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.”
“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.”
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