Fires of Aggar (47 page)

When it came right down to it, Llinolae simply didn’t like the fact that they were Clan folk. Anything else at the moment she considered trivial.

Twilight had come. The early moon was already up and bright despite the cloaking canopy of clouds and trees. Darkfall was not going to get much darker today.

She glanced at Ty who lay down beside her, still panting in exhaustion. The sandwolf cocked her head, tongue lolling, then snapped her mouth shut and managed one of those sneeze-like nods briefly. She panted again, and Llinolae sank her fingers deep into the curly ruff with a squeeze of reassurance. Ty was right, the rest was left to her.

Bow in hand, she crept out of their nest while bending the amarin around her in that uncomfortably familiar guise of ‘hide.’ She glanced about cautiously and ventured to stand. She wished she had a better sense of exactly where those scouts were. Knowing they were too far to See easily yet near enough to continue to disturb the amarin was not her idea of safe distance. They could be a single tree beyond her clear Sight or a half-league. If only a single tree beyond, then they could — with skill — target her on the scopes of those fire weapons with barely a notice from her Sight. The prospect of tree climbing right now did not make her happy; dividing her attention between ‘hiding’ and anything else was always a risky venture.

But tree climbing? Hah! She eyed the burly giant across the way. It was going to be more like cliff scaling from the look of that Ancient honeywood. By the Mother’s hand, how had Gwyn ever managed to scale that thing?

Llinolae approached the aged honeywood, feeling the steady ebb and flow of its amarin. It had a richness and depth to it that few others of this behemoth’s kind could equal. Age… seasons… she placed a palm gently against the smooth ridges of the ruddy bark. So, so old — the cork-flake texture of its bark had completely been lost. With time and weather, with fires, and, yes, even winters — this one had been little more than a sprout when it had first seen snow. Llinolae stroked the stone-armor, respect slipping to awe. She had never known that snow could fall below the altitude of the Clan’s Plateau. To her knowledge, Khirlan proper had never boasted a true winter — at least not since the Council’s Seers had shifted the amarin to create a place for the Clan to house their starcraft.

The amarin of the Ancient shimmered in affirmation; its seasons numbered much greater than even that.

A shiver ran through her. Fingers curled about deep ridges that were palm-wide and more. The satin feel of polished stone was somehow cool to the touch, yet it seemed so very warm with life. She gazed up along the rising lines that marked the scars and eons of survival, walking slowly along the base. She needed to go only a few steps before stopping. The shape and slope of its trunk became clearer to her Sight as she focused inward, and she found its roots were sunk deep. The tree grew virtually straight out from the ground with a diameter that could easily eclipse the width of Khirlan greatest city gates. It’s smooth, hardened wood, nearly petrified by elements and time, offered little for the inexperienced hand and foot to use in climbing. Limbs as wide as silver-pine tree trunks stretched broad overhead. They were far, far overhead but of no aid to her here below. Yet the currents of this great one cradled Gwyn’s own amarin. Llinolae stepped away, squinting upwards in concentration. The glimmering filaments of the Ancient’s harmon grew more distinct to her — like starlight emerging from the twilight — and gradually Llinolae was drawn to a pattern of pinpricks. She drew back a bit more and Saw the zigzagging pattern of ascent up the trunk to a crevice that sidled around the corner of the lowest tree bough.

Lightning had once struck and split there, Llinolae realized. Though the growth had eventually mended, the rift further above and the haymoss played shadowy tricks that hid the place from normal sight, it was an excellent hideaway. No doubt Gwyn’s initial thoughts had been to take refuge on the tree limb itself, high enough above the forest floor to be out of casual view on a branch that seemed inaccessible yet was wide enough to mask her from searching eyes. The Mother had been guiding her choice however, and the shelter within the tree’s great trunk had become obvious when Gwyn had gotten above.

Yet how Gwyn had managed it? Baffled, Llinolae shook her head until suddenly she Saw that the zigging amarin trail was some sort of tree wounding. But they were small, insignificant insect nips to this Ancient and wouldn’t have struck its amarin with such tell-tale signs, unless the tree was intending her to note them. So, not wounds. She tried to measure perspective by a more personal standard and grasped that they were narrow yet deep, thin as a finger… maybe twice a hand’s depth? Made by a stiletto-styled, steel blade! And not merely one knife, but two!

Gwyn’s vambraces! Those leathers on her forearms sheathed just such knives!

“Mae n’Pour!” Llinolae breathed and eyed the height of that long climb again. She knew the Amazons of old were strong, but to pull one’s self up, hand over hand by knife strikes? “In truth you are Niachero, ti Soroi.”

The tenor of the amarin shifted within the Ancient, and Llinolae felt a pulse of urgency reach to her. The bright print of Gwyn’s knife-trail glittered like set gems while the rest dulled. She extended a soul-deep thanks to the Ancient. She thanked the Amazons as well for their practice of using metal arrows, because it was the only way she was going to reach those upper heights Unlike her beloved Niachero, Llinolae did not have the sheer and powerful upper body strength necessary to pull herself up this Great Tree using only knives! Which was a moot point anyway, since she didn’t wear vambraces with hidden stilettos! She shrugged her cape aside, reaching into her quiver which she had filled from Gwyn’s stock.

Blue eyes narrowed. She pulled and Sighted. Harmons pulsed and steadied, amarin shaping daughter, tree, and arrow to one purpose. Fingers opened — released!

With soundless harmony the strong, metal shafted arrow took flight and the first rung of Llinolae’s ladder was planted in the lowest of the stiletto marks. She set the next arrow, and the next, sliding into an efficient rhythm of set-pull-release that needed no pause even as she stepped away to gain proper angles for her higher arches.

A nudge of praise brushed her as Llinolae finished, and she smiled over her shoulder in Ty’s direction. It had been a task well done, she admitted. She slung her bow over her shoulder and secured it, then took to climbing. She had taken care to sink the arrows deep enough to hold, yet leave her room to step without damaging the fletching. Though she still had a half dozen in the quiver, she would rather not sacrifice the fourteen unless she absolutely had to, and she intended to retrieve as many of these as she possible could. Those Clan scouts were still too close.

Arms and once bruised muscles were beginning to shake towards the end, but she made it to that broad based limb soon enough. She sat a moment to catch her breath and wiped the sleeve across her flushed brow, feet dangling. A sense from Ty flickered across her mind’s eye, and she learned Ril had begun to circle Cinder wide, to take her back to camp.

That was good, Llinolae nodded unconsciously. It meant that by the midnight moon’s rise, Ril would be standing sentry along with Ty. She glanced around herself to get her bearings in the gathering shadows. The wind was chillier, yet it carried more of the Forest’s voices up here — yes, quite a ways up. She glanced between her feet again, judging the climb must have been six or seven times her own height. Shaking her head again at Gwyn’s sheer strength, she got to her feet. She touched the haymoss, glancing upwards. The crevice started slightly below the limb here, but there was still a head’s height or two to go before the rift opened properly. She turned to check for the scouts first and walked out for a better view.

It was a comfortable walk, with a bit of haymoss clumped here and there. This lower limb was too old to branch leaves and too far from the forest canopy to get proper sunlight anymore. She gave Gwyn credit for a gamble well made. They could have trotted a horse along this limb, and it certainly offered a wide view of the forest floor.

And it was, in truth, the lost Clan scout out there. Llinolae crouched low, more from habit then from risk of discovery. His amarin was unmistakable from this angle which might mean another scout was near who might be searching for this fellow’s trail?

She spun a little on her boot soles, gaze narrowing as she searched off to the left beyond the tree’s great trunk. The second scout was barely discernable, riding into the distance… riding away at an easy canter.

There was too much satisfaction and purpose in that direct line of departure, however, and Llinolae didn’t particularly like it…. It could mean a search pattern finished with an anticipation of eventide — or it could mean signs of the lost scout had been discovered. The latter meant the whole patrol could be descending later.

She frowned and made her way to the trunk’s shelter. The arrow steps were not going to be easily missed unless she intervened with her Sight.

Still hidden below, Ty prodded Llinolae encouragingly with a light brush through her awareness. To Ty’s senses, all was well at least for the moment.

It would have to do, Llinolae accepted. If the scouts returned, hopefully the sandwolf could alert her soon enough for her Blue tricks to conjure something useful. Right now, Gwyn was waiting.

She scampered up the last few feet, but as soon as she parted the haymoss, Llinolae realized the sluggish rhythms to Gwyn’s body were not from sleep but from a concussion! The jumbling of amarin was a chaotic mesh, blending Gwyn’s life signs with those of the Ancient tree. Like blood from a poorly stanched wound that flows into an icy creek with washing, Gwyn’s uniqueness of self was quite literally bleeding away in the wash of the greater tide.

“Thank you for giving her shelter, but neither you nor Aggar can have her yet!” Llinolae announced, and the flare of her own Sight burst bright. In a whirlwind of blue light, her amarin raced about the perimeter from either side of her until at the far end of the craggy chamber the sides met and sealed. Sparks and jagged bits of indigo protested for a brief moment, but the seam held and the cocoon was spun. A warmer blue rose then to surround the outer shell and offer reinforcement. A smile fluttered across Llinolae’s features, and she acknowledged the tree’s shift of intent with a nod; she could do with the aid.

The humidity eased as the temperature rose to a more comfortable level. Llinolae shed her cloak and weapons, making her way carefully across the spongy mulch bed of the so-called floor. With approval she noted Gwyn had not only managed to climb to this haven, but the Niachero had stayed coherent enough to bring her pack above as well.

Gwyn lay stretched out awkwardly on a blanket. Her feet had once been propped atop the small pack, though one had since slipped, while her head was gingerly raised by a wooden knob and her rolled-up cloak. Obviously, she had known she was going into shock. But from what?

Llinolae straightened Gwyn’s legs gently, propping both feet a bit higher. She threw her own cloak over Gwyn, knowing it would be a while before the clammy chill would recede — even in the rising, toasty warmth of the tree’s nest. Fingers made sensitive by Sight and experience found the bruising to Gwyn’s shoulder despite the clothes hiding it. The swelling behind Gwyn’s ear was even more tender. Llinolae bent low, a hand moving very, very cautiously as she peered closer. She found she had been right not to move Gwyn’s head; the woman’s wound was bloodless only on a skin level. The pressure — the swelling! The jolt to the skull must have been horrendous. They were lucky nothing had fractured. Llinolae knelt a moment, hands on her thighs and a scowl on her lips as she considered their options. Yet at the edges of her mind, she kept pondering the cause. From the lingering traces of amarin, some sort of log or branch had caused the injury. But she was decidedly suspicious that it had been a simple accident. Maybe the Clan scout had not been anticipating honors for finding signs of their lost apprentice, but for boasting of a Marshal’s kill!

With a physical shake, Llinolae pulled herself back to Gwyn’s immediate care. There actually was not much to wrestle over. Gwyn’l needed the swelling to go down without blood clots or nasty complications, and her body’s natural rhythms to be restored. If Brit were here, Llinolae would have quickly turned the task over to the healer, because though Llinolae’s mentor had taught her about off-worlder physiology — ‘just in case’ — Llinolae would be the first to admit she understood healing very poorly.

A great pulse of amarin throbbed and dispersed, rivulets of rainbows dancing along the soft blue glow of her Sight’s cocoon. An amazing simulation of a human hug, Llinolae smiled. Again she felt the reassurance of this Ancient’s wisdom. Mechanics in amarin were intricately woven, they both admitted. But amarin were not solely physical nor metaphysical; amarin were truth and light, life and death — intermeshed yet distinct. There were many, many ways to intercede through the Life Cycles. Healers knew of the most concrete. With the strength and guidance of this Ancient tree, Llinolae’s Sight could mend through less tangible means than splints and medicines. She knew Gwyn’s patterns. Her Sight of Gwyn could recreate what once was. The Great Tree would lend her the power to reshape Gwyn’s amarin to that inner vision and temper the shifting to match Gwyn’s tolerance for rapid body changes.

Llinolae dipped her fingers into the rushing wall of lights that spun their cocoon and brought her the Ancient’s Gifts. Using touch that glowed with the rainbow radiance, she began to paint a new pattern of amarin along Gwyn’s cheek.

Ril slipped into the rooted niche, coming to stretch prone next to Ty with a soft bunt from her nose.

Ty flicked her tattered ear towards her.

Ril grunted shortly, understanding her Sister’s impatience all too well. The whole trek with Cinder had been a worthless venture. The scouting apprentice was so haphazard in his attentions that he had repeatedly lost their trail. Eventually she had been forced to abandon the attempt. Instead she had taken Cinder back to camp, leaving the mare for Brit and Sparrow to find in the morning. Then she returned to stand watch with Ty. The trail she had purposefully laid from camp to here had been subtle enough that few, save Gwyn or Southerners like Sparrowhawk, could have been expected to follow it. But it was the best she could do by way of a message for help. Anything more obvious and the Clan’s patrol might find it first.