Fires of Aggar (49 page)

Llinolae rasped, “Yours too—” as Gwyn’s mouth met her breast. Gwyn half rolled away, with Llinolae already tugging and pulling the shirt off.

Skins slick with heat and rainwater, Gwyn found Llinolae’s mouth on her breast first, gasping as she arched away but Llinolae came off the ground following mercilessly — hands holding fast to rib and muscle. Gwyn shuddered, cry becoming moan, and her knee fell between Llinolae’s thighs in a selfish search for balance.

Breeches rubbed breeches and Llinolae hesitated, teeth nipping Gwyn’s breast. But her Love recognized the need and Gwyn’s hands splayed wide across the back of her hips, Llinolae lifting her — bringing her tight against that strong thigh. With an arm she wrapped herself nearer, mouth hungry still upon Gwyn’s breast as the Amazon knelt there — guiding her — arching yet further with such deep, coaxing moans.

Llinolae fumbled with the waist ties as Gwyn’s head tossed. Hands lost hold, then took better grip with Llinolae higher — and she rode faster as her palm slipped between Gwyn’s wet thighs. Then together they rode — soared.

Passion… need… lightning! — flashed outside and in. Their lips met with the final crescendo — thunder shaking the tree and their souls.

They fell… lay together still entwined and breath heaving. Kisses gentled against sweat-slicked breasts. A chin nuzzled damp, ebony curls.

“Heartbound…,” Gwyn’s hoarse murmur struggled out.

Llinolae nodded shakily against Gwyn’s chest, her hand trapped warmly in place by their entangled thighs… her body by Gwyn’s own arms.

“Heartbound,” Gwyn repeated, the wholeness… the completeness of their bond settling warm around her in a tangible way that had not quite been realized before.

“I’m still here, Soroi. ” Llinolae pressed a kiss against Gwyn’s heart. “Passion will not frighten me away. Not ever.”

And to Niachero — to those held in awe as often as admired, even in Valley Bay — such simple words carried trust further then touch or kiss ever could.

I don’t know…,” Brit stepped back and eyed the groundstake, modified horse hobbles, and lead rope with skepticism. “It sure doesn’t look like it will hold him.”

Llinolae smiled tolerantly. “That is the whole point. If I have to shackle a man I’d rather leave him as much dignity as I can. No use making enemies needlessly.”

“Huh — think this youngster is going to notice amenities?

Hardly likely.”

“He will, especially when he wants the privacy.”

“Yeah, Clanfolk are peculiar that way. They do tend to get embarrassed about the most natural things. But I still don’t know about this, Llinolae. I’d feel better having him away from the jagged overhead, even if it does give a good bit of shade.”

“And having any sort of blind spot is just asking for trouble, let alone the size of that root and haymoss mess.” Amusement tinged Llinolae’s words, but she wrapped an arm around the older woman’s shoulders reassuringly. “I have been listening to you, Marshal.”

“Still sure about this amarin trick of yours?”

“Quite sure,” Llinolae grinned. The cocoon she and the Ancient had spun last night had given her the idea. “He won’t be able to pick up a pebble inside that perimeter. The grass won’t tear. The cliffside will seem granite hard, yet too slippery to climb. The leather and bone buckles will have the tenacity of Clan steel. He will be comfortable. He will be contained.”

“He will be visible and loud!” Brit concluded.

“Well… that too.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know….”

“Wait until Gwyn and Sparrow bring him back. You’ll see. It will hold him.”

And it did, but about as graciously as Brit had foretold.

The wooden bowl clattered and Llinolae winced as she heard him from inside the tent. Midday meal was apparently not much more to his liking than yesterday’s eventide had been.

“Stupid old… old, dray-sized hag!”

Llinolae chuckled over her maps, shaking her head. She had certainly heard more imaginative curses in her time. At least he had the courtesy to be screaming his insults in Trade-Tongue. But if he wanted the Amazon to take him seriously, he was going to be disappointed. All he was accomplishing now was proving the continuing need to serve him on wooden platters instead of ceramic — and possibly, that he preferred bread and water to stew and tea.

Llinolae glanced up as Sparrow appeared at her open tent flap. She had a steaming bowl and a plate of fresh bunt bread in hand, saying, “Ril circled in as arranged. The elder Clan scout approaches!” Sparrow wiggled her brow and hips as she spun in a prancing mime of a troubadour.

“The players assemble.” She set the food down and danced out again, tossing back over her shoulder, “our show begins!”

Llinolae laughed and reached for a piece of the sweet bread. She grew more somber as she chewed. The woman she was about to meet was not only the Lead scout of the patrol, but she was the older sister of this young scout, and Llinolae was doubly glad the amarin cocoon had worked so well. The young man might be too naive to grasp the courtesy of his prison, but a more experienced scout would quickly notice. Llinolae hoped it would win her some concession of courtesy in return — some listening might be a nice gesture.

If the Lead would listen… if she would only talk with her! Llinolae’s fist curled in tense frustration. So much was riding on such a haphazard meeting. So much more than even she had first intended! But in Gwyn’s questioning of the man yesterday morning, the amarin had been all too betraying. His sister, Camdora, was Lead of the patrol and undoubtedly concerned about his disappearance — she had been responsible for him since the farming accident that had left them young orphans. Yet aside from their kinbonds, this Lead was more than a patrol sergeant. This woman was the liaison in charge of ‘civil defense and welfare’; for all practical purposes, she was the Steward of all Clanfolk not in the militia. Steward? No, more the liaison than the ruler. Nonetheless she was respected by the farmers and crafters and cognizant of political policies. Within the militia she held less power, certainly, but to the rest of the community, she was trusted and heeded.

Even if Llinolae allowed for a certain amount of sibling pride — or outright adoration! — the apprentice’s assessment of his sister’s position was undeniable. Gwyn had been watching her, had met with her briefly already to arrange this meeting, and both sandwolves and Gwyn were in unanimous agreement: this Lead was a woman to reckon with.

So many questions needed answers… so many pieces Llinolae could not account for.

Blue eyes looked out into the dusty sunlight, barely seeing Brit or Sparrow as they moved around camp in nervous chores — all of them biding time until Gwyn’s arrival with Camdora.

“All of us waiting,” Llinolae mused. She held a sinking Sense of out-of-time fear as, outside, the sunny yellow haze flirted with the misty shadows of her dreamspun visions. The damage done from her uncle’s meddling… today might well bring answers she would rather not face.

She sighed. It would be worse, if there were no answers to decipher at all.

The Forest’s amarin murmured to her and Llinolae’s hand stilled in Ril’s ruff. Brows peaked questioningly as Ril’s nose lifted, and the woman gave her friend’s muzzle an amused, gentle shove. “Don’t give me that. You know who comes.”

Ril nuzzled her with a grin. She did, in truth, because Gwyn was accompanying their visitor.

Llinolae sighed and gazed a long last moment into the cascading falls. Rainbows flashed and danced in the afternoon light. The cove was warm with summer heat, cooled by the tumbling waters’ mist, and peaceful in its seclusion. Beyond the pool’s edge, a welcoming spread of foods and cushions had been laid out. Braziers had been placed between torches in a semi-circle, in case of need later. Flagons of tea, mead, and cider-water had been set out on the two low, square tables. Everything had been made ready. Now she could only hope this Clan woman would accept the hospitality graciously.

She would know soon enough.

“Off with you,” Llinolae gave Ril a last pat as she stood. The sandwolf scurried away from their sunny rock seat. Llinolae descended more slowly, watching as the other disappeared into the undergrowth lining the cliff’s walls; none of the packmates — Llinolae now included — wanted the Clan to know of the sandwolves with them. They had all agreed that some things were better left unshared.

Sparrow had found Llinolae a satin tunic of indigo to wear with the ruddy jerkin, boots, and breeches of a Marshal’s dress. The Dracoon had admitted that wearing her district’s colors along with Churv’s had offered some measure of confidence. She didn’t need to conduct this meeting while feeling herself to be in some position of superior power. But it was odd enough to be standing here with short, cropped hair for the first time in her official dealings, and a little familiarity from the cloth and colors was welcome. A point, she had noticed, which Brit and Sparrow had carried over in choosing cushion fabrics and table matting.

The Clan Lead was tall as most of the Clan’s women, barely half a head shorter than the Dracoon or Amazon. Her clear gray eyes darted everywhere, noting details of cove and preparations with the skill of an accomplished scout. Her skin was weathered and lined, yet its light flesh tones seemed quite pale in contrast to her glossy tumble of black curls. Jaw squared yet chin pointed, her innate sense of self kept that chin from thrusting out — arrogance was absent in favor of steady assurance. A level gaze came to Llinolae, and she turned unhurriedly to approach the Dracoon. Her tread was as deliberate as her scrutiny, her weight balanced. Her entire manner was undaunted, merely assessing.

Then Llinolae glanced past their guest to Gwyn, noting Gwyn’s amarin was still approving of this woman. Gwyn knew Llinolae had been watching Camdora covertly since their arrival, taking her own measure of this Clan Lead as Gwyn showed Camdora around the camp and allowed her time with her brother.

Aye, Llinolae admitted, this was a woman of honor. The question still remained, however, how much honor and power had come to be equated with the Clan Leads.

“No!” the Clan Lead whipped around, her patience breaking as she cut Llinolae’s words off in mid-sentence. “You haven’t heard a thing I’ve said. Have you? Not one single thing!”

Camdora rose to her feet, coiled fury springing her towards Llinolae in a rush! Gwyn moved forward in alarm, but Llinolae’s hand flew out, palm raised in a halting command to the Amazon, and Gwyn checked herself in mid-stride. Camdora swept past Llinolae to resume her pacing.

Gwyn eased back to stand at the edges of the viney overgrowth, and once again assumed her role as an informal honor guard. In the moons’ lit shadows further along the cliff stone, Ril sank down as well. She remained unseen.

The silence among the three women sat heavy on everyone’s already thinly stretched nerves. Even the drone of the waterfall seemed hushed tonight. Her skin browned, Llinolae’s poise still seemed outwardly calm. Her respect was evident in her patience as she stood waiting.

Abruptly, Camdora turned to Llinolae as her step paused — words hovering on her lips. Then a hand tossed the foolishness of the sheer hope aside. “This is a wasted venture!”

Her pacing began again.

Camdora’s long strides switched to-and-fro in a shorter and shorter route. Her fists clenched, opening then grasping at emptiness. “There’s nothing more important to the militia than their precious rank, save their weapons! Nothing!”

Llinolae watched the other’s walk quicken. The desperation hanging in the night’s damp chill grew even worse.

“Yes! The farmers and crafters choose the Clan Leads. Yes! As Leads we appoint the militia’s commanders!” Her hand chopped hard on each point. “Yes — you have it right that the tolls in food, in gear and in our numbers — sheer bleeding death! — threaten to annihilate us every bit as much as our weapons threaten you!

“But we don’t have your resources! We don’t have the… the luxury … of losing one single bushel in harvest.

“The Plateau was fine! They said! They still say, ‘Or so it was then!’ The soil was rich. The prospects good. The Plateau broad. There were chances to expand and grow — become self-sufficient. And whatever we needed — well! We’ve got all that metal, don’t we? Such a precious resource to melt down and barter off as we please. Sounded good way back then, didn’t it?

“But after 280 Clan years — we’re still trying to find the good!” Camdora swung to face Llinolae full, her stance wide and her breath short as she bit out each syllable with a basker’s vehemence. “Our fields have no water. The land erodes without the trees — or with trees! — because the winds that howl across the old spaceport’s plain are relentless. And sure! We’re metal rich, but that’s scant good without some means to gather, melt, and disperse it. Well, if the Council of Ten ever gets ’round to taking down that damned Unseen Wall, maybe we could to try it!”

“They did take it down — for a time.”

The Clan Lead shot Gwyn a bitter, piercing glance. “There are no excuses. Neither for my folk or Aggar’s — or yours!” Her voice dropped low as she addressed Llinolae again. “For one summer that Wall was down — and we abused it. In Clan reckoning, that happened two hundred years ago! A hundred of your seasons, right? Yes, but of course,” she rounded back on Gwyn, “when the Council of Ten sets a precedent, it does not change.

“But we live now — today! And the Clan has set a new precedent. Since we have only limited access to the metals or technology, the militia has been given all rights of priority.”

Llinolae’s gaze met Camdora’s steadily, neither imposing nor persuading, merely sad. “I can’t undo what was done four generations ago. I can only help fashion us a new treaty — to keep all our children from repeating the folly.”