The cavernous honeywood Ril had chosen was split by a shelf of rock at its base. A twisted growth of an entrance provided a wide enough space to comfortably ride the horses in through — a gray mortar-like wall on one side, ruddy-barked wood on the other. With the smattering of light still available, Gwyn made out the curving bend that led deeper into the hollow and then the rough stone plateau above from which Ril gazed down at them.
“Perfect,” Gwyn breathed, pride and pleasure coursing through that silent bond between her and her packmate. They’d be able to leave the horses below and to risk a fire up top. And Ril was right about their need for a fire — despite the evidence it would leave. With the chilled, wet weather, the lack of proper gear and general exhaustion from the past ten-day, they all needed warm, dry beds and full stomachs tonight.
She hoped Ty’s natural exuberance didn’t outweigh common sense this evening. Poor Nia was going to be in bad enough shape after three days of full pack, without Ty demanding a shivering martyrdom from her as well.
Ril caught Gwyn’s eye with a reassuring grin. Ty did have more sense than that, even she knew it.
Gwyn chuckled, swinging down from her saddle with an absent pat to Cinder as she peered overhead into those mossy tree crevices again. It smelled fresh enough, not in the least dank, and that told her there had to be additional ventilation somewhere above. A little sulfur powder rolled into that haymoss, and the stuff should burn just fine… perhaps a bit slowly, but quite fine.
A muffled cry from Llinolae caught both Gwyn and Ril’s attention. But it was Calypso’s stock-still rigidity that sent Gwyn moving forward in alarm. Very carefully she reached to ease Llinolae down in that last, long step from stirrup to ground. Even then, beneath the oil slicked cloak and the tunic, Gwyn could feel the flinch of bruised muscles at the pressure of her touch. Guilt stung sharply, reminding Gwyn that worse things than hard travel had been plaguing Llinolae in the past few days.
“Thank you.” The words were a mere hush. Llinolae barely moved, shifting only enough to bury her face in Calypso’s silky, black mane. Her arms circled the mare’s strong neck for support, and Gwyn hovered with growing concerns. A thread of laughter found its way into the rasping voice as Llinolae managed, “Saddle sore at my tender age — who’d believe me?”
With great gentleness, Gwyn laid a hand to the Dracoon’s back. “Let me get you settled up with Ril, before I deal with the horses.”
A weary shake of the head answered her. Llinolae straightened slightly. “It’ll do me better to move some — stretch these knots out. I can brush them both down.”
Gwyn frowned, hesitating.
“I’m all right, Marshal.” Llinolae smiled a tired, touchingly sweet smile as she turned to catch Gwyn’s hand. “Really I am. Go on now, get things organized to your liking.”
Gwyn squeezed the other’s grasp encouragingly and accepted the reassurance. “Say if you change your mind.”
“I will.”
It took a while, but not nearly as long as most would have expected, for Gwyn to convert that dingy space into a livable camp. She started with a few makeshift torches before climbing into the mossy heights and hacking away at the shaggy tendrils. A family of prippers darted deeper into the tree’s upper crevices, chattering in rebellion. A single bed of glowing crickets emptied with a flurry that had Gwyn batting awkwardly with her sword hilt and clinging rather precariously to the webbed vines as she tried to keep the things out of her hair. But there was nothing more exciting to encounter, and she’d soon cut enough haymoss to supplement the mares’ grain, feed a good fire for the night, and lend a springy cushion beneath their blankets as well. By the time she’d rolled several moss logs together and started the fire blazing, Llinolae was nearly done brushing Cinder.
Gwyn shared a smile with the woman, glad to see some of her stiffness had indeed worn off. “I left a pan of tea to brew — Ril’s going to show me the fresh water she’s found. I may be gone for a bit.”
“Anything I should start cooking?”
“Not without more water,” Gwyn admitted, shouldering their pair of empty water bags. Judging by Llinolae’s rich skin tones and bruised eye shadows, Gwyn knew why neither of them were suggesting she accompany Gwyn; a long trek with heavy waterskins was obviously not in the woman’s best interests just yet. “I’ll send Ril back ahead of me, once I know where I’m going.”
Llinolae nodded, faintly amused. “I suspect I’ll be here.”
With a crooked grin, Gwyn admitted that that was most likely what she’d expected too. But she couldn’t quite think of anything else to say, and with an awkward shrug she left. Feeling tongue-tied was not a condition she was accustomed to, Gwyn found. Though oddly enough, she was almost enjoying it.
◊ ◊ ◊
Thunder was beginning to grumble again when Gwyn returned. Her mares greeted her with soft wuffles, eager for the water she’d brought. She murmured fondly to them as she patiently filled and refilled the small canvas hollow she’d fixed in a rocky niche for their trough. Their thirst sated at last, she gave each of those velvety muzzles a hug and climbed around to the warmer heights of the fire.
She came over the edge of their small plateau and paused in surprise. The blankets had been neatly spread across the wide bed of haymoss. The damp horse blankets and oiled cloaks had been draped across the rocky edges to the right side of the fire. The tea was ready. And beyond the crackling flames, curled against a rock with her head pillowed in Ril’s thick ruff, slept Llinolae.
The pleading eyes of her packmate begged stealth, and Gwyn didn’t have the heart to refuse.
“Know that I am grateful, Dumauz. Your approval of her is important to me. Though, right now, I can see nothing any would disapprove of in her.”
The bruised hollows around Llinolae’s eyes had begun to recede. The slumber had taken some of the weariness too, and the pale brown of her skin was from the kiss of wind and sun. She’d scrounged out a rust-brown kerchief and donned it as a band to keep the odd lengths of hair from her eyes.
“She sleeps with such peace, Ril. Even after what she’s been through she trusts and sleeps.” Yet her strength of resolve and confidence had not been completely shed by slumber.
Gwyn felt her heart strings tug just a little more. Life for Khirlan’s Dracoon would never be simple or peaceful enough to erase all mark of her responsibilities.
“And if I let myself come to care for you…,” Gwyn shook her head faintly and sighed. “Caring for you would never be simple either, would it? But it would never be taken for granted either.”
Last night and today, Gwyn had seen that Llinolae’s determined passions were in no way cold. Instead Llinolae had shown her openness and self-assurance.
“I never would have expected you to turn and thank another for help in dismounting, but now I can barely imagine you losing your patience and withdrawing from honestly needed aid.”
Would — could — Gwyn herself have been so trusting of a stranger? Even if that stranger held the title of a Royal Marshal, even if the Blue Sight suggested trust could be given?
Gwyn drew herself back with a slight shake. There were things needing attention. At least for the moment, she should try to remember that she was in charge of getting them done, because eventide certainly wasn’t going to cook itself!
◊ ◊ ◊
“That was good.” Llinolae sighed, savoring the flavor of that last, warm spoonful of porridge.
Ril whined in a confused protest, and Gwyn glanced up with a faintly indulgent expression of her own. “It must be the fresh mumut.”
“Hmmm…,” the other woman ignored the sarcasm. Leaning back against the rock with a blanket wrapped around her and her eyes blissfully half-shut, Llinolae looked as contented as if she’d finished a ten course meal instead of a second bowl of sweetened mush. “I didn’t know it grew so far north.”
“What?”
“Mumut.” Llinolae stirred enough to pass her empty bowl into Gwyn’s waiting han
d. “Does it grow in Valley Bay itself?”
“Ah — no. We’ve got something similar, though.” Gwyn rinsed the last of their dishes, a crooked grin growing. “We call it cinnamon. ”
“Cinnamon?” A puzzled frown folded a crease between those slender brows.
“It’s not—”
“It’s from your home world, isn’t it?”
It was Gwyn’s turn to be surprised.
“Yes, I remember now.” A brief smile nearly stunned Gwyn before it vanished again. “You save the spice as those little stick things, then grind the ends down for a cooking powder or use the stick itself to stir flavor into a hot drink. Do I have the right spice?”
“Yes, you do.”
“And it tastes a bit like mumut?”
For lack of anything more coherent to say, Gwyn simply nodded.
“I’d never guessed.” Llinolae seemed pleased with that small discovery and drifted off into her thoughts, leaving Gwyn staring. Ril gave her new friend a gentle butt with her nose, and Llinolae remembered her presence, apologizing with a fond smile. The sandwolf’s eyes glazed and nearly closed as Llinolae obligingly set to scratching behind a pointed, black ear.
“Do you enjoy cooking?” Gwyn found her sensibilities somewhere and settled herself away from the fire, tea in hand. “That you know about rare spices like cinnamon, I mean.”
“No,” Llinolae was amused by the very idea. “I just have an insatiable curiosity. With the everyday sorts of things, I tend to be the habitual observer.”
What Blue Sight wasn’t, Gwyn admitted to herself. She swirled the reddish tea in her cup, watching the small twigs and leaf bits collect in the middle. The feelings inside of her seemed to calm as the tea leaves danced in their age-old patterns. She fleetingly wondered if this warming peace might be Llinolae’s doing with her Sight, but she couldn’t deny that she’d welcome it, even if it was Llinolae’s projections. They all could certainly use the respite. Although on further thought, Gwyn decided the feeling was probably just from the welcomed fire warding off that cold, thrumming rainstorm.
A strangled, little yowl drew a chuckle from Gwyn as she saw Ril nearly roll into Llinolae’s lap, stretching to get her tummy rubbed. “Mind your manners, Dumauz. That woman’s a lot sorer than you are, I’ll wager.”
Guiltily, Ril withdrew — but only to Llinolae’s side. A reassuring rub along her stomach line returned the panting pleasure quickly, and in a very un-Ril-like, tongue-lolling manner, the sandwolf gazed up into Llinolae’s blue eyes with sheer adoration.
Dear Goddess, not the both of us! Gwyn wryly recalled that archaic term of ‘puppy love.’
“I want to thank the two of you.” Gwyn started at the sound of Llinolae’s voice. “I feel safe. Regardless of how premature that feeling may be… well, it seems a very long time since I could last say that. Thank you.”
With a silent toast of her tea, Gwyn acknowledged the gratitude. But it was the quiet richness in Llinolae’s tone that brought Gwyn’s smile out. “You’re sounding less hoarse, looking less bruised. The rest and fire has done you good already.”
A rueful brow arched high as those icy blue eyes lifted from the sandwolf. “Can I withhold judgment on the bruises until morning?”
“That bad?”
“Yes and no.” Llinolae shifted a bit against the hard rock behind her. The thin blanket wasn’t much of a cushion for her back or tail bone. “I’m just getting stiff again.”
“Still certain nothing’s broken?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” Llinolae answered with a little amused reassurance.
“Would a back rub help?”
Ril’s head came up, ears perked forward — as surprised as her Amazon was by that abrupt offer. And judging by the Dracoon’s sudden stillness, it seemed that the usual implications were not lost on Llinolae either. But it had undeniably been Gwyn’s voice that had done the asking; she supposed she should at least try to act like it was a rational idea. Though, it didn’t feel like one. She saw her hand was fairly steady in holding the tea mug and noticed gratefully that her embarrassment hadn’t flushed her skin much darker than its usual golden tan. The silence stretched, and she chanced a glance at the Dracoon, trying to remember that this was the Dracoon of Khirlan and that she was the Royal Marshal here on official errand — which didn’t seem terribly relevant at the moment. With a faint strain, she cleared the dryness in her throat and elaborated, “It might help. Th-there’s some creamed mint in my saddlebag. I admit I usually use it as a salve for the horses when they pull a tendon or such, but it’s pretty useful on people as well.”
“Ah-ha!” Llinolae’s soft smile reappeared. “There’s the drawback. Just how bad does this stuff smell, Marshal?”
Gwyn caught the teasing sparkle in the other’s eye, and a grin started to tug on the corners of her own mouth. “Not bad at all. Do you want to try it?”
“If you’re still offering — please!” And at Gwyn’s nod, Llinolae began slowly — stiffly — to unwrap herself from both sandwolf and blanket.
As Gwyn rummaged through her pack for the salve, however, she thought she heard the woman mutter something to Ril about ‘having accepted less eloquent propositions’, and her sense of humor rose. Given how sore her companion was, anything but a massage was truly a deranged fantasy. The tension in Gwyn’s stomach unknotted with her faint chuckle, and she returned to the fireside waving a tiny jar triumphantly.
It appeared that Llinolae too had shed her own trepidations — much more easily than her shirt, given her stiffness. With an almost naive eagerness, she prompted, “Where do you want me?”
“Face down on the bedding would probably be best.” Gwyn fed another pair of rolled logs to the fire. “Are you going to be warm enough?”
Llinolae paused in bundling the tunic into a pillow, frowning faintly at the damp chill in the air. Her skin had already darkened enough to obscure the tan lines at her throat and wrists. Despite the fire’s heat, there was a persistent updraft atop this rocky plateau.
“Here! Try this while I…,” Gwyn tossed the discarded blanket at Llinolae as she was hurrying back to her packs.
A broad grin split her face as Gwyn spun about with a pair of woolly, leather-soled stockings held high in hand.
“My slippers?” Llinolae exclaimed in astonishment. “Why would you… no, of course. Your sandwolves needed my scent from something.”
“Hope you don’t mind much? I had to paw through your things a bit to get them.”
“No,” Llinolae laughed, delighted. “I don’t mind at all!”
It was better when the short trousers, her bare shins and bare feet were finally covered. The fire seemed toasty and nearer as well. Together everything allowed a bruised, tired body to lie down and be about as comfortable as possible on a haymoss mattress. Gwyn settled gingerly on her knees, straddling Llinolae’s hips yet worried about those sorer muscles. “Tell me if I get too heavy for you.”
“You’re fine,” Llinolae asserted, although the words came out muffled against the tunic linen and were almost swallowed again by a sudden yawn.
Laughing gently, Gwyn opened the creamed mint. “You’re not allowed to fall asleep yet — I haven’t even started.”
Llinolae made some inconsequential little sound of reply which promptly dissolved into a long moan of sheer relief as Gwyn’s hands began.
“So now you can tell me,” Gwyn murmured, “how’s the cream smell?”
A purring, wordless assurance answered her, and pleased, Gwyn started to relax as her own body fell into the slow rhythm of stretch and pull. Her hands tingled cool and then grew warm as the salve was absorbed. Llinolae purred again, the cream’s cool-hot touch beginning to ease even the worst of her stiffness.
And Gwyn continued. Her palms slid, slick and strong along the length of Llinolae’s back. Her long fingered knuckles patiently ground through the tension, only to open again as her touch gentled and soothed the cool cream into the purpled bruises. She concentrat
ed, the smoothness and softness of the woman beneath her luring Gwyn’s focus into the single-minded purpose of healing. She found the tenseness of an ache beneath the soft, satiny skin. Her fingers pressed and played, coaxing tightness into unfolding like the slender kiss of the sun’s ray opening a flower. Then she moved on to find the next tangled knot, then the next.
Slowly, the shining cream and caramel of skin blended beneath Gwyn’s hands. Llinolae’s skin tones grew deeper, richer… darker like a stained wood grows to shimmer when caressed with oil.
A sigh escaped her companion and Gwyn smiled fondly. Her hands went on in their steady, patient dance.
“You truly will put me to sleep soon,” Llinolae mumbled, her words nearly slurred by her body’s trance.
Gwyn leaned low, her hand kneading upwards to a little kink between Llinolae’s shoulder and neck. She paused to brush a dark cluster of curls away from Llinolae’s check, then kept working. Her own smile grew at the peacefulness she saw in Llinolae’s face. Quietly she challenged, “Would that be bad?”
“Hmm, Gwyn… would what be bad?”
A single hand kept playing its rhythms while the other sought the ground to brace Gwyn as she bent even nearer. Tenderness crept into her tone as she asked again. “Is it so bad for you to fall asleep?”
A smile tried to curl in answer, but the lethargic, caring magic had taken its toll. In truth, Llinolae was already sleeping.
Gwyn brushed a feather-light kiss across Llinolae’s cheek and carefully moved away. She drew the blanket up to cover the bared skin and found herself lingering a moment or two. Feeling foolish all of a sudden, she remembered her packmate and glanced at Ril who was stretched out by the fire. The sandwolf arched her head back questioningly at Gwyn’s sudden attention to her.
With an unembarrassed shrug, Gwyn admitted she didn’t quite know how to explain that impulsive action. But then she was suddenly smiling, because she did know, and Ril’s warm compassion was there, thrumming softly along their packbond. “Just because she called me Gwyn for the first time… for the very first time.”
Fires of Aggar Page 25
