Fires of Aggar (35 page)

“I see…,” Llinolae said, assimilating that thoughtfully.

“Actually, when I set out I expected to be riding south with Jes. But there was an accident and… well….”

It was Gwyn hesitating now, Llinolae noticed. Then abruptly she realized, “So the Council’s been involved after all.”

Gwyn nearly winced at that flat accusation. “Not precisely.”

“What’s that mean?” She wasn’t any less suspicious.

“The Council sent two of my Sisterhood to aid me instead, Brit and Sparrowhawk. They pose as tinker-trades. Brit’s also a healer as well as a Royal Marshal herself. They’ve worked with the Council on-and-off through the Changlings’ Wars, but they aren’t here to do the Council’s bidding. They came because I needed help, because aiding you was not something I could expect to do alone, and Jes couldn’t come.”

“What you’re saying is… those two are your Sisters first and Council pawns second?”

Gwyn scowled at the choice of words, yet reluctantly yielded a nod. “Basically, yes… that’s true.”

Llinolae weighed that carefully, lips pursed in a growing frown of concentration. Then she pressed, “And your own oaths to the Crowned Rule? Do you hold your mother’s vow to me above the Marshal’s Oath of Fealty?”

At that, Gwyn grew as grim as the Dracoon sounded. She leaned forward, folding a leg under her and half kneeling on the couch as she challenged back, “You are a Dracoon. Do you hold personal pledge above duty?”

Llinolae blinked at the suddenness of the cold attack. Then a solemn calm settled over her features, and she answered quietly but firmly, “They are one and the same to me.”

“Exactly!” Gwyn pounced. “My loyalty is sworn to the Crowned and her cause. My love is freely given to both my parents and my Sisterhood. But my judgments are my own. I stand by my decisions and accept the responsibilities for my actions. I am a Marshal, Dracoon. Not someone’s pawn — not a soldier blindly following anyone’s orders!”

“Patience!” Llinolae raised a palm, silencing the protest.

Gwyn’s tone grew gentler as she relented. “I beg forgiveness — please.”

“Gwyn, I’m sorry. I….” She broke off in frustration and paused for a long breath. Trying again, she explained, “When you say you are a Marshal, I worry that you’re saying you’re honor-bound to tell the King and Crowned Rule that I have the Blue Sight. If you do that, then they in turn must surely tell the Council. I simply do not wish the Council involved in my personal life.” She paused again, then admitted, “Frankly, I’ve enough to deal with as it is. I don’t need superstitious, meddling oligarchies interfering now! When I spoke so freely with Bryana, it was only because I felt she’d not betray me to the Council.”

“She hasn’t. I haven’t. Neither Brit nor Sparrowhawk has. Nor will they, any more than I intend to. Your reasons for keeping the Gift to yourself, Llinolae, are only King’s business if this isolation from the Council is compounding the problems you’re having with the Clans.”

Llinolae nodded faintly, absorbing the limits and rational of that statement to find it fair. “And if it does appear to be interfering with my duties here…?”

Gwyn’s copper eyes met Llinolae’s blue, and the Dracoon gave a snort as she glanced aside abruptly. “You’re right, of course. I’d tell them myself.”

“Aye,” Gwyn agreed softly. “It’s that overly developed sense of selflessness — we both have it.”

“Ethical responsibility?” Llinolae muttered. “Stubbornness might be a better description, don’t you think?”

“Integrity is often stubborn, but only with need.”

Gwyn’s smile almost stole Llinolae’s breath; the amarin of beauty and sensitivity were so clear.

This is why I love her, Llinolae grasped. This total acceptance, this nearly instinctual understanding of what I value. She doesn’t simply hear my words, she knows the depths of commitment they reflect for me. And she doesn’t find it daunting or impressive — or foolish. Of all the women Llinolae had loved — though there hadn’t been such a great number — none of them had ever completely understood her sense of need and action. Duty had meant only work to them; it was equated with power or perhaps with some degree of honor, but never had they felt the bone-deep obligation to others — to attempt the near-impossible simply because there was no one else capable of the attempt. It mattered less if she failed, than if she never tried —

No, Llinolae mused bleakly, those were her father’s words, talking to his child in her first seasons of learning. Now, in Khirlan, it did matter terribly if she failed. There had to be a way to make peace between Clan and District folk. There had to be a way to ban or destroy their Fire weapons. There had to be, even if it meant her own happiness — her own life! — was to be forfeited. Otherwise the price, in lives and blood, was going to be too high.

Perhaps that was why the Mother had guided this other pair of dey Sorormin to aid Gwyn. Perhaps it was meant that her life be exchanged for truce — only not by dying, as she’d once assumed such an exchange could demand. She’d forgotten how many alternatives could be created instead. It was a cold thought — that forfeiting her life to the Fates might mean becoming a Council’s tool. It was also suddenly a very tangible possibility.

“No…,” Llinolae murmured absently, “I can’t quite believe that is to be… not yet.”

“What?”

She glanced back to find Gwyn still watching her closely. The Marshal had planted one stockinged foot flat on the pallet and settled an elbow on the upraised knee, her hand supporting the side of her head. Her long fingers were curled in the disarray of her red-blond hair, loosening that short braid and adding more to the general unruliness. The apricot glow of Gwyn’s fair, tanned skin had returned. The clarity and patience of her purpose reflected in those copper-bright eyes; the strength of her body was visible in her bared forearms.

Llinolae shut her eyes against the bittersweet intrusion of shirtless images from yesterday’s bathing.

“What can’t you quite believe yet?” Gwyn prodded softly.

Her chin lowered. With a sigh, Llinolae took a moment to gather her wits again. It was an effort to return to business. “I’m not convinced the Council’s aid will provide the solution between the Clans and my folk. Least, I’m not quite ready to turn the District over to them completely.”

Gwyn shrugged. “They’d probably prefer you — or the Crowned — to settle a truce without their direct influence anyway. Aggar gains nothing through fighting. Doesn’t matter if the conflicts are between the District and Clan or if they’re between human and Changling it only brings blood and devastation — neither is the Council’s goal.”

“No, they aren’t, are they?” Llinolae scoffed. An acidic-tasting chuckle echoed her unvoiced thoughts — that the Council preferred more insidiously passive methods, even when direct confrontation would be more prudent.

“May I ask why you were out with the scouting party?”

Again Gwyn’s candor was startling in contrast to the Court intrigues Llinolae was accustomed to. A smile cracked as she shook her head. “Forgive me. I’ve not dealt with many Marshals… and none in the last several seasons.”

An answering grin met hers. Gwyn wasn’t in the least slighted. “I’d expected to find you in the city, given the Feast Days. When you weren’t there… well,” she shrugged, “it didn’t take me long to come looking elsewhere.”

“How did you know where to come?” Llinolae asked abruptly. “I thought there were only two in the City who knew my errand.”

“Which errand?” Gwyn asked pointedly.

Blue eyes widened in surprise. The question almost shocked Llinolae in its forthright challenge; it went against a lifetime of protocol and deference to the title she held. Belatedly, she remembered what Gwyn was and a touch of humor chided her bruised pride. “Are all Marshals so dogged?”

“Like a basker jackal on scent,” Gwyn returned flippantly, her grin broadening.

“A very fair-haired basker,” Llinolae noted.

Gwyn shrugged, then lifted a brow. “Are you not going to tell me?”

“Of my errand? No, certainly I will.” Llinolae’s tone was somber again. “During the Feast Days I traditionally do stay city-bound. I’d hoped that the first ten-day of the Feasts would distract most of the Court from noticing my absence — my Father’s tradition was to suspend official functions and simply mingle with the festival folk, and I’ve carried on the practice. But I didn’t want any interference in this. I wanted to speak with the Clan Leads secretly.”

“About establishing some sort of truce?”

“Aye, and that’s still my intention.” Llinolae paused, frowning deliberately. “There must be a common ground for us — somewhere. The District and Plateau are big enough for — for something to be settled!”

“Any ideas of what?”

A frustrated little shrug underlined her scowl. “Nothing specific. I’m assuming land or a more civilized access to the Traders’ Guild might be useful for them. But I assume those would be important, because historically those sorts of resources are often viable bartering pieces at a negotiating table. The Clan may have completely different ambitions, however. I simply don’t know. And I won’t know, until I can manage to talk with them.”

“You met with no success at all in Clantown?”

“None. But I would never expect their militia to aspire to peaceful ambitions, especially not with their supply of fire weapons to play with!”

“I see your point,” Gwyn allowed.

“My only real hope to reach the Clan Leads is to convince someone with less stake in the militia’s warfare…”

“So you were going further east into the Plateau to the farmsteads and crafters.”

“A Lead in their farming community, or even a Lead Scout — the scouts seem to represent a balance of farmers and military.”

Gwyn considered that venture reluctantly. It wasn’t precisely an easy task to manage. Still, the Dracoon was correct in assuming the farmers might have more stake in trade and resources than the Clan militia. And the farmers and crafters provided the foundation for the Clan’s social structure. They were the ones that designated the Clan Leads, and the Leads in turn appointed the militia commanders. So, it was also quite possible that a Lead Scout might listen — might just be the ones who know the most about all different factions of the Clan. It was quite possible they’d hear the Dracoon’s offer. Possible… but not probable, Gwyn knew. She looked to Llinolae again. “Did you learn anything useful during your days among them?”

“A bit. Seems their stockpile of fire weapons lies in the northeast nearer the original off-worlder settlements.”

“Impressive tidbit. How did you uncover that one?”

Llinolae’s mouth curled in a less than amused smile. “They’d been sorting through a small shipment just fetched, when the scouts brought me back from my aborted escape. I saw neither the weapons nor their maps, but I Saw a fair lot of the poor pack horse they dropped me next to at the watering trough while someone went to fetch me a few clothes. The amarin of the travels still clung to the beast and weren’t so hard to decipher. Besides, it gave me something to concentrate on aside from pain.”

“Not pleasant.”

“Not in the least.” Llinolae stretched the stiffened muscles in her side carefully. It seemed to hurt more, merely thinking about it. She shook the notion aside, continuing with, “There was something more. There was an amarin of anxiety about these Clan folk, Gwyn — especially for the militia. I Saw an overwhelming sense of fear among them. I felt the commitment of purpose that unites them was actually grounded in desperation.”

“That sort of incentive leads to extreme measures pretty rapidly,” Gwyn noted with legitimate concern.

“Apparently, it already has in some cases.”

“Aye — like that village fire.” At Llinolae’s puzzlement Gwyn elaborated, “Burning the whole east end of Diblum was fairly extreme, wouldn’t you say?”

“Unfortunately, yes. More and more of that sort of thing has been happening—” She stopped in mid-sentence, blue eyes narrowing as they returned abruptly to Gwyn. “You seem to know an amazing portion of my recent doings, Marshal. I’d thought you’d only just arrived Khirlan.”

“I have. And no, I haven’t been snooping around your Court for very long either.” Gwyn pointed at the rack. Her sheathed sword hung next to their cloaks. “The lifestone in my hilt seems to be sensitive to your Sight.”

“A lifestone?” She knew only vague rumors of those, but then she’d not thought they were used by many aside from the Council. “So between your sword’s stone and Aunt Taysa’s directions…?”

“I didn’t speak with your aunt.”

Llinolae sighed at the implications in that. Unfortunately, she could probably imagine why Taysa would avoid a Royal Marshal. Dutifully, she pressed, “Why wouldn’t she see you?”

“The Steward is your aunt, isn’t she?” Gwyn fleetingly hoped there had been a mistake somewhere, somehow, but Llinolae nodded as Gwyn had expected her to. “She didn’t give me a reason — or at least not one any of her Swords passed on to me. They told me she would be available after the Feasts, but not before. Then they stuck me in a Palace room back by the stables—”

“What!”

“Then after one fairly uneventful day, the next found two of her Swords trying to kill me.”

“Who?” Suddenly that tone was flat and steely.

“The first fellow I think was a Jefriz?”

“And the other? Were they working together?”

“No, they weren’t together. As for the second attempt, I beg your patience…,” Gwyn drawled slightly, a wry twist to her grimace. “But there isn’t always time to get a name.”

Biting back a curse, Llinolae shut her eyes and sank her frustration down through the wools, canvas, and wood — down into the damp soil of Aggar itself.

“It gets worse,” Gwyn’s quiet tone had shed any hint of sarcasm.

“Tell me.”

“The nameless one used a fire weapon.”

Just as the traitors within her camp had, Llinolae added to herself. Her palms went flat against the rugs and she drew a deep, weary breath. Then the sweet strength and patience of the Great Forest’s life cycles came at her beckoning, and Llinolae felt the inner balance of her harmon return. With a slow release, her breath loosed and her eyes flickered open again. Sorrow and apology, practicality and common sense, all colored the compassion she finally extended to Gwyn. “I am sorry, Gwyn’l. Truly sorry. You’ve not seen Khirlan at its best. But then, sadly, it’s been a very long time since there was much better to be seen.”