Heart of the Exiled Read Free Page B

her gaze as he leaned forward to enter her. There was no love in his eyes, but there was understanding. Shalár shuddered and wrapped her legs around him, wanting to swallow him completely.
    His hands moved to her shoulders and gripped them. He moved gently, pressing slowly against her inner self, frowning now in concentration. She closed her eyes and wordlessly demanded the memories again.
    He obliged, but the recollections were confused now by the sensation of their present coupling. It was Islir’s memories she needed, memories of how it felt to open the knot of inner flesh that was normally furled as tight as a new-budded flower. She swallowed, trying to center herself in that tiny portion of her flesh, willing her body to yield.
    He moved faster now, stabbing at her as his recollections swept him into heightened passion. Shalár thrust back, wanting him to batter her open.
    With a stifled cry he spilled himself into her. Shalár felt her own flesh spasm in response, a delicious sensation but not what she had wanted. Angry, she dug her fingernails into his back and beat herself against him until they were both spent and slowly fell still.
    “I am sorry.”
    His voice was a hoarse whisper. She felt a hint of bitterness wash through his khi.
    “It is not your failure. You did your best.”
    She ran a hand through his hair and clasped her arms about him lightly, relaxing. She felt the warm ooze of his seed sliding out of her as he softened. Gone to waste.
    Never mind. They would try again.

 
    “You gave him
what
?!”
    Turisan watched his father’s face, usually serene, take on an expression of outrage. He caught himself reaching defensively toward his right arm, where a tiny cut lay bandaged beneath the sleeve, and lowered his hand again.
    “Only a small amount.”
    Jharan stood abruptly from his chair at the center of the curved council table. Rich tapestries depicting Southfæld’s history softened the walls behind him, but his mood was far from soft. He was so angry that spots of red flew high in his fair cheeks.
    The other councillors stirred uneasily. Turisan saw Lady Pashani and Lord Berephan exchange a glance and wondered whether he should have waited until he and Jharan were alone before explaining what he had done. He had thought what he had learned from the traitor Kelevon too important to wait, though, and the news should certainly be shared with all the Ælven Council.
    Jharan frowned. “How could you think of doing such a thing? Violating your own flesh—”
    “He was suffering.” Turisan kept his voice calm. “Itgained us answers. No one else has had a word out of him. Forgive me, Lord Berephan, but is that not true?”
    Berephan, who as commander of the city’s guardians had been given the unpleasant task of keeping watch over Kelevon, nodded. “True enough.”
    Turisan looked at his father. “Will you hear what I have learned?”
    Governor Jharan stood silent for a moment, his breathing short and sharp beneath his formal robe of sage embroidered with silver. At last he resumed his seat.
    “Very well. Tell us.”
    Turisan looked around the table at the councillors, governors of all the ælven realms or their representatives except Fireshore, which had not answered Jharan’s summons to Council. Even now Turisan’s lady, Eliani, was riding to that northernmost realm to try to contact its governor.
    “I think Lord Ehranan’s surmise is correct.” Turisan nodded to the warrior from Eastfæld who had been named commander of the gathering ælven army. “I think the alben’s curse is indeed a sickness. Kelevon acquired it—the hunger, he called it—while being held by the alben. He was with our first envoy to Fireshore when they were all captured.”
    He paused, glancing at Pashani. As governor of the Steppe Wilds, she was the head of Kelevon’s clan. Her sun-bronzed hair, swept back from her face by a silver circlet of state, curled every bit as wildly as Kelevon’s. Turisan wondered if