Fires of Aggar Read online

  Aye, it was coming together. This was why the similarity in cloaks, weapons and beards suggested a military corp — the three were from a troop. But they weren’t from one of the Prince’s northern campaigns; they served as Steward’s Swords in Khirla. That was why Brit hadn’t recognized their costumes as one of the Prince’s corp. Furthermore, it explained why the trio openly traveled together and yet lacked any sign of intimacy among them; the Clan was notorious for their phobias against same-sexed pairings.

  It also accounted for the trio’s inordinate interest in identifying Gwyn once they’d suspected she was a Marshal. Common sense would have warned the Clan’s leaders that once the Wars were done the Prince’s forces could easily be shifted against them, if need was shown. Prudence would have sent them scouting beyond Khirlan’s borders to intercept or divert any Royal messenger, especially a Marshal. Now the Dracoon’s and Khirlan’s isolation was doubly important to maintain, because the Prince’s troops were still mobile and at full strength. If the Clan could buy a season or two of ambiguous time, then the Prince’s corps would be largely disbanded. Without that readied army, the King and the Crowned Rule would be less apt to strike against the Clan and more apt to negotiate new treaties.

  But, even worse, what if Padder had not merely been killed because he’d known these men were impostors, but because he had known them. He had left the city only last fall, Kora had said. Fall was not the time to take up farming, not even the adventuresome sowie sorts. No, he’d fled because he’d discovered impostors within the Steward’s Swords themselves — because he could identify them and they knew it. So, he had left the city and come here — until in this obscure, little corner of Forest, they’d stumbled across him again. This time, they hadn’t let him escape.

  Clan folk within Khirla’s most elite corp? It would certainly explain Khirla’s inability to counter the attacks of the Clan’s raiders. It would also explain how messages were being exchanged between the traitors and the Clan without drawing anyone’s attentions. After all, there were patrols riding out all the time; it wouldn’t be hard to carry away a message and leave it at some pre-established point.

  And it would suggest, Gwyn thought darkly, that accidents and disappearances within the city itself might be awaiting most any suspicious stranger.

  She fervently hoped Brit and Sparrow didn’t seem too suspicious.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  The night was humid with no promise of rain for relief, and Gwyn had again left her tent open, hoping to catch the stray breezes. She slept easily after the day’s long ride, barely waking as Ty rose to exchange watch with Ril. The sandwolves seldom disturbed her before dawn. Then she would rise to cook and break camp while they both caught a last nap before the day’s trek. At the present, Ril was as content as usual to merely lie beside her favorite human and doze. It wasn’t long before her soft sigh faded off with a little rumble.

  Gwyn’s hand slipped into that curly fur, welcoming Ril’s presence. The sword edged beneath her left hip as she stirred. Half-consciously she moved it out from under her back and off the bedroll, but then her grasp stayed, her palm flat along its silvery length.

  The ebb of rising amarin touched the lifestone within the sword’s hilt as the grasses and leaves bent underneath the weapon. Her hand tensed, and once again Gwyn’s dreams were invaded through that shimmering steel.

  A steady pulse glowed within the rough-barked honeywood. It was a tree of middling age, huge but not so mammoth as to stand high on arching roots yet. Beneath her hand the flowing energies of its life seemed tangible, unselfishly strengthening her weary body’s reserves. Yet the hand upon that tree was not Gwyn’s own — there was no sign of the white stone ring of dey Sorormin. Still it was a graceful hand, Gwyn thought. The lines were slender and long, strong in its leanness. Much like her own right hand, it was slightly callused with the telling marks of a sword carrier. Although the marks suggested only a light use of the weapon. Or perhaps she’s as left-handed as I tend to be, Gwyn mused.

  In her sleep, Gwyn didn’t think to question why this body had become a “she” or why the amarin of that honeywood felt so vividly alive to her touch. Instead, she found herself drinking in the sweet taste of the Goddess’ living cycles. Fascinated, she watched the almost caressing stroke of that gentle hand along the ruddy bark. Her fingertips tingled in an exquisite sensation, making her toes want to curl in pleasure. Then, oddly, Gwyn noticed the very pale brown of the hand’s skin was the golden tan of wind and sun, not the emotion laden, rich darkness of most on Aggar.

  Shock registered.

  The vision shifted abruptly, annoyance flooding strong as that body snapped away from the tree to rigidly await the approaching intruder. Gwyn couldn’t tell if the anxiety and surprise sprang from herself at her sudden realization — this woman tanned! — or if the emotion was drawn from the woman’s vexation at the interruption.

  Gwyn felt another jolt then, this time undeniably all her own. The man who materialized from the trees was heavily bearded and caped in blue. He was greeted as a Steward’s Sword — and he was addressing this woman as Dracoon!

  Gwyn’s attention was caught again by the blue-caped Sword. She disliked him as much as the woman who hosted her awareness did. He swaggered arrogantly with that bully confidence often supplied by weapons, and he was armed by two saber swords that hung from his hips. He reported with a curt, impersonal manner that the sentries had been posted, the forward scouts had returned, and that the cook was announcing eventide. Then he departed with an equally dispassionate, “By your leave, Min.”

  Gwyn couldn’t quite decide, if he was being insubordinate or not in omitting the Dracoon’s title now.

  Irritation flared into a spurt of rage and a fist swung out into the tree. The honeywood calmly absorbed the passions. Her palm opened, fingers spreading wide again to drink in that sweet balm. The woman — no, Llinolae, Gwyn mentally corrected — it was Llinolae drawing this steadying breath. Reluctantly the Dracoon left the sanctuary of that deeper woods, carrying Gwyn with her towards the small group of the camp.

  She — or should I think we? Gwyn wondered — paused beside the picket line to murmur a greeting to the big gray. The horse wuffled into her shoulder briefly, before burying its soft nose once more in the depths of the bushy haymoss piled at its feet.

  A woman of perhaps ten or twelve seasons approached with a tentative greeting. Shyly, she offered a ceramic cup of spice tea. At the Dracoon’s word of thanks, the young woman blushed a rich brown and fled back to the matronly cook’s fire. Amusement tendered genuine fondness at the recognition of the younger’s infatuation. For a wistful moment, a more personal notion was considered, then discarded — that inner sense of compassion and responsibility as always was too strong to court casual liaisons, but Gwyn was thoroughly unsettled at finding any of the attraction was mutual.

  She tried to watch the young woman aiding the cook more closely then, wanting to understand Llinolae’s interest. More slightly built than many, the woman wore neither sword nor cooking apron. She was sorely out-of-place among the stocky, burly caste of the blue-caped soldiers who gathered near the stew pot. Like most women of Aggar, she was at least a head shorter than the men, and since most of these males were tall even for soldiers, she seemed particularly petite next to them. The cook’s square frame didn’t detract from the perception much either.

  It all combined to create an aura of innocence and vulnerability about her that, personally, Gwyn did not find appealing. Then Gwyn noticed the ink stains on those fingers as they dished out the stew. Behind the soldiers she saw a bedroll set apart with a scribe’s bound sheaf and pens. Begrudgingly, Gwyn allowed there might be more to this person than first appeared. The thought only annoyed her more.

  Abruptly, Gwyn realized that this perverse irritation had become outright jealousy!

  Pain suddenly lanced through her left hand and woke her.

  Gwyn froze, waiting for the momentary disorientation to pass. Ril gently
nudged her with a wet nose, and her quiet demeanor reassured the Niachero that all was well around them. Cautiously, Gwyn looked at her hand. There was a small cut along her littlest finger where it had tightened about her sword’s edge. It was such an ordinary sort of stupid thing to do to herself that Gwyn almost laughed, and the world returned to a more practical level of events.

  The cut stung but wasn’t very deep, and she sucked on it absently as she rose to fetch some ointment. Wryly she reminded herself that at least the source of her dreams had been identified. In truth, the dream had come from the combination of her lifestone and sword’s alloy, but it had been conjured first by the touch of Llinolae’s Blue Sight.

  Gwyn knew such a sensitive awareness of amarin — that wondrous taste of strength — could be drawn from those trees only by a Blue Sight. Her sister, Kimarie, had first introduced her to those nurturing life energies when they were children. Later, Selena had shared those sweet amarin with her. And now — now the Blue Gift of this Llinolae was so deeply rooted in the fiber of the Great Forest that the lifestone in Gwyn’s sword was once more exposing Gwyn to those forces.

  She held no doubts now — this woman in her dreams must be the Dracoon Llinolae. Even without the soldier’s confirmation, Gwyn would have known. There could not be two in this District who were so powerful with the Blue Sight. To casually manage such oneness with the flowing amarin of Aggar and yet retain any individual sense of self required a very, very strong Gift — and a great deal of personal resolve. That level of power fit with what Gwyn knew of Llinolae’s Blue Gift. This Dracoon had the strength and skill to reach across both stars and time to dey Sorormin’s home world; she was certainly capable of reaching Gwyn’s sword through the Forest’s shifting amarin — whether she’d intended to or not.

  No, there couldn’t have been two such talented women associated with the Steward’s Swords of Khirla.

  The more surprising thing to Gwyn, though, was Llinolae’s skin tone. Aggar’s natural genetics did not allow for sun tanning, only the addition of dey Sorormin and Clan blood had introduced that characteristic. However, it had not proven to be a very viable genetic trait in many respects. It was bred out by the second generation from the occasional mixed marriage of Clan and Ramains’ folk. Even with Sisters, who relied upon the lifestone interventions for their reproduction (a bonding that precluded mutations), the skin’s sensitivity to the sun was seen exclusively among the Niachero. It had certainly never been seen among the Blue Sights.

  Until now, Gwyn granted.

  For a moment, she wondered what this Llinolae actually looked like. She wished she’d questioned M’Sormee more closely. It wasn’t surprising that Bryana hadn’t mentioned the novelty of Llinolae’s coloring, because like many gifted with the Sight her mother was often so preoccupied with inner amarin that the significance of mere physical details got lost. Still, for Gwyn the physical suddenly became quite intriguing — until she abruptly remembered Llinolae’s speculative appraisal of the young scribe.

  Even awake, Gwyn found she still resented that attraction.

  Then a ghastly thought struck her. What if this scribe — the one who tempted the Dracoon to consider a more personal liaison — what if she was somehow in league with the court traitor? Llinolae had told Bryana that the Royal Family was ignoring her written pleas for help, yet Bryana had found the reports reaching Churv were giving no hint of trouble. And though there might be traitors in the Steward’s Swords, odds were still good that there was at least one scribe in league with them; there were no easy ways to forge official signatures nor the varnished, resin-tight seals.

  Yet the young woman in Llinolae’s camp was too young to be a full Scribe, most likely she was still an apprentice. And she was decidedly too young to be crafty enough to deceive a Blue Sight’s intuitive recognition of ‘wrongness.’ That feat was accomplished only by very tightly leashed emotions and a steel-clad, determined calm — it meant harnessing the intensity of a fanatic’s passion without losing one’s rational mind to that passion. But such intensity could blur the amarin and leave those with the Blue Sight uncertain of their companions’ deeper motives. The young scribe might have been infatuated, but impassioned? No, the girl was definitely not the traitor.

  Still, if there was a senior scribe with fewer scruples who supervised her…?

  Mae n’Pour! How she hated schemers! Sometimes — just sometimes! — the sandwolves’ toothier solutions to trouble might have some value, especially when it came to dealing with the satin-robed sowies of the royal courts.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Chapter Ten

  At the scritch-scratching noise, Gwyn froze. Squatting above on the great bough of a honeywood with her short bow in hand, she waited. It came again; a quick tap and the dry leaves rustled. Carefully she moved to her right, straining to see through the midnight shimmer and shadow. Then she smiled. No, this wasn’t some human scout. But it was eventide! As belated as that meal was, this bird was going to be sorely appreciated by both herself and her packmates. And it was big enough to serve them all — she disregarded the fact that its size meant it was fairly old and was probably going to be as tough as shrunken leather to chew.

  The fowl continued to forage along the edge of a decaying log. Gwyn lifted her notched arrow, hoping her packmates held still just one moment more! Slowly she drew, painfully easing back past each click and whirl — the tiny gears and pulleys of her short bow preparing to hurl that arrow with far more force than an ordinary long bow.

  The string loosed. Feathers flurried, then there was stillness. But the frantic flutter had been purely reflexive, and eventide was theirs. Ril appeared from nowhere to gingerly retrieve the catch. It took the sandwolf a moment to pry the arrow from the wood underneath, and Gwyn appreciated the care her friend took; the metal shaft arrows were a luxury not easily found outside of Valley Bay. As Ril moved back into the shadows, Gwyn returned her attention to the open brush land and to those city lights of Khirla. She pulled another arrow from the quiver at her back as she frowned at those stony walls.

  It was said that some of the finer sweet wines had once come from this region — before the Wars. Given the broad expanse of brushberries spread about the city, Gwyn could readily believe the old rumors. The scruffy bushes were more commonly seen scattered through the Great Forests and usually marked areas of regrowth that began after fires had been through. But here the folk had deliberately cultivated the stuff to keep the great trees at bay and yet retain some usable quantity of topsoil. It had also been a brilliant defensive idea, Gwyn admitted. It allowed the City Guards better visibility of approaching raiders, and it would let them literally burn back enemy encroachers if they became too persistent. As it was, this season’s current burn-backs had allowed space directly below the western gates for the livestock traders and nearer the northeastern road, for the Feasts’ visiting merchant wagons.

  Torches and cooking fires brightened the two camps. Music and laughter rose and stilled with the wind’s dance, testimony to the continued festivities despite the night’s descent. Along the upper galleries of the city’s wall, Gwyn could see the guards walking. In the bluish caste of the Twin Moons’ light, those fortress walls looked like bundled racks of stonemoss. But Gwyn knew the masonry was flame resistant enough to withstand even some of the Clan’s fire weapons. Beyond the walls, the visible rooftops seemed to be equally fire retardant with their ceramic tiles and slated stones. Even the two palace towers that courted the stars were crowned only with narrow balconies of honeywood. Their slender lengths were fashioned of stone and peaked with caps of shining tiles.

  Since the Clan had been abandoned by their starry empire, this place had known only struggle — a fierce conflict that had ultimately closed the once-prosperous trade routes between the northern and southern continents. Through it all, however, the Khirlan folk had held strong, never losing their patience nor their steady hope for eventual peace.

  Well, everything about Khirlan suggested the pe
ople had earned a right to hope, Gwyn granted. Celebrating beneath the shadows overcast by those walls — beneath that ever-present reminder of dangers — was a show of indomitable character and strength in itself. She remembered the discouragement of so many in the northern ravaged territories. It had been a hard siege, but compared to this? Her respect for these hoe farmers nudged up a notch or two more. No wonder their Dracoon held such unshakable determination — to lead such folk, she must.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Gwyn circled west down to the entrance on the main trade road, preferring to imply she had traveled inland and south from the Royal Court of Churv. Given the obviously long absence of Marshals from the district, she expected her mid-day arrival to raise a certain amount of comment from both the gate guards and the general folk. But she hadn’t in any way anticipated the total shock that greeted her as she rode through the outer encampment of merchants and visitors.

  Roving vendors stopped in their tracks, barely shuffling aside with open-mouthed amazement and nearly tripping on the edges of their long robed coats. Children ran, calling to their parents who emerged from the dimness of tents to clutch their brood close and silently stare. Youngsters stopped their teasings, rakish charmers forgot their intendeds, and frowning elders folded their arms with squint-eyed consideration. Even the chattering, little prippers went bounding up their owners’ shoulders, anxious and flustered at the sudden hush.

  Cinder tossed her black mane with annoyance, and the two bays behind her snorted, equally unnerved. Gwyn once again felt vulnerably exposed without the sandwolves flanking her, but she breathed a prayer of relief that they’d agreed to stay in the woods. This sort of greeting would not have been to their liking — it certainly wasn’t to hers. Studiously, she kept her hand from wandering to her sword hilt and her anxiety from reflecting in her expression. She only hoped that the dusty apricot of her tan would keep her unease from showing too clearly in her skin tones.