Heart of the Exiled (12 page)

She nodded, then turned back to the table. Picking up the letter, she waved it to dry the last of the ink, then carefully folded it.

On impulse, she took two small coils of precious ribbon from her writing box, one red and one black. They had been made in Eastfæld, taken by kobalen in a raid on a trade caravan some few decades since. Her watchers in the mountains observed such raids and went through what goods the kobalen left behind, culling treasures such as these.

The ribbons were becoming fragile with age. She wound both once around her hand and cut them with her knife, then held them up.

Clan Darkshore’s colors. Her colors. Colors that had once signified Fireshore and soon would again. She wrapped them tightly around the letter, poured heated wax over the ribbons’ ends, then pressed her ring into it.

“Take this to Ciris.” She handed the letter to Ranad. “And this other goes to Farnath in Nightsand.”

Ranad bowed and slipped both letters into his tunic. Shalár went to the doorway and pulled back the curtain, following Ranad out.

Mehir glanced up from his place at the hearth.
Shalár met the farmer’s anxious gaze with a small smile and jerked her head toward her room, inviting him to take what was left of the kobalen.

Striding out to the field with Ranad, she felt her heart lifting. The decision made, its weight was no longer of concern.

Yaras stood watching the warriors. He glanced up at her approach, frowning slightly as his gaze flicked to Ranad. Shalár murmured a farewell to the runner, who sprinted off westward, disappearing into the woods.

“What do you think of them?” Shalár nodded toward the warriors. “Are they ready?”

“They are, Bright Lady. As ready as they can be.”

“Bring them to stand, then.”

He stepped forward, shouting orders to halt the mock fighting. The hunter-warriors gathered again, looking toward Shalár, waiting for her command. She pushed back a fleeting, fearful doubt. Ranad was on his way to Ciris with her letter. There was no turning back.

“You are fit.” Her voice rang across the field. “You are ready, and Fireshore is waiting. Break your camp, prepare to march, then return here.”

An excited murmur rose as the hunters dispersed. Shalár turned to Yaras, who was about to follow them to the camp.

“Bring the kobalen to this field.”

He looked at her in surprise. “All of them?”

“All that are left. There are not many, are there?”

“Perhaps fifty.”

“We cannot march them with us; they will slow us down. Nor can Vashakh and Mehir make use of them all.”

Yaras nodded his understanding. “As you will, Bright Lady.”

She watched him go, then walked over to the rock outcrop from which she had often watched the training. Climbing it one last time, she sat hugging her knees and gazing at the night sky.

A shred of cloud drifted past, floating eastward toward the Great Sleeper. Soon the rains would arrive. It was well that she had decided to march before then. Perhaps they could reach Fireshore by the time winter set in.

A small thrill lifted her heart at the thought. Fireshore at last. After all these lonely centuries.

The warriors began to gather in the field again, leaving their packs at its edge. Yaras returned along with those who had been set to guard the kobalen, bringing the huddled, shuffling mass of creatures with them. The hunters surrounded them, their quick exchange of sharp glances indicating they had guessed Shalár’s purpose. Part of it, at any rate.

Shalár came down from the rock and strode into the field, joining Yaras near the kobalen. Her nostrils twitched at the powerful stench given off by fifty of the creatures together. She waited until all the warriors had returned, then turned to Yaras.

“Summon your captains.”

He called them forward, a male and two females, each in command of a hundred warriors. They bowed before Shalár and stood waiting. She acknowledged them, then addressed all the army once more.

“You have done well here. You have honed yourselves into a weapon to pierce the heart of Fireshore. Tonight we march, but first we feast. From this night on we are a pack, and our prey is the city of Ghlanhras!”

A cheer rose up from the hunters, an eerie keening that made the kobalen tremble where they stood. Shalár felt deeply moved, and to hide it she turned to the kobalen. Selecting a large male, she took hold of its khi and moved it forward from the rest. With her knife she opened its throat and took a mouthful of blood, then handed it on to Yaras. He took a mouthful and gave it to one of the captains, who in turn would give it to three warriors to share. Shalár hoped this feast would last them well on their way to Fireshore.

She kept back one small kobalen, scarcely grown, for herself and Yaras. When all the warriors were feeding, she came to stand beside him.

“I have been thinking of your future.”

Yaras looked surprised. “Mine, Bright Lady?”

“Yes.” She reached out a hand to smooth a stray strand of hair back from his face. A tremor went through his khi and rippled out through the army. Some who were feeding paused to look up.

“I am in need of a new steward. Nihlan is managing for now, but the pens alone are plenty of work for her.”

A flash of dismay crossed Yaras’s face. He glanced down, not meeting her gaze. She smiled softly, eyes narrowed.

“Serve me well on this venture and you shall be steward in Nightsand.”

His face was blank. Shalár admired his self-control and was also amused by it, for it did not extend to his khi. She could feel his consternation in the air between them.

“But Islir—”

“She may join you in Nightsand. You may both reside in the Cliff Hollows.”

He swallowed, brows twitching into a slight frown.
No doubt he thought Islir would dislike the suggestion. Shalár was enjoying herself but deemed it time to relent.

“After all, you will want company there, as I will be in Ghlanhras.”

The relief that flooded his face nearly made her laugh. He looked up at her, then fell to his knees.

“Bright Lady! I thank you.”

“Thank me when you are in Nightsand.” She reached a hand down to him. “First we must win Fireshore.”

He took her hand and stood. Smiling, she brought the young kobalen forward and opened cuts on either side of its throat.

“Feed with me.”

Neither of them was acutely hungry, having fed recently together, but Shalár enjoyed the sensation of sharing the kobalen. She let her khi mingle with Yaras’s and with that of the creature whose life they were consuming. The strength that flowed into her brought a hint of arousal, and she fed it, reaching out to touch Yaras.

Her fingers brushed his face, then down his arm to find his hand, khi sharp in his palm as she pressed hers to it. She felt his lingering relief and gratitude and, more immediate, his response to her touch. She wanted him but would not waste the kobalen. Not until they had drunk all its life did she abandon it and move toward Yaras.

His khi ran with myriad feelings: gratitude, wariness, anticipation of the struggle in Fireshore, arousal. She fixed on the last and echoed it with her own. She felt the moment when he yielded, abandoning caution and concerns to revel in pure physical lust.

The army felt it as well. Shalár sensed their khi shift from the satisfaction of feeding to the arousal of desire.
They followed her in this, as in all things. She smiled and kissed Yaras deeply, enjoying the urgent grip of his hands on her flesh. She let him strip her, there in the midst of her army, and felt the tingle of their attention as Yaras knelt before her once more.

The warriors began to abandon their feeding, finding partners, shedding armor and clothing. The field they had trampled to dust was already stained with the blood of kobalen; now the heady scent of lust overlay other smells. For a fleeting moment Shalár wondered if any would conceive this night, then abandoned the thought and gave herself wholly to the pleasure of Yaras’s touch.

She pulled him to her and fumbled at the straps of his leathers. He helped her remove them and stood before her, naked and proud in the starlight. She ran a hand down the whiteness of his flesh, feeling his strength.

Someone nearby gave a gasp. Shalár reached her khi toward the sound, tasting the rising urgency of the army’s coupling, and could wait no longer. She pulled Yaras to her, and together they sank to the ground.

His hands pushed roughly at her legs. She caught her fingers in his hair and gave it one sharp pull, claiming his attention. He waited, breathing deeply and fast, eyes fixed on her face. At last she released him, and he at once shoved into her fiercely, making her grunt in surprise. He was more urgent than he had been since their arrival here.

Pleased, Shalár thrust herself against him and slid her khi around him, caressing, urging him to higher passion. She did not seek his memories now, for she had felt them often enough. Instead she focused her khi on their coupling, feeding the heat of their flesh, heightening the sensation of their contact almost beyond bearing.

She felt herself begin to melt, to turn to molten fire like the spew of Firethroat. Yaras reared up and stared into her eyes, his khi rising in a silent, urgent agreement.

She peaked in that moment, crying out in frustration, for she knew it was a breath too soon. She lost hold of Yaras’s khi, though she could feel him hammering against her, trying still to find his way into her deepest self, but it was too late. At last he poured out his seed with a strangled groan and lay gasping on top of her.

So close! So very close.

She knew she would find her way there. It was only a matter of persistence.

She lay staring up at the stars, her fingers playing in Yaras’s pale hair. Around her the hunters were relaxing, some shifting and talking in quiet tones, others yet finishing their passion. Their khi lay soft and weighty on the field, mingled and sated. They were one now, a pack that had shared the deepest bond and would ever know a silent understanding. Shalár smiled, satisfied.

Some little distance away the sound of a scythe began anew, rhythmically cutting grain. Shalár had not heard it during the pack’s bonding. Perhaps Vashakh and Mehir had found their own passion renewed this night.

She closed her eyes, wishing for a moment that she could drift away in the gentle gratification that washed through her. That luxury was not open to her, though. This night was a beginning, not an end. Not until she was in Ghlanhras would she be able to lie at ease.

Pushing Yaras away, she sat up and brushed her hair out of her eyes. She could feel his dark gaze upon her and turned her head to meet it, the hint of a challenge in her eyes. He was silent, watching her, waiting for her next command.

She stretched her arms skyward, then ran her hands over her naked torso, savoring the feel of the night air on her flesh, knowing she would not feel it again for some time. She must hasten her army to Fireshore now.

Standing up, she hunted out her tunic and legs from the tangle of clothes and leathers on the ground. Tossing Yaras’s tunic to him, she pulled on her own.

“Ready them for the march.” She turned to go to the farmhouse and collect her belongings.

Yaras caught her hand, staying her. She looked back, questioning, and saw the anxious hope in his eyes.

“Did you mean it?”

Brushing aside annoyance at his doubt, she squeezed his hand and held his gaze. “If we win Fireshore and we both survive, you shall be my steward in Nightsand.”

He pressed his brow to her hand, and she saw his throat move in a swallow. She stood still for a moment, then gave his hand a final squeeze and pulled away.

“An advance force could go forward now to occupy High Holding.” Turisan drew a breath. “I offer to lead it.”

The gazes of the councillors all turned to him, some surprised, others approving.

Jharan frowned. “No.”

Ehranan stood. “Your pardon, Lord Jharan, but I think it a good idea. Turisan’s presence will inspire the army.”

“Turisan is needed here. The Council must maintain communication with Lady Eliani. That is the whole point of her journey, that their gift of mindspeech shall tell us more quickly what is happening in Fireshore.”

“Eliani is many days from Fireshore as yet. I could take a company to High Holding and then return within a tenday.”

Jharan fixed him with a gaze Turisan knew well; his father had reached the limit of his patience. “We will discuss it later. Lord Ehranan, what are the numbers of your recruits?”

Ehranan cast Turisan a glance that spoke of resignation, then proceeded to answer at length. Turisan
picked up the cup before him and drank a deep swallow of cool water, concealing his disappointment.

He wished more of the councillors were present. Some of those who might have supported him were not. Heléri was among them, and Rephanin’s chair was empty as well. None of the night-biders were in attendance today.

Governor Felisan, Eliani’s father, seemed deeply absorbed in examining the broidered cuff of his sleeve. Alpinon’s governor disliked what he called prosaic brangles, as he had confided to Turisan.