Fires of Aggar

by Chris Anne Wolfe

  The horses drew nearer in the dimness, and a sudden smile brightened the other’s face. “Gwyn! I didn’t recognize you bundled so neat. Come in, Soroe! So late in crossing? You’re lucky to have made it — I was sure you must be a lowlander or some Sister returning. What makes you dally or have you done the two days crossing in one!?”

  “In truth, I did just that,” and the young woman sighed as she stepped down from the stirrup. The saddle creaked and the bay, Cinder, grunted in relief as the girth uncinched for the first time since dawn.

  Tawna squinted, her dark eyes shrewd as they took measure of her guest. The lines in Gwyn’s faced underlined her fatigue. Between the grit and the apricot gold of her skin, the creases seemed almost to be worked into wood. Gwyn was a Royal Marshal by trade as her bright copper-bronze coat declared; she was Niachero — Daughter of the Stars — by birth as her height and tan attested, but she was a young Sister too. Twenty-seven by the reckoning of the ancient home stars or thirteen-and-some by the tenmoons of Aggar, not so very old and not so very young. Yet Tawna noted the weary tightness about her lips and that all-too-knowing squint about her eyes. That sensitive, assessing face should have belonged to someone much older. It wasn’t fair, Tawna thought, even without knowing what the duty was this time; Gwyn was too young to be cheated of her own youth. But then Niachero were born with that bittersweet brilliance — that stubbornness of ability — to carry what must be carried.

  “Has the eitteh arrived?” Gwyn asked abruptly, stripping the red leather saddle from her mare and heaving it onto the corral’s stony fence.

  “Aye, it was Sable. But she wouldn’t wait to take an answer.” Tawna felt her throat close with momentary despair. The business must be more serious than she feared, if the eitteh was sent out so quickly after Gwyn’s home departure. Then with a sudden shake of her head, Tawna gathered her resolve and opened her arm to hug the taller woman close. Gwyn was Niachero, she could take care of herself.

  Surprised, Gwyn returned the embrace and looked at her friend questioningly, “Nehna?”

  “Rash fool,” Tawna muttered, her mouth curling with a strained smile.

  “We both,” and her eyes glinted with an old teasing.

  The sudden strength of Gwyn’s mischief broke Tawna’s misgivings like a prism does sunlight, and the woman caught her breath.

  Gwyn laughed as the bucket of grains was suddenly dropped at her feet. Tawna shook her head, striding away with an exasperated cry, “See to your poor beasts! A single day’s crossing? They’ve been abused enough without waiting for their feed as well!”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “Do you ever get tired of being alone?” Gwyn murmured, half-lost in her own world, and Tawna smiled gently, brushing the feathery copper from Gwyn’s forehead as they lay. Gwyn’s attention shifted, returning from that far-away place and worry etched faint furrows between her eyebrows. “How do you manage?”

  They were wrapped in a soft spun blanket, the fire in the hearth flickering with a heartwarming glow that echoed the tenderness of the touch they had shared. The small cottage smelled of wood smoke and herbs, far cries from the musty ash of sulfur in those distant heights. It was a good place to find refuge and it reflected the woman’s care and welcome. But tonight the Sisters’ Gatekeeper was not to be deluded by her dear companion’s rhetoric, and Tawna’s head shook with a sympathetic smile. “You’re missing Selena then?”

  A pause, a sigh, and a weary denial closed Gwyn’s copper-hued eyes. “I wish it were simply that.”

  Tawna studied her carefully. “It’s almost been a tenmoon-and-a-half, Gwyn.”

  Eyes opened, blurred with tears. She nodded.

  “Has there been no other?”

  At Tawna’s concern, Gwyn offered a fond smile. “You count yourself so little, Soroe?”

  “No, but I count myself as your dear friend,” Tawna returned solemnly, “not as your heartbound companion.”

  “Truth,” she sighed faintly. “No, there has been no heartbond since Selena.”

  Tawna nodded, realizing she had always known this. Gwyn was a woman of intense, committed passions. Their time together would have changed, altered from loving rapport to gentle companionship if someone that special had come along. Gwyn was not capable of losing herself in one woman’s arms for long, if her heart was entwined with another.

  “It takes time to heal,” Tawna added belatedly. “What you had with Selena is rare, it will not be easily replaced.”

  “It will never be replaced,” Gwyn corrected hollowly.

  “No, but there are as many ways in loving as there are women to love.”

  “I know that.”

  “It is a hard thing to remember through death’s empty wake.”

  A slow breath passed her lips, and Gwyn shook her head vaguely, “It is perhaps that I am more frightened of finding… awakening such feelings again, Tawna. The intensities, the depths given with such heartbonds. But still, how do you bear the loneliness?”

  “For me it is not lonely,” Tawna murmured, the truth of it reflecting in her gentle gaze. “We are different, our needs are different. You are meant to follow passion and bright stars, while I? I’m content to watch the Twin Moons, to sing with my lute, and pray with my poetry. This rocky alcove offers a priestess’ seclusion for me, dear Gwyn. It is not lonely. It’s merely my home.”

  Gwyn thought about that, listening to the whispering winds as they stirred through the mountains. For a moment she could almost imagine the stars swirling, dancing in the moons’ light beyond that rough hewn roof. Still, it was only a glimpse of what her companion embraced, and she knew again the differences they would never breech.

  “I think, it is not only the companionship you are missing,” Tawna mused, watching Gwyn’s face closely. “Perhaps it is the intimacy of the Blue Sight as well?”

  Gwyn laughed with a sudden shout, and her friend grinned with her. “Intimacy? What a delicate word from you, Tawna. Aren’t you meaning naked exposure? Sheer lack of privacy? Isn’t it always you who maintains that to love a Blue Sight is to drop every barrier to the depths of the soul?”

  “Well, perhaps I lack that particular sort of courage. After all, I am not Niachero.”

  No… Gwyn sobered, remembering just how many women were frightened by the very passions that would bind their hearts to another’s life. It hurt to remember those who had turned from her own offer because of that fear.

  “And…,” Tawna reminded her with a teasing smile, “I was not raised with a mother and a sister of the Sight. My hermitlike ways would have been quite lost in that sort of household, don’t you think?”

  “In truth.”

  “Also, Selena was gifted with years as well as Sight. You held much to treasure there.”

  Again Gwyn had to agree.

  “Yet why now?” Tawna probed, concern reflected with fond love as she tipped Gwyn’s face upward. “What has happened to bring on this soul searching, Soroe?”

  Gwyn shrugged, growing almost off-handed as she turned to slide her arms about Tawna’s smooth shoulders. “I go to escort a Blue Sight. Perhaps the thought has made me nostalgic?”

  Tawna felt her lips curl in amusement as Gwyn’s soft mouth claimed her. She knew better than to pry, but she wasn’t about to object to the delicious distractions either.

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  Off in the darkness, Cinder gave an annoyed snort and stomp. Gwyn glanced up from her whittling, squinting to make out the wavering shapes beyond the fire. She could see nothing. A warm muzzle laid itself down across her knee in reassurance, and the Amazon grinned. She gave Ril a fond rub down her furry backbone. “So our bondmate finally returns from her hunt. Think she’ll behave herself for a day or two?”

  Ril answered with a vague whine of doubt. With her head still in Gwyn’s lap, the sandwolf twisted, brows high, as she searched expectantly. Obligingly, Ty padded out of the darkness to join them. Her cold nose bumped lightly against Gwyn’s cheek and then Ril’s.

 
“Good Eve to you too, Young Ruffian.” Gwyn grunted as the tardy sandwolf flopped to the ground and rolled her weight into her human. With a good-natured chuckle, Gwyn accepted her role in life as a backrest. She gave the great beast a pat on the stomach and a hearty hug. Ty grinned back over a furry shoulder at Gwyn; it was a toothy, comical grin at that upside-down angle. “I’m glad you ate well. I’m even happier to have you safely in camp. But what were you doing to poor Cinder?”

  Ty flipped to her belly and cheerfully refused to answer. Panting with feigned ignorance, she stared off into the dark.

  “Hm-hmm. Thought so.” Ril politely moved her nose as Gwyn resumed working on the small flute. The campfire crackled, and its noise blended easily with the stirring night sounds. A yellow cricket awoke somewhere and soon its chirping had roused the neighbors from their leafy beds. One of the mares shifted her weight, rustling the twigs and such underfoot. Ril moved closer to keep Gwyn’s leg warm as a wayward breeze tried to make the spring chill chillier.

  But Gwyn’s thoughts were on the note M’Sormee’s eitteh had delivered to the Gate House for her. Her mother had heard from the contacts at the Royal Court and their discreet inquiries had only confirmed Gwyn’s suspicions; neither the King nor the Crowned Rule, his daughter, had received any news of the unrest in Khirlan. They were not ignoring the Dracoon’s pleas for help, the Royal House was simply unaware of her needs which supported the unsettling probability that there was a traitor among the Dracoon’s own scribes. Either that or the Dracoon was downright paranoid, and Gwyn’s mother would have Seen something odd if such were the case. But as Gwyn thought back to that evening with M’Sormee, she remembered her mother’s trust in the Dracoon. No, Bryana had Seen no amarin of madness, only of desperation…

  The whitewashed walls of the garden were bathed in orange by the setting sun. The woman’s red hair was afire as well, though she was ignorant of its sheening colors. She’d bound it back in a thick braid to stay out of the way as she tended the rose bushes. Her hands were protected by thick gloves, but her movements were efficient and unhindered by either her gloves or her heavy apron. The emerald robes she wore beneath the gardening apron suggested that scrounging around on her knees in the mulch was not her usual pastime.

  Shadows began to lengthen. The globe lamps along the walls and paths gradually brightened, subtly fending off the twilight just as the climate control kept the icy ting of the new spring away. Heedless of time, the woman worked on until finally a shadow did intrude. A faint smile creased the corners of her blue eyes, although she never stopped in her task.

  “You’re working late, M’Sormee.”

  “I started late.” She finished to her satisfaction and looked up at the tall, strong figure of her birth daughter. As always Bryana thought how like her Beloved this daughter looked, and as always she felt pride stir for those two Amazons of her family. Like Jes, this daughter possessed the height and strength of their foremothers — like Jes, Gwyn tanned lightly from the sun. The only thing that bespoke of Bryana’s own blood was the hair, but even that had become uniquely Gwyn’s. A fairer red and finer than Bryana’s, it tended to unruliness if the curls worked free from the short braid. That disarray was again more reminiscent of Jes’ dark locks.

  That infectious, familiar grin challenged her silent assessment. Bryana relented and set aside her trowel. She accepted the offered hand as she went to rise, ruefully conceding how stiff age and gardening had made her this evening.

  “I began late because the Ring met overlong this afternoon. Too many concerns for our Sisters who will be returning from the Changlings’ Wars. This summer season will not be an easy one for Valley Bay, I fear.”

  “And as usual they expected the Ring Binder to magically provide all the answers.”

  Bryana nodded, patient humor sparkling in her eyes. “There is a certain assumption that since the Blue Sight shows me what event is to happen, it must naturally also tell me how to deal with that event.”

  “Yet it’s just the opposite,” Gwyn murmured. She gave her mother an arm to lean on as they turned for the house. Despite the creamy smoothness of Bryana’s face, her daughter knew how age-worn the seasons as Ring Binder had made this woman.

  “It is a worry,” Bryana continued almost as if she were speaking to herself. “The Wars have robbed so many of them of limbs, of trust… of hope.

  “We spent hours with the n’Shea crones of Home, searching for records and methods of dealing with these battle stresses. I believe our own House n’Shea found some of it useful. I hope so, anyway.”

  “But it leaves you tired, using your Sight to cross that starry chasm of time and space.”

  Bryana shrugged. Gwyn place an arm about her mother’s shoulders, and a grateful if amused smile appeared. “And who comforts who here?”

  Gwyn only hugged her gently. “Then think of me as Niachero, not as your eldest.”

  Bryana laughed beneath her breath. They entered the house, and as Bryana crossed the room to sink gratefully into the depths of the great couch, Gwyn unfolded the slatted doors that separated the house and gardens. She paused to be certain the outer lights were dimming off, then turned to kindle the wood laid in the fireplace.

  “You sent for me,” Gwyn reminded her mother softly, settling back against the side of the hearth. She watched in silent concern as Bryana wearily shrugged out of the work apron. Not for the first time Gwyn thought that it was fortunate N’Sormee would be coming home this summer with the rest of the veterans; Bryana seemed to tire less easily when Jes was near to lend her strength. “Would you like some tea, M’Sormee ?”

  “No,” Bryana raised a brow, irony touching some inner thought which she finally shared. “Do you know how many kettles of tea I’ve consumed today?”

  Gwyn laughed quietly. “We should ask Kimarie to send down a few kegs of her orchard juices. Offer you a change of taste.”

  “Your little sister has enough to worry about right now. Calving season is beginning for our beasties, remember?”

  “Aye — no,” Gwyn stretched out her booted feet, with a deliberate slowness to the motion that was not lost on her mother. “I’d forgotten.”

  “You are treating me — like I’m made of fragile glass.”

  “Sometimes, perhaps you are.”

  “Sometimes, perhaps I’m not.”

  Gwyn acknowledged that with a tip of her head. “I’d never contest your strength.”

  A rich, soft laugh eased much of the weariness in the older woman. “In some ways, you are very much my daughter. Always the diplomat!”

  Eyes widened in mock surprise. “M’Sormee! Am I not always your daughter?”

  “No.” A quite composed, blue gaze fell to Gwyn, though Bryana was careful as always with her Blue Sight not to actually lock glances. “Often you are Jes’ own.”

  “Never!”

  They laughed together at that, companionable in the way loving seasons and simple respect had created. Then slowly, the stillness came to wrap about them. Gwyn bent a knee and rested her chin atop it. Hands folded about her ankle and her copper eyes studied her mother. Once more, she prompted. “You sent for me. Was it because of something that happened within the Ring? Or something that comes from our Sisters of the home planet?”

  “Neither really. A few days ago I had a visitor. Well, not precisely a visitor — a harmon. And now I find I have need of a Royal Marshal.”

  That startled Gwyn a bit. There weren’t many Blue Sights talented enough to project their harmon — that ghost image of themselves — across great distances to another, Blue Sight receptor. It was a necessary talent in the Ring Binder who was often the sole link between the Sisters of Aggar and their distant home world, but even the Council Seers were not always so gifted. Curious, Gwyn pressed, “The visitor was from the Council? No? From the Royal Family in their western Palace — or the Prince’s northern field camps?”

  “From Khirlan.”

  “Khirlan? The most southeastern district of th
e Ramains?” Gwyn’s chin dropped with a contemplative frown. “I’ve never heard of any trouble from them. But they have been pretty isolated during the Wars. Being so far south and inland, it’s always been more economical for them to provide extra tax monies rather than armed support for the Prince. I don’t think they’ve even got a standing regiment among his northern troops. But then the King and Crowned Rule still endorse the Old Law for border Districts and with the Clan’s Plateau being Khirlan’s neighboring — the Clan!”

  Understanding dawned as the Amazon sat bolt upright. “The Old Law exempted Khirlan from Royal Conscriptions, specifically because of the Terran Clan’s threat to the Ramains’ Realm. They send Churv money instead of sword carriers, because the swords are simply needed in Khirlan. Between the continual raids and the occasional invasions of the Clan, the Khirlan folk are in a constant struggle and have always had to maintain an active militia.”

  “Well apparently…,” Bryana amended somberly, “the last few seasons have only seen Khirlan’s struggle grow worse.”

  With a grim frown, Gwyn nodded. She knew all too well what must have happened. “The Clan finally capitalized on the fact that the Prince’s troops were occupied on the northern borders. The Clan Leads realized the Royal Family wouldn’t be able to send reinforcements and decided to see what they and their fire weapons could gain from it.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “M’Sormee?” Curiously, Gwyn glanced at her mother. It was odd that Valley Bay’s Ring Binder had become involved in this sort of matter. “Who was this visitor?”

  “The King’s Dracoon of Khirlan.”

  “She or he?”

  “She. Her name is Llinolae.”

  “She came to you and not to the Crowned Rule? Or even to the Council of Ten? Surely the Council has jurisdiction over the Clan’s affairs. We’re only interested bystanders.”

  “Ones which the Clan would prefer did not exist,” Bryana concluded succinctly.

  “So why does the Dracoon seek you out?”

  “It was unintentional.”