Fires of Aggar

by Chris Anne Wolfe

  Gwyn paused in the doorway, allowing her four-legged friends to push in around her. They had all been to the baths and settled their gear in the lodging rooms. The mud-splattered coats of the sandwolves had been washed and brushed, the gleaming ripples of lighter beige-grey on taupe were well marked once more, and Ril had ceased her sneezing while Ty was again thinking only of food. Gwyn too had become equally presentable in her soft breeches and laced jerkin of ruddy-brown; the soaking, travel-worn garments had been left at the laundry. Even her fiery red hair had been drawn back and, in the traditional guard-style, had been woven again into a short braid.

  Gwyn drew her attention from the milling crowd as Ty gently tugged on her tunic’s sleeve. She bent low, staring across the smoky commons from the vantage point of her packmates, and a crooked smile grew on her face. “I did promise you stewed meats, didn’t I?”

  Ril added her own panting grin to their plea.

  “Fair enough.” Gwyn pulled at the leather throng about her neck, drawing the green glass Marshal tags from beneath her shirt. Ty gingerly took the leather in mouth, but Gwyn’s fingers held the tags for a moment longer as she warned, “Don’t feast us beyond saddle and bow!”

  Ty had the good grace to look guilty.

  Gwyn grinned, “Off with you—”

  Ril hung back for a moment, a questioning lift to her hairless brows.

  “To find Jes,” Gwyn reminded her.

  The sandwolf butted her human’s thigh lightly and padded off for the kitchens.

  Jes was not a difficult woman to find, if one knew where to search. She was in the small alcove of the Minstrel’s Hearth, and the singers were gently plucking their strings, voices quiet as they contentedly blended their instruments’ harmonies. Alone and content, Jes sat with her back to the noise and smoke of the open commons. Her feet were propped high on her table’s edge, and her dark, graying hair was as short-braided as any other’s.

  In the farther corners, there were a few Amazons scattered among the Marshals, and one of these Sisters smiled as Gwyn appeared in the wooden archway. “Behind, Jes!”

  Without turning Jes raised a hand above her head, palm upward in greetings. “I heard of your escapades in the gorge.”

  Gwyn laughed, joy and precious love binding her heart as she ignored the hand and hugged the woman from behind.

  “Ahh careful, child!” the low timbre warned, and Gwyn was suddenly aware of the right arm that was bound tightly in its sling.

  “N’Sormee?!” She knelt, facing her mother as concern flashed in her copper eyes. “Your messages said nothing of injury! What happened?”

  Jes’ fingers hushed her daughter’s lips as she offered a soft, reassuring smile. Her dark gaze sparkled with familiar mischief and Gwyn felt her anxiety ease. Gwyn pressed a kiss into the callused palm, rising to draw a seat near.

  “I’m fine,” Jes murmured. “It was a clean break and due solely to my own foolishness.”

  “Which was?” her daughter challenged, elbows on knees as she leant forward.

  “I slipped stepping out of the baths.”

  Gwyn found them both laughing.

  “I’m a rickety old bucket of bones! What else is there to say?” And then the humor died to be replaced with a deep warmth. “It’s good to see you again, Gwyn’l.”

  Their hands grasped together tightly, and Gwyn nodded. “It’s been a long winter without you, N’Sormee.”

  “Aye,” Jes brushed the tousled red hair from her daughter’s eyes, “it has been so very long. How is Bryana? And your sister, Kima?”

  “M’Sormee sends her love. And Kimarie too, I imagine, although I didn’t have time to see her before I left.” Awkwardly, Gwyn looked down as her hand withdrew from her mother’s.

  “You hesitate?” Jes’ murmur was one of quiet encouragement.

  Gwyn forced a smile, blinking aside an unexpected tear. “You’ve been missed.”

  Jes nodded solemnly. “You all were sorely missed as well. I’m too old to be wintering away. You do know it was not my intention?”

  Gwyn nodded. “It was necessary. We knew that. But the Changlings’ Wars are over at last!”

  “For now.”

  “That’s what truly matters.”

  “No,” Jes corrected quietly. “What matters is that you are all still there to come home to.”

  “We are.”

  “Are you hungry?” Jes asked suddenly. She waved towards the table and for the first time Gwyn noticed the steaming platters of food. “They brought word when you arrived. I figured you’d be hungry — and cold! The mead’s been warmed. Which reminds me, two souls seem to be suspiciously absent?”

  Gwyn grinned, helping herself to cup and plate. “Ty’s stomach couldn’t wait. They’re off in the kitchens somewhere.”

  “I thought she’d outgrow that monstrous appetite of hers?”

  Gwyn laughed, “If anything, she’s eating twice what she did as an adolescent.”

  “Has she filled out any since I saw her last?”

  “Not a bit. She’s as lean and leathery as ever. But she seems blessed with a boundless energy, so she’s still fending for herself mostly, even on our longer trips.”

  “And Ril? Is she still her sedate, observant self?”

  “The very same. You’d think she was a matronly twenty-four seasons instead of four.”

  “Whereas Ty you’d swear was a pup?”

  “You’d certainly never think of them as sibs. Although,” Gwyn’s smile softened with a fondness, “to be fair, Ril has a wonderful sense of humor and Ty is actually very responsible when needed. They truly both believe the three of us can handle anything that comes along. To Ril that means she can settle back and relax, be content to watch things unfolding. Ty takes it as permission to play while she has the chance.”

  Jes thoughtfully eyed the round berry in her hand. “Where does that leave you?”

  “In the middle?” With a pause, Gwyn considered the question more closely. She shrugged suddenly and sat back in her chair. “Ril’s calm is — well, there are times I’d swear she was a Blue Sight projecting that infectious quietness. She helps to center me when I grow too gloomy or anxious. Then there’s Ty playing the clown, keeping me laughing even in a drenched campsite. Both help to keep my head clear enough to keep the three of us out of trouble.”

  “So you don’t regret the seasons of growing and training? The responsibilities I imposed by imprinting them to you?”

  Gwyn shook her head adamantly. “They’re family. We make a good pack. I’d not trade them for a dozen eitteh, Jes.”

  “Well, Khirlan probably has more experience with sandwolves than winged-cats anyway. It was once quite a traders’ city, being on that old route up from the Southern Continent.”

  “Hah!” A strange voice intruded with a mocking shout. “Do you seriously think that matters? I tell you! No one on this wooded continent has experience with sandwolves save those fortunate enough to be part of a pack!”

  They both looked around to find a spry, skinny little figure of a woman dressed in the flamboyant, bloused tunic and yellow jerkin of the tinker-trade’s costume. Her bony cast of features clearly declared she was from the Southern Desert Peoples, and the crinkles beside her honey-brown eyes attested to an exceptionally good-natured disposition. She leaned over the back of their vacant chair in a leisurely fashion, all the while staring expectantly at Jes. Gwyn watched in fascination as those smiling, thin lips fairly danced with some amusement, and then Jes let out a shriek of recognition, pulling the newcomer close in a welcoming hug.

  “Sparrow? By the Mother’s Own Hand! With your hair grown out and in full troubadour colors no less! What are you doing in Gronday?! Oh… here, Gwyn’l, this is Brit’s companion and love, Shel n’Sappho.”

  “Actually, everyone calls me Sparrow these days,” the woman asserted, grasping Gwyn’s palms across the table. “And I’m guessing you to be Jes’ oldest and the Royal Marshal, Gwyn n’Athena?”

  �
�That I am,” Gwyn confessed readily, liking the faint musical lilt of the Desert folks’ accent.

  “I knew it!” Sparrow spun the chair about and straddled it with a bounce. “You’ve got that red-fire hair of Bryana’s youth.”

  Gwyn’s brow lifted in surprise — Valley Bay wasn’t that small! “You’ve met M’Sormee?”

  “Once or twice eons ago, at the Keep. I was with the Council before I joined Brit.”

  The oddity registered then and, frowning slightly, Gwyn tipped her head aside. “You said to call you sparrow?”

  Mirth creased the corners of her eyes again, and the woman bobbed a nod. “Brit’s responsible for it. Shortly after we joined, she dubbed me Sparrowhawk for some reason — after some ancient people’s bird. I don’t even think the thing was one of Aggar’s.”

  Jes’ low chuckle erupted. “Brit always told me the creature was known for speed, agility and quick-wits, despite its petite size.”

  The other pulled a face at her and confided in Gwyn, “A backhanded compliment, if ever I heard one.”

  “But it stuck, spindly frame and all.” Jes grinned without shame. “Eventually it got shortened to plain Sparrow—”

  “Sparrowhawk is rather a mouthful.” Sparrow winked at Gwyn.

  “And today — few think to call you Shel anymore.”

  “Not even my old Council mentors.” A wistful, woebegone sigh and a roll of her eyes mourned the loss dramatically.

  “Enough!” Jes gave a wave of her good hand, “Why are you here? And where’s that pompous old healer of yours?”

  “Brit? Oh, she’ll be along in a day or so. Ran into difficulties with the ice and mud south of Colmar and nearly lost a wheel. We managed to limp along to Crossroads’ wagon works, but then she sent me on ahead to corral you into waiting for her.”

  “Me?” Jes raised a brow in puzzlement. “What have I done to bring you two out of Rotava before the Black River even thaws?”

  Sparrow shrugged, then pointed at the food and at Jes’ tacit consent helped herself to a stray piece of roast lexion. She nibbled on the fowl, eyeing both Sisters for a long moment, before she shrugged again. “Don’t know.”

  “Ah-huh,” Jes accepted agreeably, and Gwyn stifled a laugh as N’Sormee continued with, “The two of you merely missed my sober face so much that you dragged out those ole plow horses and that rickety, rotting ole tinkers’ wagon — through more than a ten-day of mud and muck, mind you — just so you could join me by the Minstrel’s Hearth. Right. And men-cats have wings now.

  “I repeat, Sparrow, why are you here?”

  “I don’t know,” Sparrow returned blandly, then her smile brightened quickly. “Honestly, Jes, I’ve barely a clue. We got a message that you might need help. The fellow said you were here and that we should hurry or we’d miss you. But there was nothing about the whys or wherefores. Still, you know the Council. Rarely tells you half of what you need to know.” She popped another morsel in her mouth with more apparent interest in the food than the words.

  Gwyn scowled, unconsciously mirroring the expression on Jes’ face as her mother asked, “What’s become so serious that the Council tries to take advantage of their past ties to you?”

  Sparrow lifted a shoulder, busily sopping up some of the platter’s gravy with a piece of bread. “Brit’s got the same questions, yet you know how often those elderly Mistresses and Masters are right about trouble coming—”

  “I know!” Jes snapped, cutting short the flippancy. “But what did they say to get Brit to agree this round?”

  Sparrow met Jes’ gaze steadily, all jesting gone from her manner now. “They said that you two needed help. They didn’t need to say anything else. You know that.”

  “Forgive me,” Jes sighed, her frustration fading to sheer weariness. “You’re right. Brit would walk the Firecaps naked if it meant aiding a Sister, even one she didn’t know.”

  “We all would,” Sparrow amended quietly.

  “We should have expected the Council to take notice eventually,” Gwyn murmured, eyes downcast as Jes looked at her sharply. Her mother stared hard a second, then saw the reason in what Gwyn was saying. Gwyn’s copper glance lifted finally and a crooked smile teased a semblance of better humor from Jes. “It’s only fair play, N’Sormee. Our Ring’s Sighted members keep abreast of the Council’s doings, why shouldn’t we assume the Council’s Seers are following us as well?”

  “I’d just hoped they’d be a little slower in interfering this time.” But Jes was smiling again.

  “Well, they are interfering,” Sparrow piped up as she stole another bite of lexion. “Not very forcefully, though. As usual. All you have to say is ‘no thank you’ and Brit and I will leave you be. The Council knows that as well as either of you, so I shouldn’t think they’re very concerned about….” She broke off and grinned at the irony of the fact that she didn’t even know what the trouble was. “About whatever it is.”

  “Ahh…,” Jes interjected quietly, “perhaps this should all wait until we’re somewhere a little more private?”

  “It should wait until Brit arrives,” Sparrow declared matter-of-factly, inspecting the berries in the fruit bowl. Her sandy eyes suddenly jumped to Gwyn, and a mischievous glint sparkled as she recognized the younger woman’s obvious surprise. “I admit it. I have absolutely no curiosity whatsoever. Never have, probably never will. I leave that to Brit. As long as she lets me tag along for the exciting parts, I’m perfectly content to let her choose our battles. But that’s a prerequisite of my trade — patience.”

  Gwyn was only more confused, and Jes scowled at the slight woman with, “Spare her the riddles, Sparrowhawk. You know no one’s told her.”

  “I’m sorry.” Sparrow planted an elbow on the table, shaking down the long sleeve of her blouse to display the blond leather wristband she wore. Her voice dropped low as she explained, “I’m more to Brit than the love-of-her life, Gwyn. I’m her Shadow.”

  “Bonded by lifestone?” Gwyn nearly gasped, still amazed that any of dey Sorormin ever submitted to such a merging.

  The other nodded unconcerned, pulling her sleeve back over the band again. “I was only adopted into dey Sorormin after our march across the ice plains.”

  “The Exile’s Trek?” Stunned again, Gwyn’s breath caught. “The Council sent you to help Brit with that desperate venture? After the Changlings had poisoned Maltar’s eastern water range, wasn’t it?”

  “You’ve heard of it then.”

  “Who hasn’t,” Jes muttered darkly.

  Gwyn found herself staring at this small, wiry woman with an added measure of respect. “They say, there were a hundred lost to frostbite and exhaustion, while you saw nearly six times that many to safety.”

  Pain shadowed those honey-brown eyes as Sparrow remembered not the numbers, but the faces of each one on that despairing trek. Jes placed a hand over Sparrow’s small one, gently pulling her back from those tragic memories. “What is done, is done. But the Council was right in sending you then, and to us now. With this arm I can’t make this southern journey, and Gwyn shouldn’t make it alone, packmates or no. If you and Brit could see your way to help her… well, there are answers needed or more lives may be lost.”

  “Southern?” Dread echoed in that almost child-like voice of anxiety. “My Desert Folks?”

  “No, none of them are concerned,” Gwyn reassured quickly, and she offered a warm smile of apology for the misunderstanding.

  “But south?” The pieces leapt into place, and Sparrow felt that something even worse had come. “South where the Clan raids?”

  Gwyn’s grimness answered her. Jes only stared at the remains left on the table. Sparrow forced a cheerless laugh. “First I exchange the Southern Deserts for the Northern Ice, now the Changlings’ Plateau for the Clan’s Plateau. My life is becoming terribly repetitious, isn’t it?”

  Jes looked at her, puzzled.

  “Leaving one wasteland for another, I mean — not a pretty challenge.”

&nb
sp; “No,” Gwyn agreed, thinking now of the lives desolated by the Clan’s raiders and their fire weapons… with aid from some Court traitor. “No, it won’t be a pretty challenge at all.”

  ◊ ◊ ◊

  “I’m down here on the left,” Jes pointed as Gwyn and the sandwolves followed her into yet another hallway of the Guild’s endless maze. “I admit, I’ve indulged myself a bit this wintering. I’ve had someone in to start the fire early and to tidy-up regularly. But since I cracked my arm, it’s been a necessary help.”

  The tell-tale clack of the sandwolves’ nails paused beside the closed door as they both warily sniffed about the threshold. The two women joined them, and Ty grinned up at her human, offering reassurance that no one seemed to be within. But as Jes undid the ashwood lock, they pushed through first.

  Jes smiled a little dryly, slanting a glance at her daughter as she shut the door behind them all. “Gotten to be a cautious lot, have they?”

  Somewhat surprised, Gwyn drew herself back from her musings and darted a quick look to her packmates. She smiled then with fondness, completely missing her mother’s intended irony. Ril was perched on her hind legs, a forepaw gingerly balancing her against the bedside table so that she could get the scents from the shuttered windows beyond. Ty had planted herself in a nervous crouch against the door, eyes flicking between Ril and the curtained-off closet. Ril finished her inspection of the window only to proceed to the closet to nose aside the curtain and satisfy herself that nothing lurked there either. At that point, Ty finally relaxed enough to lie down. But her massive bulk rested against the door and assured them of no unannounced entries.