Fires of Aggar (45 page)

Wisps and whirls gave way to a dark alcove and hands moved, an exchange of money for poisons. Her uncle nodded, Taysa prompting him all the while with quiet, insidious rumors!

Llinolae jerked back from the shock of that truth. Her breath came hard as she blinked and shuddered. Taysa had been part of her uncle’s plans from the very beginning of her liaison with him.

It began to fit. Her uncle’s own ambitions would have left him a target for bribery. Undermining Mha’del’s reputation with the royal family had been an effective stepping stone to power and easily done through placement of his own scribes, until he’d become expendable — because he knew of Taysa’s affiliation with the Clan and knew which of the scribes were involved. His greed had won him death — by Taysa’s own orders, Llinolae would wager. Thwart her, and Taysa would have retaliated without hesitation.

So now it was Taysa’s scribes, aligned with the Clan, that still altered the reports to King and Crowned!

Half-sister to her mother, mixed blood as Llinolae herself, wife of the ambitious…? That marriage… Llinolae remembered her father’s grief again. Her uncle had won her father’s admiration and public support for that marriage to Taysa. So soon after her mother’s death, she Saw how her father had sought to embrace anything that affirmed his wife’s presence. And Taysa with her district kin had aided her mother’s initial escape from the Clans, giving her refuge, then food, and sending her on deeper into the Khirlan district when the Clans pursued. Mha’del had known the tale well and had welcomed Taysa when her village home had been burnt out that late autumn. Her uncle had merely seen the marriage as another way to gain credibility in Mha’del’s eyes — to distract Mha’del from whatever suspicions might have been stirring. And young Taysa had found both brothers foolishly naive as they played into her schemes for the Clan.

Llinolae Saw now how Taysa’s passion for power had brought her position early among the Clan Lead’s. She had already held the full support and backing of a sizable number in the militia; she had heralded a new ambition for the Clan with her scheming. No, Llinolae’s uncle had been used even as he’d tried to use Taysa.

Llinolae rose and moved to the tent’s entrance, drinking in the cleaner air of the small canyon’s afternoon. It tasted sweet in the wake of the dust blown by such ill amarin.

Her uncle, her aunt — they had deserved one another. If he had lived long enough, Llinolae acknowledged grimly, she would have come to hate him. She could find no other word for Taysa either — scorn was too placid, rage was too irrational. No, what she felt was cold, hard, bitter hate.

Her uncle had left her a legacy of deceit to deal with — Taysa? Her aunt claimed not only the Clan’s leadership, but much of Khirlan’s own.

The irony in that was not in the least to Llinolae’s liking.

“We have a problem.”

The other three women in camp went silent at Gwyn’s assertion. The twilight held everything in dim grayness, and the Niachero was so still her form and colors would have been lost in a denser place of honeywood and stonemoss. Ty stirred and sat up beside her, attention fixed outward with hers.

“Is it Ril?” Sparrow glanced across the table and wash-water to Llinolae. The Dracoon nodded faintly, the dish in hand poised to be rinsed as she tried to follow that packbond’s sensitivity.

Brit shifted and the wood of her folding seat creaked once as she put aside her tea.

The Niachero’s chin dropped. Mutely, she met the sandwolf’s sandy gaze. Her whittling was discarded, and she ruffled both Ty’s ears with a brusque fondness. Ty nosed Gwyn’s knee in encouragement and agreement, then bounded off to join their packmate.

“What’s Ril found?” Llinolae pressed quietly. The grim amarin of determination about Gwyn seemed unerringly familiar — an almost mirrored reflection of her own.

“A Clan scout is tracking the braygoat herd that Sparrow and I raided yesterday. Ril expects him to find the remains of our kill soon — if not tonight, morning at the latest.”

Llinolae frowned slightly. “Hasn’t some basker pack or sowie pair probably rooted through and scattered the discards by now?”

“It’s Fates’ Jest, but he’s crossed our outward trail and noticed the horse signs. Ril seems to think he’s lost and trying to rejoin a scouting party.”

“So he thinks your tracks are from them — that they’ve gone hunting to re-supply or something, hoping he’d catch up with them himself.” Brit shook her head with a resigned snort. “Even if he loses your trail, he’ll think to backtrack once he’s seen any sign of a kill. Usually these Clan groups stake out a base camp before they go hunting, then work the area for a few days. He’d just be expectin’ them to circle in from wherever they’d come from.”

“Either set of tracks — outgoing or incoming — will lead him here,” Sparrow saw.

“Unless he’s a very poor tracker?” Brit suggested almost hopefully.

“Poor enough to get lost,” Llinolae observe dourly, “doesn’t mean poor enough to stay lost. If Ril’s concerned about him, then I am too.”

“I agree. Ril’s not the alarmist,” Gwyn amended. “That’s Ty’s great art.” The Amazon and Dracoon shared an amused grimace at that.

“They’re getting a lot closer these days,” Brit observed matter-of-factly, turning the mug of tea slowly as the leaves brewed.

With a sigh of resignation, Llinolae dumped out the wash-water. She reached for the hand towel and just barely managed not to moan. It was not a good thing to wish for another stack of stew bowls!

Sparrow finished the drying and tossed the damp rag to the camp table. Then with a pointed looked to Gwyn and Llinolae, “So what are we going to do? Corner this scout, scare him off or simply hope he’ll keep wandering the wrong way?”

“I would prefer not to rely on the last,” Gwyn suggested dryly. “I don’t particularly feel like tempting the Fates quite that much, thank you.”

“My vote’d be to scare him off and get ourselves out of here completely.” Brit glanced at Llinolae with a lopsided shrug. But then, she was only being honest.

They waited as the Dracoon sat down, shifting pieces on some mental game board, until finally Brit prompted, “What do you propose?”

“This… is there a chance we could take him?”

“Why?” Sparrow hugged her legs to her chest and propped her chin on her knees as she puzzled, “The militia didn’t care about talking while you were held in their jail cell. What would make them want to listen now?”

“No — it might work,” Brit countered suddenly, seeing the potential of the idea as she considered it again. “You had no chance to get them to listen when they held you, because they were smug and complacent. And they were being good little soldiers under Taysa’s instructions. But isolate one of them, and you might succeed in getting some attention.”

“And he’s young,” Gwyn noted, heeding the finer details of the image in her packbond’s awareness, now that the immediate shock of the scout’s appearance had eased. “Corner and catch him, and it’ll probably bruise his inexperienced little ego.”

“Aye — at the very least that’d loosen his tongue about the searching patrols around here.” Sparrow liked the practicality in that fact almost as much as she liked the chance, finally, to do something!

Gwyn grinned broadly, turning to Llinolae as she declared, “Shall we try a bit of your favored old sport? Hide-and-go-seek might work well here.”

“If he’s armed,” Brit reminded them with pragmatic caution, “that’ll be a dangerous game.”

“Ril did see a small fire weapon strapped to his saddle,” Gwyn agreed. “But it’s a safer choice than ignoring him until he rides into camp!”

“Between my Sight and the sandwolves, we’d—”

“Your Sight should stay in camp!” Brit snapped. “I say it as a healer because you’re well mended, but not whole yet. As a Marshal, I say it because you’re the Dracoon and right now this District can’t afford to have something happen to you! And as an old campaigner…,” Brit shifted with a disgruntled sniff and admitted, “As an old campaigner, I know its best to guard my back.”

“Meaning—” Gwyn had worked just long enough with the woman during the Wars to know what Brit was suggesting, “one of us should stay in camp, one of us should go hunting the scouting party he got separated from before they stumble onto us, and someone who doesn’t look the least like a Royal Marshal — or an escaped Dracoon! — should keep the boy distracted in case the hide-and-go-seek allows him to get a glimpse of his opponents.”

“I’d love to keep him off balance,” Sparrow offered.

“Well, Love…,” Brit leaned nearly off the side of her sturdy, old camp chair and wrapped an arm about her shadowmate’s shoulder, “we’re goin’ to get the chance real soon!”

Gwyn shook the stillness from her body. The pack bond had snatched at the focus of her attention again, but the impressions had held images strong enough to dim other senses for the moment.

“More news?” Llinolae pressed.

A grin reassured them all quickly as she shared, “Only good news — he’s bedded down for the night.”

“Then we should go out ’bout first light?” Brit suggested, and sought Sparrow’s opinion with a glance. Her shadowmate only agreed with an eager nod.

“Both Ril and Ty are staying out to watch him,” Gwyn added.

“Shouldn’t we send someone up to the northern ridge as well?” Sparrow ventured.

“I don’t think we need to,” Gwyn considered, then shrugged. “Even if the scouting party got close enough to the gorge edge to see us, Llinolae’s Sight should warn her before they managed to trace a way in….”

“I’d know before they actually saw our camp from above,” Llinolae confirmed.

“Still — we could leave the horses loose,” Brit speculated. “For caution’s sake, we might even put out the drays.”

“Wonderful!” Sparrow quipped. “We’ll let the big lugs slobber all over the invading Clan folk.”

Gwyn and Llinolae chuckled.

“The point is, they’ll seem hugely intimidating after Gwyn’s smaller mares have gnashed a few teeth and kicked a few hooves.”

“My mares are not that much smaller, Brit!” Gwyn protested.

“And they’re nearly as husky.” Llinolae’s grin broadened.

“All right!” Brit tossed her hands into the air. “Don’t leave the ole nags loose — do whatever you want! I don’t care!”

“Oh yes, you do!” Sparrow smirked back. “It’s what makes you so adorable.”

Brit glared at her.

She smiled sweetly and batted her eyelids with innocence.

“Humpf!”

It couldn’t be helped; both the Dracoon and Niachero dissolved into laughter.

The night air was neither particularly hot nor cold as the drop in temperature and the increased humidity neatly formed a balance. Moist scents of greenery, mulch and soil permeated the forest. Yellow crickets chittered, and a pair of night toads croaked along in their summer mating songs. Beneath them all, the rhythms of the waterfall ran.

Gwyn sighed contentedly and stood to walk out of the pool, disturbing the glossy stillness of those quieter edge-waters. She reached for her towel, gazing around the small, cradled cove. She enjoyed being here, especially during these silverish hours of the Twin Moons. Even with the approach of the Clan scout, she found only a soothing calm here, and it became easier for her to trust her packmates’ assurances that all was well for the night. Gwyn could see this place had been well chosen for a healing Shea’s Hole.

She settled beside her clothes on the mossy bank, dried her hands a bit more, and reached up to pull the slender reed from her hair buckle. It felt good to shake her tousled mat free. She ran her fingers through the feathery tangles as the ends brushed across her shoulders, reminding her to ask Brit for a trim.

At that, Gwyn smiled to herself. She wrapped her arms about her legs and propped her chin on her knees at a most pleasant thought — Llinolae playing with these longer strands. Jes had once teased that she’d catch anyone’s eye with ‘that fly-away silk’ if she’d only grow it long enough to give a woman a proper length to dally with. Gwyn had to admit, she liked the idea of that woman being Llinolae.

Her smile faded as Gwyn accepted she did want that woman to be Llinolae. It might mean wintering outside of Valley Bay, but it meant being with Llinolae. And that was what Gwyn wanted — needed. At the very least, Gwyn understood she needed to try — to risk — the turmoil to see if this heartbond could be welded strong. In the end, it was very simple; she wanted them to be together.

“Can I take it…,” a quiet voice drifted through the silvers and shadows of the night, “that since your shift in amarin seems to include me, you wouldn’t mind my company for a bit?”

Gwyn glanced to the wide, sloping blanket of thick moss and barely discerned a figure rising. She broke into a welcoming grin as Llinolae stepped into the moons’ light. “How long have you been here?”

“Since before you came in, I’m afraid. Forgive me for holding silent?”

“Certainly. Or was I disturbing you?”

“No, you weren’t,” Llinolae murmured. She made no move to sit, and Gwyn had to lean back a little to look at her. “I’d been… trying something with my Sight. It wasn’t working, and I caught myself dozing off. Then you were wading in and I found myself… well….” She shrugged a shoulder as amused at herself as she was embarrassed. “I enjoyed watching you swim. You have a way of moving — not just in your swimming, but with everything. You add grace to your beauty.”

“Thank you,” Gwyn was charmed by the confession. “That’s two compliments you pay me.”

“Two?”

“No, three. You trust me enough that my arrival doesn’t disturb your Sight nor your sleep. You like the grace I do things with, and I think… you just said, I was beautiful — ?”

Llinolae felt her skin flush slightly. “I did.”

“Thank you.”

“I was tempted — to say something sooner.”

“Were you?”

Llinolae nodded and waved a hand a bit towards the water. “Going in seemed like a nice idea.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“You — you wouldn’t mind?” Llinolae blinked, a little nonplussed.

“I wouldn’t mind. Would you rather I leave you to it and meet you back at the tent?”