Fires of Aggar (42 page)

“Apparently so.”

“Until now.” Abruptly the flowing amarin around her nudged Llinolae into an awareness of much more that had happened here, and a softer smile gentled her humor. She slipped an arm around Brit’s shoulders and bent to press a kiss against the older woman’s temple. “Welcome into the Life Cycles of Aggar, Soroe.”

“As Daughter of Mothers, child! Valley Bay isn’t…,” Brit’s laugh caught, and she took a moment or two more to turn the idea around in her mind. Then she smiled, almost surprised by what she found. “Aye — though Valley Bay is dey Sorormin… even the Council once suggested that eventually….” She glanced to Llinolae, still bemused, “We have become such partners of traders and scouts… of healers and protectors among both the Northern and Southern Continents since our Foundings. So much a part… so much caring, have we barely noticed how deeply we do care?”

“You were a part of Aggar even before then. Dey Sorormin took Aggar’s hand the day the Blue Sight was carried to your home world.”

“It is possible.” Eyes narrowed and slowly the herstorian n’Minona within Brit surfaced, and she glimpsed something more of the patterns. Then that childhood training shifted her perspective again, and she bit her lower lip in a sarcastic, little chuckle. “Strange tapestry in these weavings, Soroe, to have the amarin first engaging the Amazon strangers. Would have done Aggar more good to embrace the Changlings for a few seasons. At least, the Life Cycles might have given it a try! Z’ki Zak! Half the northern folks’ problems come directly from poor communications.”

“Or rather the total lack of any,” Llinolae muttered. With little humor, she thought of the troubles with the Clan.

“Now, the winged-cats have the sense of understanding, if not always the responses we humans can grasp. And the sandwolves have the feel of understanding, even if they often seem so odd to some people. But how the Changlings will ever have a chance…? At our best, Sparrow ’nd I could barely manage a basic exchange of food or cloth with them. Always the concrete, never any of the abstract concepts at all.”

“I could only hope the Clan turns out to be so concrete about their needs.” Llinolae scowled briefly as Brit shook her head. “What then, n’Minona?”

“Your hopes for the Clan? I don’t see anything but hopes and air there, Llinolae.”

“And did the Changlings seem so poor a prospect to you too?”

Brit chuckled, unperturbed. “Changlings are different.”

“So are the Clan folk,” Llinolae persisted. “Respect and patience—”

“You have! As well as honor. I don’t mean to mock you. Don’t take it that way. But we’re a long way from the Council, and we’re even a longer way from merely talking to work our differences out with the Clan folk.”

“I have to try.”

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Brit admitted with sincerity. “I just wouldn’t be too ready to count on doing things the easier way.”

Unfortunately, Llinolae mused, she couldn’t either.

The amarin stirred without a breeze of warning, and Llinolae paused in the clothes washing. Concern concentrated her Blue Gift as she looked downstream, until suddenly the tension broke. Her soft lips quivered with amusement.

Quickly, she turned to rinse the soap from the last of the garments and wrapped the lot loosely in the canvas carrier. Then heedless of how damp her camisole knit would get, she scurried off with the load to find Brit and tell her of the others’ return.

“Humpf — ’bout time,” the stocky woman grumbled and fished a few more of her mumut dumplings out of the pot to roll through the crystallized honey-spice. “Can you See if they’re bringing anything edible with them?”

“You sent them out hunting,” Llinolae muttered good-naturedly. “You think they’d dare come back without meat?”

The wooden spoon went ‘whack’ against the ceramic pot’s edge, and Llinolae jumped more than the boiling water but her grin only broadened. Brit scowled, then went back to her cooking and mumblings. Llinolae laughed as the woman feigned another annoyed grimace. She took herself off behind the main tent then to hang the laundry to dry. As she secured the extra lines for the bedding, the friendly noises of horse and Amazon drifted in to her, and she wasn’t surprised to find Ril come ’round shortly to greet her.

“It’s good to see you too.” Llinolae knelt and hugged the great beast, laughing when Ril’s calm suddenly gave way to excitement — her coarse curls and silky ears arched backwards up against Llinolae’s neck as a lapping tongue wetly found her ear.

“Ril!”

The sandwolf started guiltily at Gwyn’s outcry.

“Oh she’s fine!” Llinolae assured them both, rubbing the furry tummy emphatically. “Aren’t you, my friend?”

Ril wiggled from her shoulders to her hips in eager agreement, nuzzling Llinolae’s chin happily as the Dracoon hugged her again. Gwyn’s chuckle had them expectantly pausing to glance at her, but only briefly. Then amusement faded into something more intense as the Amazon drew nearer, and neither Ril’s nor Llinolae’s empathic sensitivities could ignore the silent soul ache.

Llinolae stared mutely at the booted feet planted on Ril’s other side. Her throat tightened. She swallowed and dared to look up at Gwyn whose color deepened to a golden flush, and Llinolae’s gaze shifted quickly back to those shiny boot tops as her own desires swept through her in a caramel blush.

Sandy eyes met her squarely, and Llinolae’s heart dropped at the frankness Ril shared with her. The sandwolf flipped over neatly and rose to her feet to trot off, leaving Llinolae squatting there… feeling rather stupid at being so overwhelmed.

Gwyn’s hand reached down to take hers. Somehow, she found herself on her feet staring into those questioning copper-bright — lovingly bright eyes. Eyes that turned gentle, banishing the nervousness, eyes that invited, coaxed — and Llinolae went willingly. Arms closed about her as sweetly as Gwyn’s lips took hers, and for one heart-stopping moment she felt she was the most preciously treasured, respectfully cherished, most beautifully amazing woman Gwyn had ever held…. Then her blue eyes slipped shut, and her heart started pounding, because the feeling only grew — Gwyn was all those things and more to her in return.

Her senses melted, only to discover the wonderful strength beneath her hands as palms pressed — fingers kneaded — into Gwyn’s back beneath that suede jerkin. Dust and horse and humid heat clung to skin, yet beneath — beyond? — that was the woman’s own scent, an intoxicating, warm hint of…. Llinolae gasped without breaking their kiss and found surrender was given as freely as hers had been taken, and so in turn she took command. It was Gwyn’s strength that seemed fainter, and grasp tightening, she drew Gwyn against her in reassurance.

Hands slid across Llinolae’s shoulders to her neck and up into her hair. Fingers spread wide to slide through those tantalizing short bristles. And helpless to the nibbling lips against her neck, Llinolae tipped her head back. Gwyn gave a throaty growl of pleasure, and Llinolae found herself answering it, losing herself to the tongue tracing along the skin line of her camisole. They stopped then. Arms folding them each near, crushing nearly in their withdrawal. Skins flushed dark in cocoa-black sheens… faces buried in desperation against quaking shoulders.

“I…?”

“It’s all right,” Llinolae murmured quickly, tightening her hug in reassurance. She pressed a kiss against Gwyn’s neck, and repeated, “Whatever you can manage is enough. Always.”

They drew away so that they could almost see one another, their foreheads together… their breathing still erratic.

“It is enough… it is,” Llinolae murmured again and again, finding the blurred amarin from her sweet love so frightened and yet wanting. There was more there to be Seen too, but Llinolae could not make sense of it — and for the first time in her entire life, she regretted having chosen a different training. There was so much… so much openness in wanting — needing! — to share with her. “Oh Gwyn, I wish I could, my Love….” She pulled Gwyn close again, this time in comfort.

“I know.” The hoarse whisper was muffled against Llinolae’s neck, then Gwyn forced a laugh and straightened — her hands gently framing Llinolae’s face. She looked at her for a long moment, a thumb stroking away threatening tears. Gwyn smiled. Her heart filled with the wonder of simply holding — of knowing Llinolae at all. They laughed together a little, both realizing how silly it seemed to be so happy while in the same moment so indecisive.

Gwyn brushed the stray curl off of Llinolae’s forehead; it only fell again. A smile danced tentatively across her face once more. Until finally, she met Llinolae’s gaze properly. “I don’t know much about you — in some ways.”

“Like my use of the Sight,” Llinolae murmured.

“Like that… or your favorite color?”

“Used to be blue… that satin blue of the Dracoon’s formal colors.”

“Used to be?” Gwyn tipped her head quizzically, and Llinolae laughed. “What?”

“When you do that…,” Llinolae put a finger to Gwyn’s chin, adjusting her head to the side again, “… when you turn your head like this, it reminds me of your sandwolves.”

“Especially that irascible, inquisitive look Ty gets?”

“Yes — especially…. Do you mind?”

“That you noticed? No. It’s nice that you do notice.”

Llinolae’s smiled fondly.

“Do you mind?” Gwyn pressed.

“What?”

“That I want to know more about you?”

“Like my favorite color now? It’s a copperish… light… red.” Her fingertips touched Gwyn’s tousled bangs and traced the line beneath an eye. “I may have to change the Khirlan official colors. Do you think the King or Crowned Rule might forgive me?”

“Perhaps.” Gwyn’s eyes sparkled, pleased.

Llinolae looked at her in gathering silence. Gwyn waited.

“Do you think I should have told them of my Blue Sight?”

“No.”

Llinolae assessed her carefully, but found no hint of reservations in Gwyn’s amarin. “You trust me that much?”

“I do.”

Llinolae took Gwyn’s hands in her own, glancing nervously at their entwining fingers before asking, “Would you truly like to know more… about me and my Sight?”

Gwyn nodded, amending gently, “Only if you want to tell me.”

“I do.” Llinolae sighed. She turned. But she kept one hand in Gwyn’s, inviting her love to walk beside her.

They followed the waters upstream until the creek disappeared through the rocky curtains of haymoss. Then Llinolae took them ’round towards the entrance to the waterfall, explaining, “I’d rather not be interrupted.”

“I understand.”

Beyond the dangling haymoss, Llinolae hesitated. The flat-rocked perch across from the falls didn’t seem quite the best place for this. She nodded instead to the broad bed of green-black moss that swept across the stony flats to the right of the pool’s leafy foliage. Gwyn’s own glance lingered wistfully on the white churning waters that spilled into the shiny, black calm of the wider pool.

“Go ahead,” Llinolae laughed, suddenly feeling much less pensive in the face of Gwyn’s innocent shift of priorities.

Gwyn tossed her a look of sheer gratitude and began to tear off her weapons. “You’re sure, you don’t mind?”

“Hm-uhm.” Llinolae nodded, still charmed and amused by her Amazon’s eagerness.

“It’s been so sticky and hot all day.” The jerkin and tunic went quickly.

“Yes, I know, you’ve been in the saddle or skinning braygoat. It’s all right, Gwyn — go! ”

A hand to each boot, the laces loosened down her shins. Then with Llinolae watching in amazement, breeches, briefs, boots and socks all peeled off in a single layer. Must be a chore to untangle that mess, she caught herself thinking, and suddenly was laughing again as Gwyn took barely two steps and launched a long dive that carried her over as much land as black water, ending perfectly by sliding into that ebony coolness.

The laughter was gone — Llinolae’s hand to her throat — stilled so quickly by that fleeting image of Gwyn — brown, lean, stretching — reflected in that mirror-clear blackness. A trick of light — no, of amarin perhaps? — but for the briefest of instants, to Llinolae it seemed the world was suspended above with the starry voids below — and Gwyn’s beauty hung within both, binding both together at that point where they touched. Her hands slicing into the water, Niachero ascended to Grandmother’s Stars.

Her Mistress n’Athena had once told her a dey Sorormin legend —

“…When it came time that the divine woman had finished Her work among the people, she returned to the great mountain where she stepped back into Grandmother Lybia’s embrace. And ever after was Niachero known as — a Daughter of the Stars….”

Llinolae gulped for air, and Gwyn came up with a splash. She waved with a grin, bobbed under again, and Llinolae staggered beneath the amarin weight of normalcy.

“Mae n’Pour!” she breathed and managed to sit herself down on the mossy blanket with a bump, even though the moss cushioned her tail bone better than the horsehair pallets they were using in camp. She took another deep breath or two, still readjusting to the world as she knew it.

“What’s wrong?”

Llinolae blinked, then smiled uneasily, realized she hadn’t actually been alarmed enough to heed the amarin announcing Gwyn’s approach. Was she trusting this woman more than she’d even noticed?

“Llinolae?” Gwyn dropped to her knees in concern, shrugging into her tunic hurriedly.

“I’m all right.”

Gwyn shifted over to sit beside her with a blunt, “You don’t look it.”

She noticed her hand then. Her darker tones of color had returned. She shook her head, amused at her usual lack of subtlety. “There are occasions I do seem rather infatuated, don’t I?”

Gwyn sent her companion a commiserating glance as she lay back, and propped herself up by the elbows. She studied Llinolae, not missing the weariness in those hunched shoulders as the woman sat with her feet planted flat and her hands dangling over her knees.

“The amarin still play tricks on me every so often… show me succinct little glimpses of a more powerful whole.” Like they did just now, she admittedly silently.

Gwyn said nothing, content to let Llinolae choose her own words and time.