiting for their feed as well!”

“Do you ever get tired of being alone?” Gwyn murmured, half-lost in her own world, and Tawna smiled gently, brushing the feathery copper from Gwyn’s forehead as they lay. Gwyn’s attention shifted, returning from that far-away place and worry etched faint furrows between her eyebrows. “How do you manage?”

They were wrapped in a soft spun blanket, the fire in the hearth flickering with a heartwarming glow that echoed the tenderness of the touch they had shared. The small cottage smelled of wood smoke and herbs, far cries from the musty ash of sulfur in those distant heights. It was a good place to find refuge and it reflected the woman’s care and welcome. But tonight the Sisters’ Gatekeeper was not to be deluded by her dear companion’s rhetoric, and Tawna’s head shook with a sympathetic smile. “You’re missing Selena then?”

A pause, a sigh, and a weary denial closed Gwyn’s copper-hued eyes. “I wish it were simply that.”

Tawna studied her carefully. “It’s almost been a tenmoon-and-a-half, Gwyn.”

Eyes opened, blurred with tears. She nodded.

“Has there been no other?”

At Tawna’s concern, Gwyn offered a fond smile. “You count yourself so little, Soroe?”

“No, but I count myself as your dear friend,” Tawna returned solemnly, “not as your heartbound companion.”

“Truth,” she sighed faintly. “No, there has been no heartbond since Selena.”

Tawna nodded, realizing she had always known this. Gwyn was a woman of intense, committed passions. Their time together would have changed, altered from loving rapport to gentle companionship if someone that special had come along. Gwyn was not capable of losing herself in one woman’s arms for long, if her heart was entwined with another.

“It takes time to heal,” Tawna added belatedly. “What you had with Selena is rare, it will not be easily replaced.”

“It will never be replaced,” Gwyn corrected hollowly.

“No, but there are as many ways in loving as there are women to love.”

“I know that.”

“It is a hard thing to remember through death’s empty wake.”

A slow breath passed her lips, and Gwyn shook her head vaguely, “It is perhaps that I am more frightened of finding… awakening such feelings again, Tawna. The intensities, the depths given with such heartbonds. But still, how do you bear the loneliness?”

“For me it is not lonely,” Tawna murmured, the truth of it reflecting in her gentle gaze. “We are different, our needs are different. You are meant to follow passion and bright stars, while I? I’m content to watch the Twin Moons, to sing with my lute, and pray with my poetry. This rocky alcove offers a priestess’ seclusion for me, dear Gwyn. It is not lonely. It’s merely my home.”

Gwyn thought about that, listening to the whispering winds as they stirred through the mountains. For a moment she could almost imagine the stars swirling, dancing in the moons’ light beyond that rough hewn roof. Still, it was only a glimpse of what her companion embraced, and she knew again the differences they would never breech.

“I think, it is not only the companionship you are missing,” Tawna mused, watching Gwyn’s face closely. “Perhaps it is the intimacy of the Blue Sight as well?”

Gwyn laughed with a sudden shout, and her friend grinned with her. “Intimacy? What a delicate word from you, Tawna. Aren’t you meaning naked exposure? Sheer lack of privacy? Isn’t it always you who maintains that to love a Blue Sight is to drop every barrier to the depths of the soul?”

“Well, perhaps I lack that particular sort of courage. After all, I am not Niachero.”

No… Gwyn sobered, remembering just how many women were frightened by the very passions that would bind their hearts to another’s life. It hurt to remember those who had turned from her own offer because of that fear.

“And…,” Tawna reminded her with a teasing smile, “I was not raised with a mother and a sister of the Sight. My hermitlike ways would have been quite lost in that sort of household, don’t you think?”

“In truth.”

“Also, Selena was gifted with years as well as Sight. You held much to treasure there.”

Again Gwyn had to agree.

“Yet why now?” Tawna probed, concern reflected with fond love as she tipped Gwyn’s face upward. “What has happened to bring on this soul searching, Soroe?”

Gwyn shrugged, growing almost off-handed as she turned to slide her arms about Tawna’s smooth shoulders. “I go to escort a Blue Sight. Perhaps the thought has made me nostalgic?”

Tawna felt her lips curl in amusement as Gwyn’s soft mouth claimed her. She knew better than to pry, but she wasn’t about to object to the delicious distractions either.

Off in the darkness, Cinder gave an annoyed snort and stomp. Gwyn glanced up from her whittling, squinting to make out the wavering shapes beyond the fire. She could see nothing. A warm muzzle laid itself down across her knee in reassurance, and the Amazon grinned. She gave Ril a fond rub down her furry backbone. “So our bondmate finally returns from her hunt. Think she’ll behave herself for a day or two?”

Ril answered with a vague whine of doubt. With her head still in Gwyn’s lap, the sandwolf twisted, brows high, as she searched expectantly. Obligingly, Ty padded out of the darkness to join them. Her cold nose bumped lightly against Gwyn’s cheek and then Ril’s.

“Good Eve to you too, Young Ruffian.” Gwyn grunted as the tardy sandwolf flopped to the ground and rolled her weight into her human. With a good-natured chuckle, Gwyn accepted her role in life as a backrest. She gave the great beast a pat on the stomach and a hearty hug. Ty grinned back over a furry shoulder at Gwyn; it was a toothy, comical grin at that upside-down angle. “I’m glad you ate well. I’m even happier to have you safely in camp. But what were you doing to poor Cinder?”

Ty flipped to her belly and cheerfully refused to answer. Panting with feigned ignorance, she stared off into the dark.

“Hm-hmm. Thought so.” Ril politely moved her nose as Gwyn resumed working on the small flute. The campfire crackled, and its noise blended easily with the stirring night sounds. A yellow cricket awoke somewhere and soon its chirping had roused the neighbors from their leafy beds. One of the mares shifted her weight, rustling the twigs and such underfoot. Ril moved closer to keep Gwyn’s leg warm as a wayward breeze tried to make the spring chill chillier.