Fires of Aggar Page 26

  And it had sounded so sweet.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Chapter Three

  What’s wrong with it?” Llinolae asked, perplexed as Gwyn once again abandoned a quite adequate-looking trail which descended over the gorge edge. Ril hadn’t even bothered to scout down the path. In fact, the sandwolf hadn’t been doing much scouting of any kind in this slow, morning trek of theirs. But the Marshal was concentrating with a distracted scowl, searching the ground with its jutting rocks and straggly tree roots and didn’t seem to hear any of the Dracoon’s questions. So, Llinolae sighed and resigned herself to the presence of some mysterious trail markings and nudged Calypso onwards.

  The gorge edge was actually more akin to a cliff face, and from a topographical standpoint, it would have been more apt to call this Great Forest a forest of steps. The floor of the gorge below them was very nearly at sea level, and in fact, it extended with a few gentle rolls east all the way to the Ramains’ Plains which did border the western seas. The forested cliffs here began a jagged ascent which was intermittently leveled by plateaus until the very broad wastelands of the Clans’ lands were reached. West beyond that were only rough, mountainous peaks which eventually plunged into the depths of the southern Qu’entar, forming a very formidable and uninhabitable eastern seacoast.

  Gwyn stiffened suddenly. Llinolae reined in Calypso, watching mutely as Ril went racing forward. A wild pripper clamored upwards, chattering and scolding in a fluster of panic at Ril’s quick pounce over a slender tree root. The sandwolf buried her nose in a patch of fern and froze.

  Llinolae glanced curiously at Gwyn, acutely aware of some soundless communication that these two used. But the Amazon was as unmoving as her packmate. Abruptly, Ril bounded off along the gorge edge ahead, and Gwyn broke into a cheerful grin.

  “Ty’s been here.”

  As if that answers everything, Llinolae thought with amusement. But as she obediently sent Calypso trotting after Cinder she remembered the third member of Gwyn’s bondpack was Ty.

  “There it is!” Gwyn pointed ahead.

  Llinolae peered, still puzzled, and finally had to ask, “There what is?”

  “The tree that marks descent to the Shea Hole.”

  The information didn’t clarify much. Although the honeywoods here weren’t anywhere as massive as the ones set further back from the cliff edges, the pillars of red bark and haymoss were still sturdy sizes. Sturdy and anonymous sentries. They offered Llinolae some vague sense of stoic strength, but there was scarcely anything more identifying about each as individuals.

  “See… where Ril stands? The two limbs were knotted and then grew upwards again.”

  Not such a surprising thing, given the spring winds these honeywoods were subjected to so close to the gorge edge. But as Gwyn pointed again, Llinolae did make out the gnarled signature. The limbs in question were thigh width, each of them… meaning they’d either been very convenient trail markers or this place of refuge the Amazon was taking her to had been in existence for more than a hundred tenmoons!

  “Whenever you see this sort of knotted limb in the Great Forest, my Sisters have left a trail to safety,” Gwyn explained quietly. She halted Cinder beside Ril, dismounting and giving the sandwolf an absent pat as she studied the ground of unearthed stone that made up the gorge edge. She circled back and around to the far side of the honeywood, calling finally, “Aye, here it is. We’d best take it by foot.”

  Llinolae swung off Calypso, relishing the cool feel of leaves and dirt beneath her bare toes. Gwyn had offered her an extra pair of socks, but until the rain stopped threatening, Llinolae wasn’t willing to risk drenched, woolen footwear; bare feet were infinitely preferable to that. Especially for her, since it left her unimpeded contact with the soil and so kept her bound within that encouraging strength of the life cycles surrounding her.

  “Ril, you go first — horses second. We’ll bring up the tail.”

  An odd arrangement, Llinolae thought fleetingly. But Gwyn was no longer distracted with trail markings and noticed her misgivings immediately.

  “The footing may be a little washed out by the rains below. The mares need all they can get. You and me… well,” Gwyn grinned with a shrug, “we can scramble across much less if we have to. And Ril will make sure there’s at least enough for Cinder and Calypso without wearing much of it away herself.”

  Llinolae smiled wryly. “You’re the guide. And I did promise to follow — even through Fates’ Cellars.”

  Gwyn laughed. “You just never thought I’d lead off a cliff.”

  “Well…,” Llinolae took a closer look at that dubiously narrow, steep path as it lay half-hidden by the tree beside them. “I suppose I should be more careful of my promises in the future.”

  “Don’t fret. It’s only the first dozen steps that are the worst.”

  “Which if I don’t make, I won’t have to worry about the rest. Right?”

  “My point precisely.”

  Llinolae glanced at Gwyn, catching the dance of mischief in those copper-bright eyes. An absolutely contagious mischief, she found, and she couldn’t help the lift to her own lips. “Lead on, Marshal.”

  It took Gwyn only a couple of minutes to redistribute the small packs more evenly between Calypso and Cinder, making certain the bulk of the gear’s weight was secured forward over the mares’ withers. The stirrups were removed and strapped flat as well, to keep them from snagging on rocks or roots. Then Ril was padding off quickly, followed quite unquestioningly by the burly mares.

  Llinolae watched the bulk and lurch of ruddy horseflesh disappear with an impossible twist. The illusion was very strong — that the animals had simply stepped over the cumbersome tree roots and off the cliff edge without so much as a whinny of protest. As she followed Gwyn, however, she saw the quick cutback into a rocky niche that literally widened to a wagon width beneath the overhang of the gorge edge.

  “Who’d have ever thought this was here?” Llinolae marveled, running a hand over the smoothed bedrock beside them. The stone was damp from the recent rains, but above it was solidly dry, and she had no doubt that this passage could indeed have been in existence for more than a hundred seasons. She shivered, shaking herself abruptly in annoyance at that slight protest from her Sight — having spent most of her life in the stone fortress of Khirla, she had no patience for the Sight’s silly sensitivity to rock.

  “It’ll be better in a few more steps.” Gwyn offered a gentle smile, then was busy concentrating on her own footing again. “Most of this path is as overgrown as any other in the Forest, but this top portion was hand-wedged from the rock.”

  Llinolae nodded, seeing the ancient lines of chip and chisel now that she knew to look for them. As Gwyn spared her another brief, encouraging smile Llinolae’s stomach clenched tight, and she forgot the stonework completely. The disquieting feeling of… of wrongness was pressing again.

  She scowled gloomily, the slender arches of her dark brows straightening, folding a crease between. It was an awkwardness — not truly a mistrustful sort of feeling. But still, some gnawing sense of… exposure… was lingering.

  Whatever it was, Llinolae didn’t like it.

  As they broke into the damp moss and dirt of a more open track, Llinolae found her brooding stare had focused onto the back of that ruddy red vest. The easy swing of the sword at Gwyn’s hip, the confident square of those shoulders, the quiet assurance of a Marshal’s authority all should have countered this nagging doubt.

  Should have, yet didn’t — like the amarin’s intricate shadows of duplicity and secrets in the Palace! Llinolae fumed.

  And then suddenly Llinolae could put her finger on it. “I’ve spent most of my lifetime hoarding secrets!”

  “What did you say?” Gwyn called back quickly.

  “Nothing of any consequence,” Llinolae grinned ruefully. “I’m just muttering to myself like a surly old infantry veteran.”

  Gwyn’s laughter rippled back and left Llinolae only more mindful o
f the difference this Marshal was introducing to her. Save for the rare visits her harmon made to dey Sorormin’s home world, she’d never had the luxury of a Sister’s freedom.

  Until now. And Llinolae found, it was unsettling. Gwyn acted as if they were equals — as if they were simply Marshal and Dracoon… as if Gwyn herself was privy to all Llinolae’s secrets and completely non-judgmental about what such knowledge entailed.

  The seeming arrogance of such unconditional acceptance was beyond Llinolae’s sensibilities. Life with court baskers and military schemers had taught her much more caution. Need for that caution tugged at her, challenged her appraisal of Gwyn — devalued the woman’s character. That in itself fired an equally unwieldy conflict within Llinolae because she found she wanted to respect this woman. She wanted to like Gwyn! And that equally puzzling prejudice only made Llinolae frown all the more as they trudged along.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Mind the footing, Ril!” Gwyn called ahead as they neared the gorge floor. Yet she too felt that insistent pull of excitement. She could almost hear the low throated whine of Ty’s impatience below.

  The track returned to firmer stuff, and this time Gwyn did not call out to slow Ril. Ty was so near — so very near! The packbond between the three of them fairly thrummed with their anticipation. If Gwyn had stopped to think about it, she would have been proud of her bondmate’s patience in waiting below on the gorge floor, because this trail certainly offered no safe place for a rambunctious reunion. But after two-and-a-half days of separation, she was as caught in the excitement of re-unifying the pack just as completely as Ril and Ty were.

  Almost from habit, or perhaps from wanting to share such uncontainable joy, Gwyn glanced over her shoulder to Llinolae. Copper and blue gazes met, and the Dracoon gasped, startled into an abrupt halt as her hand instinctively reached to the earthen wall beside her for support. Gwyn paused expectantly but unconcerned. Her skin flushed the deep, deep brown of rich topaz; her eyes brightened, sparkling with flecks of gold like sunlight.

  “It’s our packmate, Ty! Just feel how close she is!” Gwyn reached back to Llinolae, vaguely thinking the long downward trek had begun to exhaust the other. But her hand was waved aside before they’d even touched; Llinolae’s own skin tones darkened from a weary caramel to a sultry cocoa in a swift rush.

  The lightest of frowns began to mar the beauty of Gwyn’s flushed face. She took a hesitant step towards Llinolae only to have a hand wave her assistance aside before they touched again.

  “I’m fine. I just need a short rest.” The Dracoon pointed down the trail. “Go ahead. Go greet your friend.”

  Hesitation held Gwyn motionless until Llinolae nodded her on with a brighter smile and firm, “Go!”

  The Amazon turned, almost darting off with the released excitement. As she disappeared around the bend of the trail, Llinolae sagged into the rough dirt wall of the trail’s side. Her knees felt like honey butter. Her heart was racing as madly as if she’d run the horse course ’round Khirla on foot.

  Nothing — nothing! — had prepared her for the utter, incredible beauty in that woman’s sheer joy. Gwyn’s smile alone had taken the breath from Llinolae’s throat, the voice from her tongue… frozen her very wits. In that single shared glance, the ground beneath her feet had hummed with the vibrancy of spring and her entire being had been fused — suspended, cradled — in perfect harmony between the wondrous rapture of one joyous woman and the answering choir of rejoicing life cycles.

  “Mother!” With a jolt, Llinolae realized, “I’m in love!”

  There was nothing else that could explain that sense of… of sweet, utter wholeness joining her to both Gwyn and Aggar. Nothing save her blue sighted sensitivity could have called that beauty of spring from the surrounding forest’s amarin in an answering chord to Gwyn’s unguarded rapture.

  She shook her head a little bit to clear it, a hand absently reaching to that banded kerchief about her brow. Her fingers jerked back as if burnt, and she stared at that hand with widening eyes of disbelief.

  Unlike the clean tunic Gwyn had loaned her, this kerchief had been worn recently — in fact, it was the same the Amazon had used to mask her face against the smoke during the rescue the other night. It still carried a very strong imprint of the Amazon’s personal amarin, and it had been that lingering essence of the Amazon that had been drawing Llinolae’s touch.

  “Amazon?” Llinolae muttered, amazement numbing her again. Had she ever even called this woman by her true name? Her ice blue eyes looked blankly down the trail. “Amazon… Marshal… Gwyn….” She paused and looked at that hand before her again. Slowly, the ancient-learned words of her Blue Sight Mistress and her n’Athena mentor rose in a frightened whisper, “Soroe n’ti Mau… Soroi… Soroi n’Athena. Ti mae n’Gwyn n’Athena? ”

  And then something clenched hard in her stomach, and Llinolae finally registered the words Gwyn had used in turning to her with that wondrous smile. The icy, frozen feeling descended again, and both hands grasped the gorge’s rocky soil as she sank to the trail. Stunned, she heard those words again and again — there was nothing but a single, clear, unhidden meaning of amarin carried within them.

  “… our packmate — Ty! Just feel how near she is!”

  Gwyn knew of her Blue Sight.

  Llinolae felt winter sweep in with her deepest fears.

  Gwyn knew. She wasn’t merely making some assumption because of the color of Llinolae’s eyes. All the old feigns that it was simply an anomaly of her mixed blood, all the care she had practiced to keep her Sight unnoticed all these tenmoons by the Court, the guards, even the Steward! — all she had done to avoid discovery by the Council of Ten. Only two days with her, and she knew? But no, Gwyn had never been fooled! The restless, uneasy feeling that had plagued Llinolae — that she felt somehow exposed before this woman — was because her secret was, in truth, exposed.

  And Gwyn was a Royal Marshal, duty bound to report this. Then in Churv the Crowned Heir, too, would be required to inform the Council of Ten — who would claim her for their Keep. It wouldn’t matter after that. They might train her for someone’s Shadow, give her the choice of becoming some mindless Seer or perhaps, if the Mother’s Hand held her very, very near she would only need to become a Seer’s Apprentice. But her life would not be her own anymore — not ever again.

  “Yet Dearest Mother, I love her.” Eyes closed in a sigh of weary resignation and dejection as her head leant back against the gorge wall. “By Your Hand, Mother, I do.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  A cool-nosed, leathery-skinned muzzle nudged Llinolae’s hands where they dangled over her knees. For a long moment, there was no movement from the woman. Her legs were drawn up, head bowed against her knees, but Ril was patient and did not hurry that slow return from the amarin of Aggar. She had known the Dracoon was long aware of her approach just as the woman had known of the sandwolf’s vigilant guard since mid-afternoon, even though Ril had kept a respectful distance down trail until now. If there had been a danger threatening during any of that silent time, Ril also knew the Blue Gift would have sensed it equally as clearly, and Llinolae would have brought herself out of this weary trance-like state quite abruptly.

  A hand moved a bit.

  Ril’s ears perked forward attentively, her head cocked a little to one side. The sandwolf’s empathic understanding of strangers did have its limits. In some ways she was more sensitive to this woman’s character because of their shared awareness of amarin and sentient emotions. But Ril had been raised among the Blue Sights of Valley Bay and had been trained among the Council’s Seers. She knew no Blue Sights such as this woman.

  Not only had Ril met few with the Sight whose innate talents were more powerful than Ring Binder Bryana’s, but Ril had never remembered anyone quite like this woman in style; Llinolae was very different in her use of the Blue Gift. It felt to Ril something like Gwyn once felt when they’d suddenly come face-to-face with a traveler who hadn’t spoken any language Gwy
n knew — it was bemusing and sometimes frustrating. Ril had the disconcerted feeling, however, that Llinolae was rapidly learning to understand this sandwolf more quickly than Ril was learning of Llinolae.

  A slow, deep breath was drawn. Eyes still closed, the woman lifted her head in a stretching arch until she rested straight-backed against the gorge wall.

  That was another thing of difference Ril had noticed. This Blue Sight Llinolae reached into her harmon-self center, before extending downward into the outer amarin beneath her. Then Llinolae literally took her harmon — the part of her amarin that made her life essence uniquely hers — and she literally flung her harmon outward into Aggar’s life cycles to meet and weave herself through the threads of amarin.

  As Ril understood things, this was impressively different from the Council’s Seers. Those Blue Sighted Seers drowned in the sweet amarin of Aggar to lose all sense of themselves, and eventually they were eclipsed, their personal sense of identity forgotten or lost amid the intertwining patterns and weaves. This allowed the Seers to read and describe the patterns of the amarin when the Council Masters questioned them, or to reweave the physical patterns around them when prompted. The result of the Council and Seers’ work was admirable enough — they’d nearly done away with things such as earthquakes and droughts.

  She was different in respect to Seeing as well. Ril knew Blue Sighted Shadows or Valley Bay Sisters kept somewhat anchored to their self-identity. Some of them were quite powerful; through skill and out-of-time Seeing, some could reach the Amazons’ home world or reach back into the history of Aggar. Then there were those with an affinity for understanding animals as if they were bloodkin, or for deciphering human loyalties — their talents depended on their training and individual strengths. But Llinolae did not ‘look’ at the tree or star or neighboring companion when she used her Sight. The Blue Sights of Ril’s acquaintance had always ‘looked’ outward. They literally needed to see the amarin — eyes open. Ril knew they couldn’t do anything, when blind-folded. In some way, they visually had to ‘See.’