Fires of Aggar Page 23

  Sparks leapt towards the stars. Against the night’s velvet they looked like the fireworks at Churv’s festivals. Yet here, the winds whipped greedy flames about, reaching hungrily for the towering citadels of honeywood.

  “They won’t catch. It’s not hot enough. Not to light them.”

  The low murmur finally registered through her amazement. Gwyn started and looked to find that Llinolae had moved away. She was standing alone now, her blue gaze caught too by the burning fury. “The resin in their leaves and red bark is fire retardant. Unless you cut the honeywoods down, strip them, they’ll rarely burn in this Forest. It’s so amazing. Sometimes I believe the old tales — that they truly are ancient guardians set here by the Mother’s Hand.”

  Gwyn nodded slowly, turning back to the bonfire as she too remembered the age-old verse:

  “…The great staves of honey’d wood came to Hand.

  Twin’d Moons sail’d high. In watch, the Mother stands.”

  She glanced back at Llinolae where the faintest of smiles upon those slender lips wedded melancholy to regret. The flickering light of the distant fire touched her dark skin, the brown richness a startling contrast to those sapphire-hued eyes. Yet in her beauty, Gwyn saw a haunting grief that was undeniable.

  Gwyn swallowed hard. With a weary sigh, she twisted the kerchief loose and freed her own face. She was too tired to wrestle with the knot and her gloves, so she left the thing tied about her neck and turned her attention to strapping her sword back on.

  “You’re a woman!”

  Gwyn glanced up at that surprised murmur, managing a nod as she bent to tie the thigh lace. “Amazon.”

  “From Valley Bay?”

  She grinned at that and straightened. “Certainly not from ’cross the stars.”

  That brought an amused smile and blue eyes shifted to meet Gwyn’s fully. “Beg your patience. I’ve never met a woman as tall as myself. Least, none aside from these Clantown folk.” Those last words dulled; they took the smile away again.

  Gwyn frowned in puzzlement as that blue gaze went back to the fires. She’d felt none of the familiar mind-to-mind touching which usually came from locking eyes with a Blue Sight. She’d met a Seer at the Keep once who’d had the skill to pass unnoticed through her consciousness, but never anyone else. Not Selena, not even Bryana!

  “Do we go? Marshal?” A gentle hand touched Gwyn’s elbow.

  “Yes!” Gwyn started. Annoyed, she pulled herself together. This wasn’t like her! And they certainly couldn’t afford her to get distracted here, tonight of all nights! “There are horses — this way.”

  But as they moved off into the darkness, Gwyn suddenly wondered if the chaotic feelings growing inside her weren’t much, much worse than mere distraction.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Part Two

  Flames of Desire

  Chapter One

  Sparrow dropped from the low roof into the pitch blackness of the corner, briefly regretting the long drop as her stomach uncharacteristically protested her acrobatics again. She shook her head, slightly disgusted with herself — she had no more time for this queasiness now than she’d had the other morning.

  Behind her the great stone wall of the city ascended. Beside her the rock and mortar of a winery protected piles of kegs. These vast quantities of brushberry spirits in their wooden barrels were much too flammable to be housed within the city proper, so most of the local wineries were nestled against the snaking contours of Khirla’s outer walls. The location afforded the businesses some measure of safety against raiders — be they Clan folk or other — as well as allowing the businesses ready access to the brushberry fields they harvested. At the moment, the place also neatly concealed one small Shadow. It was a corner Sparrow was exceedingly grateful to have as she gave herself a moment to catch her breath.

  A stone’s throw from her black niche, however, the road that circled the city was lined with tall torches, all ablaze. She was midway between the livestock pens and the visitors’ encampments, and despite the fact that the festival had been over for two days, there was still a busy scuffle of people along the lane.

  “Doesn’t anybody in this city ever sleep?” Sparrow muttered, disgruntled to find the traffic unaffected by the setting of the single moon. Not that anyone had probably noticed. With this incessant love for lanterns and torch light that kept even the less-used alleyways of Khirla well lit, it was a wonder they ever knew day from night.

  She wrestled herself out of her knife straps and her wrap-around jacket reversing the lot to show a saffron suede lining. It was easier then shrugging back into the thing, hiding the knife harness and, unfortunately, putting the knives fairly out of reach… but she knew at this point that her best wager was in not getting caught at all. Then the black scarf unwound from her hair to become a tasseled sash at her waist, and the dark tops of her boots folded down into saffron trimmings, complete with fringe. Her fingerless gloves she tucked beneath her sash, and with a handful of dusty dirt, she rubbed away the more obvious traces of white resin on her fingers and breeches. When she’d finished, Sparrow looked like most anyone who’d been around the livestock pens or who’d been wandering through taverns — a bit disheveled about the edges, but generally presentable.

  Just as long as she didn’t look like a saboteur, Sparrow didn’t care.

  She inched her way closer to the road, crouching low to stay in the shadows as long as possible. A boisterous youngster staggered into his jesting friends, setting them and other passers-by off-balance a bit. Sparrow slipped forward, still bent, as everyone seemed to pull up or side-step to avoid the commotion. The fellow heartily apologized to whoever would listen, then began some song or other as his friends towed him off. Sparrow rose from adjusting her boot lace to move on with everyone else.

  She spared a surreptitious glance behind as a pair of City Guards strolled by, but no one seemed to have taken much notice of her. With a faint smile, Sparrow continued on as she rubbed her aching wrist. It throbbed in grievance of her earlier mistreatment, and now in the better light, she could see it had taken on a nasty shade of purple that the deep brownness of her skin wouldn’t hide. It was beginning to swell as well… unsurprisingly. She knew she hadn’t broken anything, but she could foresee Brit’s ire and the observation that she was blessed that it hadn’t been worse. Sparrow had to agree; when the metal grate in the armory had fallen, it could easily have shattered a bone.

  “Leave it to the Clan folk to waste metal on windows—” She could think of at least a half million more constructive uses for that precious commodity! Although to be fair, Sparrow admitted sourly, “This was probably done by that Steward.”

  A sudden scream split the night, and everyone on the road paused in startled fright. Again the terrified shriek came, followed by a child’s wail. Then the baying “a-roo” of a chasing sandwolf echoed out.

  Sandwolves? Gwyn’s here? Confusion rooted Sparrow to the ground for a moment more. Then snorting, rasping barks broke the stilled air, and her stomach sickened, identifying the brutal beasts by their sounds — basker jackals!

  “Baskers! Fates’ Cellars are freed!” Someone yelled. “The Swords have loosed their baskers!”

  The people around her panicked. A rushing onslaught flung itself down the hill slope towards her.

  “Brit!” One thought seized Sparrow, and she broke into a wild run of her own, battling forward against the folks that were fleeing from the encampments above. She was pushed aside from the road, and with a leap she dodged into the stubbly root rows of the brushberries, hurdling herself over the low trellises and through the thinner crowds.

  Parents clutched at their babies and dragged their children away in desperation. Lovers half-dressed, half-tangled in blankets — youngsters clinging to pet prippers, oldsters clinging to snatched bundles — all ran, chaos reigning, as Sparrow scrambled between them and forced her way forward as the gnash and bay of the baskers rang through the cries.

  She topped the small r
idge to see a wagon go up in a burst of flame. She ignored it. Clenching her eyes tight and standing her ground against the press of people, she concentrated — pulling in on herself. The lifestone in her wrist flared hot beneath its wristband, and then it pulled hard — to the left!

  Eyes flew open and Sparrow was running again.

  The yapping clamor of baskers came. The vicious yowling of those that cornered their prey spurred her on faster. Bouncing off people, darting toward the city gates, she kept running.

  “Brit!”

  Another tent went whoosh with flames, and Sparrow was jumping through a wall of debris as it too caught fire. And then there was Brit — struggling to get up from her knees with her skirt ends charred black.

  “Soroi!” Sparrow got under her shoulder, lifting — sharing her weight.

  “Red cloaks’ll come!” Brit gasped and Sparrow understood. She pulled her lover about, forcing the stumbling steps and burly weight into a run. Angling, cutting through the fleeing crowd, they made for that tunnel where the flickering line of torches broke — for that place where Rutkins would lead his guards in!

  Then the City Guards were there in force. Rutkins’ broad arms swept out with orders, sending men and women through the panic in pairs. Their ruddy brown cloaks moved swiftly among the crumpled debris and the fires, helping trampled victims to safety, calming the trailing ends of the crowd, bringing blankets out to smother the fiery spots. Yet all the time, systematically, they were clearing the folk back from that central bonfire, sending them further down the hill slopes, until finally only the dozen or so figures were left — the Steward’s Swords and the sleek, black silhouettes of their now harnessed baskers.

  Sparrow squinted against the light of that one great bonfire, struggling to make out individual blue cloaks as they squared off to meet the wary approach of the Guards. Glittering edges of embroidery outlined the deep blue of the Swords’ fine cloaks. Steel glistened, reflecting the dancing firelight along their curving lengths of sabers. Long-toothed fangs shimmered a wicked white against the sleek fur of the basker jackals; the slender animals snarled and strained against the leashes of their handlers. A short whip cracked, calling them to obedience, and the Sword Master turned slowly from the burning pavilion to face Rutkins and the encircling City Guard.

  “What happened here?” Sparrow hissed, too afraid to watch and yet unable to look away as the Sergeant and Sword Master stepped menacingly closer to one another. Voices lashed out in bitterness, but their words wouldn’t carry over the growling noise of the baskers and the roaring winds of the fire.

  “The Swords came,” Brit gasped. She leaned forward. Backside against the city’s wall and hands on her knees, she tried to catch her breath again. And Sparrow suddenly realized the brownness of her love’s face was marred with muddied blood. “No-no, I’m fine, Soroi. ”

  Sparrow ignored the feeble protests and tried to clean the worst from Brit’s face with a kerchief.

  “It’s only a grazing, Love. Most of the bloody stuff’s from the fellow who jumped me.”

  “Jumped you? Did you see who it was?” Sparrow felt the knots uncoil a little inside herself as she discovered Brit seemed to be right; most of the blood wasn’t her beloved’s own.

  “Blue cloak.”

  “But why? What happened?”

  “Don’t know why. They came barging into the area seemin’ half drunk and carryin’ on about some cheatin’ whore and a trickster of a healer. Next thing I knew, they’re waving a raggedy cloth in front of those nasty monsters and settin’ them free. The baskers tore through the camp, gnashing teeth — eyes red’n’burning. You’d have thought the Fates’ just loosed them themselves. That’s when folks went frantic — every which way! But when one of those hounds took for Tessie’s throat — !”

  “The old woman healer from Kora’s place?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why would anyone…?”

  “You tell me!” Brit snapped, remembering that lunging devil rising up out of nowhere. “I nipped the thing with my whip. Got Tessie time to get away. Then the next I’m knowing is some blue-cloaked bully is trying to use his fancy sword on my neck!” Sparrow’s face set hard, but Brit was angrier at her own clumsiness as she growled, “Fool thing I did! Lost my whip ’round that basker’s throat and left myself near bare-handed against the Sword! Had to roll the brigand through one of his own fires ’fore I could get to my knife and be done with him.”

  Sparrow cracked a short grin of approval.

  “Should’a killed him though, now that I see the damage they brought. Goddess, just look at what they’ve done….” Her low voice trailed off despairingly, and together the two women surveyed the camp remains. Most of the fires were dampened or completely out. Wagons were overturned. Tent poles were collapsed. Shards of pottery, furniture bits, and trailing clothes lines were scattered in the dirt. Bits of ash floated on the air as the bonfire of the pavilion continued to roar. The near side of the encampment was totally devastated, although by the signs of it, the wagons and tents set further away had escaped some of the worst.

  A few bodies were lying ominously still near the great fire, and it finally registered for Sparrow that the Tent of Healers was the one in flames. She felt her mouth open, but the words of disbelief wouldn’t even form. In bewildered confusion, she pointed at the awful inferno.

  “I know,” Brit straightened and came nearer to wrap an arm about her partner. “The herb mixes and roots alone will take seasons to restock. But the books, the scrolls — I only pray we can convince the Council to let us retrieve some of it from the Keep’s Archives. Even then, I’m not sure all the knowledge lost can be replaced. Nearly every Healer House in the district lost something in this tonight. We were just finishing the last of the Apprentice Lessons—”

  “And these Steward’s Swords gave no thought to any of that?” Sparrow could only stand there, shaking her head as she watched the Steward’s burly sword carriers gather themselves and their blood-thirsty baskers together. A few of the City Guard trailed grimly behind the departing Swords, while the rest solemnly set about helping the families to sort through the chaos.

  Rutkins appeared silently beside the City Gate, watching the last of the Swords and those restless baskers file through the tunnel. He turned to watch the camp and his Guards then, seemingly ignorant of the Amazons behind him.

  “How’s the head doing, Rutkins?” Brit asked in a low tone, making no attempt to move closer and face him.

  “About as well as the ribs. But compare it to their sort of pain…,” his head tipped towards the encampment, “…mine’s less than nothing.”

  “Should still give yourself another couple days.”

  “Aye, and lose the livestock pens tomorrow? Should have thought ahead better, not gotten skewered so close to the single moon. Always seems to bring trouble from them… the Swords, I mean. Not the ghosts and demons.”

  “Same, aren’t they?” Sparrow mumbled bitterly.

  They stood in silence for a moment until Brit did move a little closer to Rutkins’ back. Sparrow glanced about them nervously, still leery of leaving the shadows.

  “I think it’s the Feasts’n’all,” Rutkins answered Brit’s unspoken press for some sort of explanation. “The Steward’s always demanding their best behaviors for the Feasts… limits them to pushing and shoving mostly, less sword play and bloody bullying. Probably she’s meaning to keep rumors from spreading too far about Herself and the abuses.”

  “You mean she actually has a sense of civic duty, your Steward?” Sparrow quipped. She couldn’t help it.

  “Civic survival more likely,” Brit interjected. “Rumors too close to the borders might get to the Council or King.”

  “Humpf,” Rutkins grunted. “Hadn’t thought of it that way. She’s in a royal fuss with your Marshal disappearing so fast too. I can just see it — wrath of a striking snake. They got stung, her precious Swords — by herself no less. Bored and edgy already, the bristly little sav
ages can’t be happy at all in bearing the brunt of her displeasure!”

  Brit’s mouth twisted sourly. “So they find some insult for who-knows-what imagined reason and descend on the defenseless.”

  “Well…,” Rutkins flashed his contorted, grotesque grin at them as he glanced back over his shoulder, “some of you seem less defenseless than others, I note.”

  “She almost got killed by those…!”

  “Easy, Love,” Brit interrupted Sparrow gently, taking the clenched fists into her own hands. “Black humor isn’t to everyone’s taste. But it comes from the same sorrows.”

  Sparrow forced the tension to ease in her shoulders. She accepted Rutkins’ apologetic nod with one of her own.

  “There’s more you might need to know,” Rutkins murmured. His gaze went back to the camp as his arms crossed. “The healer they were hunting? Seems she was from a homesteader’s village along the route you came in on.”

  “So they were after Kora’s kin!” Sparrow hissed, then bit her tongue as Brit’s glance hushed her. There might be some things that were safer for Rutkins not to know.

  “She went by the name of Tessie,” Rutkins elaborated, deliberately ignoring Sparrow’s outburst. “Seems she was inferring some rather insulting things ’bout some of our Steward’s Swords.”

  “Such as?” Brit sidled a little nearer to let the sergeant’s voice drop even lower.

  “Mentions of mixed blood and that sort?” Rutkins shrugged uncomfortably. “My youngsters implied she might be referring to loyalties more than bloodlines — the fact of their mixed blood is usually taken as offense, but it’s a rather commonplace complaint to toss about.” They said nothing, and he continued, “Apparently though, there’s this homesteader — by the name of Tadder or Batter or something — that the healer knew. Thought there was a bit a’truth in what he’d said ’bout some of these Swords’ loyalties. Healer thought his suspicions explained what she’d been seein’ and hearin’ of the Clans these past few seasons.”