Fires of Aggar (37 page)

With Sparrow not remembering anything at all!

She shuddered and shut her eyes tight against that pain. She needed Gwyn to be near — for Brit’s own sake, she dared not say anything sooner. Though how she would ever dare to say anything, even later, was beyond her too….

And Brit would suspect the worst. Sparrow couldn’t deny that she did herself. The bruises on her ribs and body were faint. But they were there. She’d never paid much attention to how her acrobatic, mid-night escapades could scratch and bump her about. She’d initially assumed the markings were from the trip into Khirla’s armory and from the riotous crowd’s shoving when the baskers had been loosed.

Now she wasn’t so certain.

Now, she no longer knew what to think. What had happened when? She couldn’t remember anything being out of sorts. Surely, if she had… with her peculiar memory gifts, if she had been attacked, she would have remembered something! At least wouldn’t she have noticed a lack of time she could account for?

She knew from her monarcs spent with the traveling acrobats that her picture-perfect memory did not shy from vivid portraits of abuse. She knew, from her own thrashings and witnessing others endure worse, that fear didn’t dull any of her mind’s recollections. Although from her training and travels since, Sparrow had come to recognize how common memory lapses were for many trauma survivors. Some she thought were blessed — they would never remember clearly. Others she’d held through the terrorizing nightmares and kept them safe through sudden bursts of panic when memories resurfaced. Yet Sparrow herself had never expected to experience anything but the absolutely unalterable imprint of reality that her memory always provided to her. Or so she’d been told by healers. As much as she had prayed to be free from some of those bloody scenes, she had never seriously expected it to happen.

If what she had witnessed as a child and as a Shadow hadn’t driven her memories into blackness then…? Sparrow was terrified of the idea that it had happened now. If all she’d seen had never caused her to lose her memory’s pictures, then how much more horrific must this incident have been?

How had she even survived it?

The dream whirled with a thick darkness, a black fog that circled and snaked in a winding spiral until slowly it spun outward. In the nest of murky images, a room emerged — and then a bed, canopied with fine satins and a fringe of silver lace. A bed of foreboding, as dim figures moved, shifted and became clear. A woman, thin and long of stature lay with fever, tossing in frenzied nightmares with a dream of seeking escape — of seeking safe haven. Another figure — a man with sword-callused hands whose fingers curled like talons, nervously closing and opening in tension. On silent feet, the intruder crept to the bed — yet even then face and body were veiled — identity unknown in those tendrils of swirling blackness. A vial of amethyst powder tipped. Dust glittered and danced upon the fresh water of the bedside basin. A finger dipped, stirring the waters until the last of the sparkle dissolved, and then a cup fetched cool liquid. One of those hands came near again — on a finger, a ring of carved wood — then with a touch, the feverish sleep of the woman was broken. The water was accepted and sipped thankfully. Exhaustion engulfed her again, slowing her life’s flow as death’s descent was summoned.

“No!”

“Shush… shush… it’s all right. Llinolae, it’s all right. You’re safe.”

Blue eyes blinked, awakening to the glow of the single lantern and the brazier’s embers. The wind rippled across the outer layer of the watershed canvas. At the foot of her pallet Ril sat alertly, her eyes peaked in worry. Kneeling beside Llinolae, so careful in not touching her, was Gwyn.

Her red hair was loose, falling across the shoulders of her sleeping shirt. The color was a warm bronze in the reflected light of the lantern. Desire leapt to replace the nightmare’s terror and with a mewed cry, Llinolae reached for Gwyn.

“You’re safe now,” Gwyn wrapped her near, sliding onto the bedside quickly. With one hand she cradled Llinolae’s head to her shoulder as the other moved soothingly along the woman’s back.

Llinolae pulled away slightly. Her eyes searched Gwyn’s pleadingly. This… this platonic sort of comforting was not what she needed.

“It was a nightmare,” Gwyn whispered. She made no move to release Llinolae.

“I know. I’ve… I’ve had it often. Ever since I was a child.” And she wanted to run from it — then and now. Wouldn’t Gwyn… couldn’t Gwyn now?

“Do you know what it’s from?” Gwyn struggled, forced the words out through the strain, her breath growing so shallow.

Llinolae’s hands trembled, clenching fists of Gwyn’s tunic — fire rising in such desperate desire. And she could barely shake her head — all so very slowly — her voice aching, nearly pleading, “It never comes on the trail! It only ever comes after… after the Court hearings… after arguing with Taysa over money to rebuild the villages or Samcin’s…!”

“But it’s all right now, you’re safe here… with me.” Please be with me, her mind echoed helplessly. Gwyn’s throat closed in pain, the wanting was so strong. Her gaze fell to Llinolae’s lips.

Suddenly Llinolae pulled back to arm’s length, ducking her head and closing her eyes with a shuddering breath.

Gwyn felt the immediate recoil of her body as that blue-sighted influence fled. She went cold. Her flesh chilled with goose bumps. Her backbone stiffened. Even as she realized what had been happening, Gwyn grew angry at herself for almost succumbing to it. Llinolae’s reaction had been a natural one — a human’s need to physically connect with a protector as intimately as possible after being threatened. She did not blame her companion for that need, but she did chastise herself for not recognizing it sooner. She had lived among enough Blue Sights to have had the experience before — it wasn’t appropriate to take advantage of Llinolae’s vulnerability!

Gwyn took a deep, steadying breath of her own and brushed her fingertips across Llinolae’s browned cheek. She leaned near again, gently urging, “Llinolae…?”

That ice blue gaze flew back to her face.

“I understand.” Gwyn smiled in tender reassurance, quite suddenly feeling very strong and very protective of this dear woman. “It’s all right now.”

“Is it?”

“In truth, it is.”

A broken gasp caught in her throat as Llinolae collapsed back into the safety of Gwyn’s arms. Strength embraced her, steadfast in its comforting, and Llinolae shuddered with a ragged breath of trust and relief. “Thank you, Soroe. Thank you.”

Good morning!” Gwyn called, ducking into the horses’ tent to find Llinolae nearly done with Cinder’s grooming. “Have you eaten yet? Llinolae shook her head, bringing her own fetlock of black curls down over an eye. “I had some trail bread — I’m not much for eating first thing in the morning. My stomach doesn’t usually wake up until mid-day.”

Gwyn understood that habit well enough. Given a choice, it was her preference as well.

Finished, Llinolae stepped back and sharply clacked the brushes together a few times to clean the dander and hair from them. Calypso snorted with a short toss of her head, and Nia seconded her. They were eager to leave this yellow bright stuffiness inside their tent. The sun was far from being overhead, but the day’s humidity and heat had already begun to collect within the canvas walls.

Cinder pulled slightly at her tether, nuzzling towards Gwyn, and contentedly ignored both her herd sisters for her favorite human. When her Amazon grinned and came to her, the mare gave a wuffle of pleasure in a soft, throaty tone and rubbed her broad head into Gwyn’s chest. Gwyn laughed and hugged her in return, a hand lovingly sliding up along that muscular, broad bend of Cinder’s neck. She found the bay’s coat as satiny to the touch as it was shiny to the eye. Apparently the Dracoon was a well-practiced groom despite the availability of help in the Palace Stables.

“I didn’t know if I should let them out. Do you usually set them on a picket line, hobble them — or what?”

“There’s no need for any bindings here,” Gwyn murmured, untying the tether from Cinder’s halter. With a swat to that heavy horse rump, she sent the mare off through the opened tent flap. Then as Llinolae went to loosen Calypso, Gwyn turned to Nia explaining, “This canyon is enough like our natural pasture pens in Valley Bay that they’ll all stay near. They’ll treat this as a home territory to be protected from braygoats and sowies, not a place to be left. And if something does happen that’s dire enough to spook them into running, Ty would round them up and bring them back.”

“How awful does ‘dire’ have to get to spook them like that?”

Face set grim, Gwyn remembered the barn burning and the mares’ shrill attack outside in the corral. “I know fire isn’t enough….” She shrugged abruptly and forced a lighter note. “I’ve never encountered anything that disastrous, actually.”

“Let’s hope you never do.”

The curry combs and brushes were returned to the short tack shelf, and together they set to work tying open the back canvas flaps. The breezes swept in quickly, cheerfully rippling across the clean haymoss Llinolae had bedded down the tent’s ground with.

“We’ll have to watch for prippers and grubbers moving in,” Gwyn chuckled, glancing about at that bright sheltered space. “It looks much too inviting for critters. Although, I suppose we could always send Ril in to give them a good fright.”

“Prippers are too curious. Even Ril wouldn’t keep them frightened for long,” Llinolae quipped. Then rather suddenly she sobered, remembering Gwyn’s other bondmate. Tentatively, she ventured, “Is Ty still out by herself?”

“Aye…” and that deep sigh was weary enough. Gwyn picked up the horses’ water bags and moved off towards the creek. She shouldn’t be quite so worried about Ty, she knew. Both Ril and Llinolae had assured her that it was only some kind of misperception, and Gwyn knew how stubborn her packmate could be. Almost as stubborn as one particular Niachero, in fact.

“Do you think it would help, if I talked to her?”

Gwyn looked up from the creek side, surprised to find Llinolae had followed her.

“Ril didn’t seem to think it was a good time quite yet.”

The hesitation in Llinolae’s voice was unmistakable, and Gwyn realized her companion was much more comfortable in being direct, even with difficult confrontations. That made a wry grin appear as Gwyn returned to her task — waiting was not a thing this Niachero did well either.

Silently, Llinolae filled the other water bag as Gwyn’s thoughts turned again to Ty. But when it came to gauging feelings, Gwyn could only admit, “Ril’s judgment is usually pretty sound… especially in regards to either Ty or myself. But I don’t really understand what’s going on.”

Llinolae bent her head guiltily. She couldn’t ignore the Amazon’s quiet prompting. She sighed, half shaking her head; Gwyn did deserve an explanation. “It’s us… or rather what I feel for you. Ty’s jealous of me, and somewhat mistrustful. She’s afraid I’ll do you more harm than good, emotionally.”

“No,” Gwyn asserted with a surprising clarity and calm. “You won’t.”

Llinolae glanced at her to find the Amazon’s amarin shimmering with a richness of honesty and certainty. The depth and beauty of Gwyn’s trust that her amarin reflected was as unexpected a discovery for Llinolae as it was a precious one.

Gwyn looked up then, and for a heartbeat, their gazes met. She halted. Llinolae did the same, but it was Gwyn’s deepening skin tones that stole Llinolae’s attention — that sweet, apricot gold rising to glowing put to shame any tan. Llinolae’s mouth went dry as her own skin flushed deeper. She felt her lips part as her breathing became excruciatingly, exquisitely impossible. But she would not — could not — think to look away.

“I know you won’t… hurt me that way, I mean.”

“How do you know?” Llinolae whispered.

Gwyn’s eyes gentled, a tender smile tilting her head as a careful finger reached out to brush those unruly black curls back from Llinolae’s forehead. “I do know. Whatever happens between us, I know it will be better than never having met you. I know that was true for Selena — when she died, it was hard for me. But I never regretted knowing her while I could. She gave me much, much more than mere loss. Now… meeting you…,” Gwyn shrugged, suddenly feeling almost embarrassed. “You’re already a part of me. You’ve already given me more than you could ever take.”

Llinolae studied Gwyn for a long, long time. Then a faint sigh of exasperation replaced her pensiveness. Llinolae finally grasped how hopeless rational musings were in this moment — a fact that Gwyn had obviously already noted. A fond but crooked grin appeared and Llinolae dryly observed, “You are a hopeless romantic, Gwyn’l n’Athena.”

“I’m Niachero,” Gwyn replied softly — enigmatically. “I have to be.”

“What’s that you’re doing?”

Gwyn glanced up from her whittling with surprise. A ready smile curved her lips and warmed her eyes as Llinolae joined her on the log seat beside the creek. Gwyn had nearly forgotten how effectively most Blue Sights blended into the amarin around them, not disturbing the life cycles and moving nearly unseen or unheard through pastures or woods. Within towns or houses, any place where Aggar’s amarin had been reshaped by human hands, such stealth became a matter of innate talent and conscious skill. But out here amidst the ancient honeywoods… no, out here Llinolae’s tread seldom disturbed even the cricket beds.

“Is it a flute of some kind?”

With a blink, Gwyn realized she’d been staring again, but, oh — staring at such beauty!

“I beg patience…,” Llinolae murmured, sensing the amarin shift and intending to distract them both with a hint of gentle humor. But that purpose left her quite completely as her blue eyes lifted to Gwyn’s face. Then her own soft smile grew and she began to study Gwyn in kind; like a touch her gaze skimmed across the cheekbones — across the straight, slender nose — watched the play of the forest’s breeze in those red wisps of fly-away hair. She felt her lips part in tender temptation as her glance fell to Gwyn’s lips, finding them trembling ever so faintly, feeling their breath growing so shallow in unison. Nearly feeling — tasting — the kiss that could be….