Llinolae’s gaze dropped to Ril as she went to resume brushing the sandwolf. Neither of the women were fooled. Her silence was answer enough.
◊ ◊ ◊
Gwyn trudged up along the small creek towards the bend at the top of their canyon, relishing the anticipation of cool water and a good scrub. All morning she and Llinolae had been busy cleaning tack, washing clothes, and tending the mares, especially poor Nia’s chaffed sores from carrying all that wet gear for so long. Gwyn had been heartily glad that the separation had been brief and that Jes had always taught her the proper care for tack and mares; with equipment that was less well-padded, the skin damage would have been outright cruel from the chaffing, wet leathers. As it was, Nia’s ruddy hide had been left tender but unbroken; a ten-day of rest and attention should more than see the mare ready for work again.
The Amazon had been as proud of Ty’s judgment as of Nia’s endurance. Her bondmate had obviously done her best to find the mare dry niches in cliff and tree for the worst of the storms. Although now that the last of their immediate traveling was done, the cloud bursts seemed finished as well.
Fates’ Jest was all, she conceded wryly. The warm sun was welcome, reaching into the forests with its dusty light. In their tiny valley the heat had dried the ground early. By the afternoon, the cooler shadows from those great trees above on the gorge’s rim lent some aid, and Gwyn had sent Llinolae off to tend herself. Although the woman had protested, Llinolae had clearly been relieved in the end — her body was still more bruised than not.
Gwyn felt her heart skip a beat at the memory of that smile, and she laughed at herself. That absurd grin of Gwyn’s had lingered even after the Dracoon had left — lingered through all of the haymoss gathering and through most of the hoof painting — until Cinder had snorted in protest when Gwyn inadvertently stiffened the hide on a foreleg with the liquid enamel. Chagrined, the Amazon had admitted that the enamel shells were better protections against hoof chips and cracks than skin rashes. But Cinder had been patient enough, obviously enjoying the extra attention the clean-up and salve provided.
With a sigh Gwyn escaped a sunny patch of heat as she rounded the canyon bend and ducked in through the draped haymoss. The vines and ruffled leaf bits dangled and spanned the short neck in the rock’s fissure, creating a tunnel-like coolness. She breathed the sweetened air deeply then, emerging, she found herself squinting against the abrupt return of the sun’s glare. The ground felt softer beneath her boots, and for a moment she paused, lifting a hand to shade her eyes. A plush lichen carpet of deep forest green, so dense a color that it was almost black, covered the ground entirely. There were mists from the tumbling little waterfall that cooled the small place, despite the break in the honeywoods’ canopy so far above. The water fell from a much closer ledge, however, since it had carved something of a tiered stairway back into the gorge heights over the generations of its flow.
Sprays of rainbows and the chatter from a squabbling bird’s nest filled the air. The crevice walls were beige and bleached brown, rising in rocky tiers and sheer walls with only a smattering of the springy lichen above a knee’s height.
A paleness stirred atop a sunlit slab of stone. Gwyn glanced to it, watching the shimmering arch of a rainbow’s bend touch the woman lying there. A breeze rifled through the mists again, and the colors disappeared. But Gwyn’s gaze stayed — fixed and captured by the naked ivory of Llinolae’s length.
The woman stirred, her Blue Sight telling her of another’s rapt attention. She sat and turned, staring mutely at Gwyn for an endless moment.
Panic frissoned within Gwyn’s stomach. Embarrassment warred with consuming desire until her feet stumbled to flee in sheer blindness.
“Gwyn wait!”
She froze.
Llinolae appeared quickly beside her, sliding into a tunic for Gwyn’s benefit. The shirt hem settled across her thighs, but still Gwyn didn’t move. Hand clenched to the towel at her shoulder, eyes fastened on the moss vines before her — skin deepening more and more into that cocoa richness of sweet longings with each breath — she didn’t dare to move.
“Gwyn…,” Llinolae’s voice was soft with a gentleness that made the Amazon’s eyes slide closed in cherished agony. “It’s all right.
“Soroe?” Llinolae spoke the word tentatively. Her hand ventured to risk a touch to Gwyn’s arm. “Soroe, please, know that it’s all right.”
“No.” Gwyn swallowed hard, shaking her head. She found her heart’s courage with a whisper, “Not Soroe. Soroi?”
“I know,” Llinolae murmured. Tenderly then she brought Gwyn around to face her, waiting with endless patience until Gwyn finally managed to open those copper-bright eyes. Uncertainty and confusion danced behind the threatening tears, but Llinolae merely laid a warm hand to Gwyn’s cheek and smiled ever so faintly.
With a steadying breath drawn in slowly, Gwyn felt the panic loosen its vice in her chest. She tried in some way to return that gentle smile and then, at last, her own voice came again. “I beg your patience… I seem to have lost my heart amongst your things.”
The words sweetly stole the breath from Llinolae with their honesty. She stepped nearer and took Gwyn’s face in her hands, her blue gaze seeming to stare into Gwyn’s very soul. “My own heart’s a bit lost around you too, my dear Amazon.”
Gwyn’s surprise registered in shock, bringing Llinolae’s gentle laughter then. But still, she was not released.
“If I were not Dracoon of Khirlan, I would beg sanctuary within your arms — within your Valley Bay of dey Sorormin. But my time and my duties are sworn to Khirlan’s people, at least, until the Clan’s troubles are settled. I can’t promise you more than the hour of today — perhaps, a few of tomorrow. But vows and bonds…,” Llinolae sighed. “I have no life of my own to offer. And everything I sense about you warns me of the pain that any fleeting encounter between us could bring you.”
“I… I know,” Gwyn managed hoarsely. “It’s… selfish of—”
“No!” Llinolae pressed a thumb lightly against Gwyn’s soft lips. “No, don’t say it. Neither of us are wrong in wanting the possibility of more. It’s merely… it’s something I don’t have to offer.”
“Duty.” Gwyn nodded. She understood only too well.
“If…,” Llinolae paused to wet her lips, her own skin beginning to flush with a caramel that was so much richer than her tan. “If you could risk lesser…? If today or… or tomorrow alone could be chanced as enough…?”
Gwyn stood unmoving, bittersweet pain crowding her heart at that simple invitation.
“Well…,” Llinolae’s voice grew lower in its own sadness and acceptance, “it’s something to think about.”
Then she was gone. The breeze stirred in the leafy vines behind her, and Gwyn found she was left standing alone on that edge of chill and brilliant sunlight. The choice now was hers.
◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter Five
Sparrow jerked upright, half-spinning on her rocky perch at the startled squeak of a pripper pair. The little bush-tailed felines dove from a high branch and disappeared beneath a tree’s root just as a red hawk swooped past. The bird crashed back up through the forest’s canopy, its faint shriek of frustration echoing behind. Then things grew quiet, gradually returning to the calming rustle of leaves and tumble of creek waters.
The serenity was lost on Sparrow. Skin dark as burnt caramel, eyes bruised and swollen from weeping — the young woman settled once more on her stone seat to watch the swirling ripples in the pool below her. It was less than a pool, actually — more a still niche created by the boulder she sat upon. But the reflection the water cast back at her was barely distorted, and Sparrow had thought it might bring her some comfort in this self-imposed isolation of hers.
Isolation — it wasn’t what she wanted now. But realizing she was pregnant was all the turmoil she could manage. Telling Brit… she couldn’t even imagine telling Brit.
Brit was worried about Sparrow’s wrist, and
in her fussing Brit hadn’t given Sparrow much chance to think since they’d fled the city, though it was the unspoken confusions over her shadowmate’s subdued manner that was Brit’s true concern. Sparrow could only withdraw more and more in the face of Brit’s growing anxieties, but she couldn’t help it — especially since there was a genuine need for Brit to take concern.
Need? Sparrow shuddered. She didn’t know what she needed. At first, desperately, she’d only sought to find peace enough to think. But thinking wasn’t going to solve anything. And her healing wrist-sprain was the least of her worries; Sparrow was frightened for Brit — for herself — when her Love did learn of the truth.
But oh sweet Mother, what was that truth?
Sparrow only knew, she couldn’t explain what had happened. And Brit was going to want an explanation! Of that, Sparrow had no doubt. Her shadowmate’s temper was going to demand much more than a mere explanation! Yet Sparrow couldn’t provide even that much.
She sniffled and tried to wipe the tears from her damp cheeks with a hand. It didn’t seem to make the water’s image any more presentable. She pulled out a kerchief and did a little better, dipping it into the icy waters to cool her flushed skin.
“I shouldn’t tell her until we’ve met up with Gwyn. Brit will need a Niachero’s strength then — Gwyn can give her that. At least I should do that much for her.” Sparrow barely realized she’d spoken aloud. But the assertion sounded confident, and any sort of plan helped her right now. Then again, she didn’t really have much choice. As much as Brit loved her, Sparrow knew this was going to be heart-wrenchingly painful to her shadowmate.
Brit — a wonderfully strong Amazon who’d had such trouble trusting any other to care for her. She was a proud Sister who’d balked at the Council’s suggestion of a Shadow and who’d fought her own biases against both Sparrow’s age and the lifestone’s bond before accepting Sparrow’s love. Her Brit, the healer, who would risk setting aside her sacred oaths to stand between Sparrow and a Changling’s wrath — the woman who’d both laughed and cried in Sparrowhawk’s arms at the end of that horrid, horrid Exile’s Trek. Brit — who’d only this winter confessed her hope that they might leave their wanderings to start a family of their own in Valley Bay and so unknowingly echoed Sparrow’s own deepest wish. How could Sparrow expect her lover’s heart not to break when she told Brit that their family was already on the way? Knowing the child had not been conceived beneath the hands of n’Shea with their lifestones. With Sparrow not knowing, not remembering who had….
With Sparrow not remembering anything at all!
She shuddered and shut her eyes tight against that pain. She needed Gwyn to be near — for Brit’s own sake, she dared not say anything sooner. Though how she would ever dare to say anything, even later, was beyond her too….
And Brit would suspect the worst. Sparrow couldn’t deny that she did herself. The bruises on her ribs and body were faint. But they were there. She’d never paid much attention to how her acrobatic, mid-night escapades could scratch and bump her about. She’d initially assumed the markings were from the trip into Khirla’s armory and from the riotous crowd’s shoving when the baskers had been loosed.
Now she wasn’t so certain.
Now, she no longer knew what to think. What had happened when? She couldn’t remember anything being out of sorts. Surely, if she had… with her peculiar memory gifts, if she had been attacked, she would have remembered something! At least wouldn’t she have noticed a lack of time she could account for?
She knew from her monarcs spent with the traveling acrobats that her picture-perfect memory did not shy from vivid portraits of abuse. She knew, from her own thrashings and witnessing others endure worse, that fear didn’t dull any of her mind’s recollections. Although from her training and travels since, Sparrow had come to recognize how common memory lapses were for many trauma survivors. Some she thought were blessed — they would never remember clearly. Others she’d held through the terrorizing nightmares and kept them safe through sudden bursts of panic when memories resurfaced. Yet Sparrow herself had never expected to experience anything but the absolutely unalterable imprint of reality that her memory always provided to her. Or so she’d been told by healers. As much as she had prayed to be free from some of those bloody scenes, she had never seriously expected it to happen.
If what she had witnessed as a child and as a Shadow hadn’t driven her memories into blackness then…? Sparrow was terrified of the idea that it had happened now. If all she’d seen had never caused her to lose her memory’s pictures, then how much more horrific must this incident have been?
How had she even survived it?
◊ ◊ ◊
The dream whirled with a thick darkness, a black fog that circled and snaked in a winding spiral until slowly it spun outward. In the nest of murky images, a room emerged — and then a bed, canopied with fine satins and a fringe of silver lace. A bed of foreboding, as dim figures moved, shifted and became clear. A woman, thin and long of stature lay with fever, tossing in frenzied nightmares with a dream of seeking escape — of seeking safe haven. Another figure — a man with sword-callused hands whose fingers curled like talons, nervously closing and opening in tension. On silent feet, the intruder crept to the bed — yet even then face and body were veiled — identity unknown in those tendrils of swirling blackness. A vial of amethyst powder tipped. Dust glittered and danced upon the fresh water of the bedside basin. A finger dipped, stirring the waters until the last of the sparkle dissolved, and then a cup fetched cool liquid. One of those hands came near again — on a finger, a ring of carved wood — then with a touch, the feverish sleep of the woman was broken. The water was accepted and sipped thankfully. Exhaustion engulfed her again, slowing her life’s flow as death’s descent was summoned.
“No!”
“Shush… shush… it’s all right. Llinolae, it’s all right. You’re safe.”
Blue eyes blinked, awakening to the glow of the single lantern and the brazier’s embers. The wind rippled across the outer layer of the watershed canvas. At the foot of her pallet Ril sat alertly, her eyes peaked in worry. Kneeling beside Llinolae, so careful in not touching her, was Gwyn.
Her red hair was loose, falling across the shoulders of her sleeping shirt. The color was a warm bronze in the reflected light of the lantern. Desire leapt to replace the nightmare’s terror and with a mewed cry, Llinolae reached for Gwyn.
“You’re safe now,” Gwyn wrapped her near, sliding onto the bedside quickly. With one hand she cradled Llinolae’s head to her shoulder as the other moved soothingly along the woman’s back.
Llinolae pulled away slightly. Her eyes searched Gwyn’s pleadingly. This… this platonic sort of comforting was not what she needed.
“It was a nightmare,” Gwyn whispered. She made no move to release Llinolae.
“I know. I’ve… I’ve had it often. Ever since I was a child.” And she wanted to run from it — then and now. Wouldn’t Gwyn… couldn’t Gwyn now?
“Do you know what it’s from?” Gwyn struggled, forced the words out through the strain, her breath growing so shallow.
Llinolae’s hands trembled, clenching fists of Gwyn’s tunic — fire rising in such desperate desire. And she could barely shake her head — all so very slowly — her voice aching, nearly pleading, “It never comes on the trail! It only ever comes after… after the Court hearings… after arguing with Taysa over money to rebuild the villages or Samcin’s…!”
“But it’s all right now, you’re safe here… with me.” Please be with me, her mind echoed helplessly. Gwyn’s throat closed in pain, the wanting was so strong. Her gaze fell to Llinolae’s lips.
Suddenly Llinolae pulled back to arm’s length, ducking her head and closing her eyes with a shuddering breath.
Gwyn felt the immediate recoil of her body as that blue-sighted influence fled. She went cold. Her flesh chilled with goose bumps. Her backbone stiffened. Even as she realized what had been happening, Gwyn grew
angry at herself for almost succumbing to it. Llinolae’s reaction had been a natural one — a human’s need to physically connect with a protector as intimately as possible after being threatened. She did not blame her companion for that need, but she did chastise herself for not recognizing it sooner. She had lived among enough Blue Sights to have had the experience before — it wasn’t appropriate to take advantage of Llinolae’s vulnerability!
Gwyn took a deep, steadying breath of her own and brushed her fingertips across Llinolae’s browned cheek. She leaned near again, gently urging, “Llinolae…?”
That ice blue gaze flew back to her face.
“I understand.” Gwyn smiled in tender reassurance, quite suddenly feeling very strong and very protective of this dear woman. “It’s all right now.”
“Is it?”
“In truth, it is.”
A broken gasp caught in her throat as Llinolae collapsed back into the safety of Gwyn’s arms. Strength embraced her, steadfast in its comforting, and Llinolae shuddered with a ragged breath of trust and relief. “Thank you, Soroe. Thank you.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Chapter Six
Good morning!” Gwyn called, ducking into the horses’ tent to find Llinolae nearly done with Cinder’s grooming. “Have you eaten yet? Llinolae shook her head, bringing her own fetlock of black curls down over an eye. “I had some trail bread — I’m not much for eating first thing in the morning. My stomach doesn’t usually wake up until mid-day.”
Gwyn understood that habit well enough. Given a choice, it was her preference as well.
Finished, Llinolae stepped back and sharply clacked the brushes together a few times to clean the dander and hair from them. Calypso snorted with a short toss of her head, and Nia seconded her. They were eager to leave this yellow bright stuffiness inside their tent. The sun was far from being overhead, but the day’s humidity and heat had already begun to collect within the canvas walls.
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