Fires of Aggar (36 page)

Llinolae sighed, shaking her head again. “My aunt… the irony is that she was twisting my own orders against you. I’d sworn her to silence, along with Samcin, her Master of Arms. I was trying to guard my patrol against the risk that some of the less… reasonable? …of the Clans’ scouts might intercede before I could reach one of their more tolerant Leads, or one of the farming folk even. I didn’t want my task to be discovered. Not that most of the Clan wouldn’t be generally delighted to hang my head as a triumph, or blackmail Churv for some ransom.”

“You and your patrol were still ambushed,” Gwyn noted quietly.

“Aye, and they took only me.”

The pain of those deaths brushed them both in silence.

Gwyn closed her eyes and rubbed a tired hand across her face. There was nothing to be done for those lost now.

“I can’t just go back to Khirlan!” Llinolae reiterated her earlier words with a sudden vehemence. “My companions’ deaths… the loss of so many folk in Khirlan will be for nothing, should I simply leave. I wish there was another way to reach one of the Leads. If I can’t talk with someone, there is only one choice.”

“Destroying their weapons arsenal, you mean?”

“Aye. Did your mother speak of that as well or…?”

“Some,” Gwyn admitted honestly. “I’m not quite opposed nor in favor of the idea yet. You shared the ambition with me as well — again when your Sight reached me through my sword’s lifestone on that night of the town fire.”

Llinolae frowned thoughtfully. Maybe she should have paid more attention to those troubadour rhymes of lifestones as a child. But then, she had never really had all that much time for any of the usual childhood pastimes. She sighed and shook the musings away. “What do you think of the idea?”

“Ambitious. Sometimes I nearly convince myself it would be the best of all plans. It would balance the power.”

Llinolae waited for her to say more.

Gwyn half-shrugged and admitted her discomfort, “But it would deprive the Clans of their only true resource. Is it…,” she hesitated, choosing her words and struggling to define her own thoughts even as she spoke, “is it necessary to deprive them of their strength so completely? They have so poorly integrated with Aggar’s peoples and have always clung so tenaciously to their off-worlder heritage. If we deprive them of the symbol this technology must offer them as well as the very real strength and wealth that the weapons represent, aren’t we threatening to isolate them even more? Threatening to drive them to even greater lengths of desperation?”

A faint scowl conceded the point even as Llinolae saw, “You’re not saying I shouldn’t attempt it.”

“No, I’m not saying you shouldn’t attempt it. I agree with you it would be best to try to talk to a Lead. But no, that doesn’t look very realistic.” Gwyn looked at her then. She felt the force of that silent determination flow up from the life cycles around her as Llinolae met her gaze steadily. But there was no sharp blade slicing through her mind’s eye, imposing that decree upon her. This was different from others of the Blue Sight, Gwyn realized distractedly. But the intensity of Llinolae’s commitment pressed more urgently. Gwyn accepted the awareness with a nod, abandoning attempts to grasp the subtleties of Blue Sighted differences for a time.

Gwyn sighed, nodding once more. “We’ve a while to stay. Brit and Sparrow won’t be arriving for another few days. Even then, the scouts searching for you will still make traveling too dangerous. I’d suggest a good ten-day-and-a-half should pass before we try to leave the Shea Hole.”

Llinolae smiled, “I’ll still be set on moving east into their farmsteads.”

“And nearer their weapons’ stockpile.”

With a shrug, the Dracoon admitted, “I have only a vague notion of its location. If it comes to that….”

“If?” Gwyn interrupted, disbelief echoing in her voice. “Or when?”

Llinolae’s gaze dropped to Ril as she went to resume brushing the sandwolf. Neither of the women were fooled. Her silence was answer enough.

Gwyn trudged up along the small creek towards the bend at the top of their canyon, relishing the anticipation of cool water and a good scrub. All morning she and Llinolae had been busy cleaning tack, washing clothes, and tending the mares, especially poor Nia’s chaffed sores from carrying all that wet gear for so long. Gwyn had been heartily glad that the separation had been brief and that Jes had always taught her the proper care for tack and mares; with equipment that was less well-padded, the skin damage would have been outright cruel from the chaffing, wet leathers. As it was, Nia’s ruddy hide had been left tender but unbroken; a ten-day of rest and attention should more than see the mare ready for work again.

The Amazon had been as proud of Ty’s judgment as of Nia’s endurance. Her bondmate had obviously done her best to find the mare dry niches in cliff and tree for the worst of the storms. Although now that the last of their immediate traveling was done, the cloud bursts seemed finished as well.

Fates’ Jest was all, she conceded wryly. The warm sun was welcome, reaching into the forests with its dusty light. In their tiny valley the heat had dried the ground early. By the afternoon, the cooler shadows from those great trees above on the gorge’s rim lent some aid, and Gwyn had sent Llinolae off to tend herself. Although the woman had protested, Llinolae had clearly been relieved in the end — her body was still more bruised than not.

Gwyn felt her heart skip a beat at the memory of that smile, and she laughed at herself. That absurd grin of Gwyn’s had lingered even after the Dracoon had left — lingered through all of the haymoss gathering and through most of the hoof painting — until Cinder had snorted in protest when Gwyn inadvertently stiffened the hide on a foreleg with the liquid enamel. Chagrined, the Amazon had admitted that the enamel shells were better protections against hoof chips and cracks than skin rashes. But Cinder had been patient enough, obviously enjoying the extra attention the clean-up and salve provided.

With a sigh Gwyn escaped a sunny patch of heat as she rounded the canyon bend and ducked in through the draped haymoss. The vines and ruffled leaf bits dangled and spanned the short neck in the rock’s fissure, creating a tunnel-like coolness. She breathed the sweetened air deeply then, emerging, she found herself squinting against the abrupt return of the sun’s glare. The ground felt softer beneath her boots, and for a moment she paused, lifting a hand to shade her eyes. A plush lichen carpet of deep forest green, so dense a color that it was almost black, covered the ground entirely. There were mists from the tumbling little waterfall that cooled the small place, despite the break in the honeywoods’ canopy so far above. The water fell from a much closer ledge, however, since it had carved something of a tiered stairway back into the gorge heights over the generations of its flow.

Sprays of rainbows and the chatter from a squabbling bird’s nest filled the air. The crevice walls were beige and bleached brown, rising in rocky tiers and sheer walls with only a smattering of the springy lichen above a knee’s height.

A paleness stirred atop a sunlit slab of stone. Gwyn glanced to it, watching the shimmering arch of a rainbow’s bend touch the woman lying there. A breeze rifled through the mists again, and the colors disappeared. But Gwyn’s gaze stayed — fixed and captured by the naked ivory of Llinolae’s length.

The woman stirred, her Blue Sight telling her of another’s rapt attention. She sat and turned, staring mutely at Gwyn for an endless moment.

Panic frissoned within Gwyn’s stomach. Embarrassment warred with consuming desire until her feet stumbled to flee in sheer blindness.

“Gwyn wait!”

She froze.

Llinolae appeared quickly beside her, sliding into a tunic for Gwyn’s benefit. The shirt hem settled across her thighs, but still Gwyn didn’t move. Hand clenched to the towel at her shoulder, eyes fastened on the moss vines before her — skin deepening more and more into that cocoa richness of sweet longings with each breath — she didn’t dare to move.

“Gwyn…,” Llinolae’s voice was soft with a gentleness that made the Amazon’s eyes slide closed in cherished agony. “It’s all right.

“Soroe?” Llinolae spoke the word tentatively. Her hand ventured to risk a touch to Gwyn’s arm. “Soroe, please, know that it’s all right.”

“No.” Gwyn swallowed hard, shaking her head. She found her heart’s courage with a whisper, “Not Soroe. Soroi?”

“I know,” Llinolae murmured. Tenderly then she brought Gwyn around to face her, waiting with endless patience until Gwyn finally managed to open those copper-bright eyes. Uncertainty and confusion danced behind the threatening tears, but Llinolae merely laid a warm hand to Gwyn’s cheek and smiled ever so faintly.

With a steadying breath drawn in slowly, Gwyn felt the panic loosen its vice in her chest. She tried in some way to return that gentle smile and then, at last, her own voice came again. “I beg your patience… I seem to have lost my heart amongst your things.”

The words sweetly stole the breath from Llinolae with their honesty. She stepped nearer and took Gwyn’s face in her hands, her blue gaze seeming to stare into Gwyn’s very soul. “My own heart’s a bit lost around you too, my dear Amazon.”

Gwyn’s surprise registered in shock, bringing Llinolae’s gentle laughter then. But still, she was not released.

“If I were not Dracoon of Khirlan, I would beg sanctuary within your arms — within your Valley Bay of dey Sorormin. But my time and my duties are sworn to Khirlan’s people, at least, until the Clan’s troubles are settled. I can’t promise you more than the hour of today — perhaps, a few of tomorrow. But vows and bonds…,” Llinolae sighed. “I have no life of my own to offer. And everything I sense about you warns me of the pain that any fleeting encounter between us could bring you.”

“I… I know,” Gwyn managed hoarsely. “It’s… selfish of—”

“No!” Llinolae pressed a thumb lightly against Gwyn’s soft lips. “No, don’t say it. Neither of us are wrong in wanting the possibility of more. It’s merely… it’s something I don’t have to offer.”

“Duty.” Gwyn nodded. She understood only too well.

“If…,” Llinolae paused to wet her lips, her own skin beginning to flush with a caramel that was so much richer than her tan. “If you could risk lesser…? If today or… or tomorrow alone could be chanced as enough…?”

Gwyn stood unmoving, bittersweet pain crowding her heart at that simple invitation.

“Well…,” Llinolae’s voice grew lower in its own sadness and acceptance, “it’s something to think about.”

Then she was gone. The breeze stirred in the leafy vines behind her, and Gwyn found she was left standing alone on that edge of chill and brilliant sunlight. The choice now was hers.

Sparrow jerked upright, half-spinning on her rocky perch at the startled squeak of a pripper pair. The little bush-tailed felines dove from a high branch and disappeared beneath a tree’s root just as a red hawk swooped past. The bird crashed back up through the forest’s canopy, its faint shriek of frustration echoing behind. Then things grew quiet, gradually returning to the calming rustle of leaves and tumble of creek waters.

The serenity was lost on Sparrow. Skin dark as burnt caramel, eyes bruised and swollen from weeping — the young woman settled once more on her stone seat to watch the swirling ripples in the pool below her. It was less than a pool, actually — more a still niche created by the boulder she sat upon. But the reflection the water cast back at her was barely distorted, and Sparrow had thought it might bring her some comfort in this self-imposed isolation of hers.

Isolation — it wasn’t what she wanted now. But realizing she was pregnant was all the turmoil she could manage. Telling Brit… she couldn’t even imagine telling Brit.

Brit was worried about Sparrow’s wrist, and in her fussing Brit hadn’t given Sparrow much chance to think since they’d fled the city, though it was the unspoken confusions over her shadowmate’s subdued manner that was Brit’s true concern. Sparrow could only withdraw more and more in the face of Brit’s growing anxieties, but she couldn’t help it — especially since there was a genuine need for Brit to take concern.

Need? Sparrow shuddered. She didn’t know what she needed. At first, desperately, she’d only sought to find peace enough to think. But thinking wasn’t going to solve anything. And her healing wrist-sprain was the least of her worries; Sparrow was frightened for Brit — for herself — when her Love did learn of the truth.

But oh sweet Mother, what was that truth?

Sparrow only knew, she couldn’t explain what had happened. And Brit was going to want an explanation! Of that, Sparrow had no doubt. Her shadowmate’s temper was going to demand much more than a mere explanation! Yet Sparrow couldn’t provide even that much.

She sniffled and tried to wipe the tears from her damp cheeks with a hand. It didn’t seem to make the water’s image any more presentable. She pulled out a kerchief and did a little better, dipping it into the icy waters to cool her flushed skin.

“I shouldn’t tell her until we’ve met up with Gwyn. Brit will need a Niachero’s strength then — Gwyn can give her that. At least I should do that much for her.” Sparrow barely realized she’d spoken aloud. But the assertion sounded confident, and any sort of plan helped her right now. Then again, she didn’t really have much choice. As much as Brit loved her, Sparrow knew this was going to be heart-wrenchingly painful to her shadowmate.

Brit — a wonderfully strong Amazon who’d had such trouble trusting any other to care for her. She was a proud Sister who’d balked at the Council’s suggestion of a Shadow and who’d fought her own biases against both Sparrow’s age and the lifestone’s bond before accepting Sparrow’s love. Her Brit, the healer, who would risk setting aside her sacred oaths to stand between Sparrow and a Changling’s wrath — the woman who’d both laughed and cried in Sparrowhawk’s arms at the end of that horrid, horrid Exile’s Trek. Brit — who’d only this winter confessed her hope that they might leave their wanderings to start a family of their own in Valley Bay and so unknowingly echoed Sparrow’s own deepest wish. How could Sparrow expect her lover’s heart not to break when she told Brit that their family was already on the way? Knowing the child had not been conceived beneath the hands of n’Shea with their lifestones. With Sparrow not knowing, not remembering who had….