Heart of the Exiled

by Pati Nagle

  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.

  Turisan leaned over to murmur in his father’s ear. “I must depart soon. I am pledged to meet with Rephanin at sunset.”

  Jharan turned a look of inquiry on him and answered quietly. “About equipping the Guard?”

  Turisan gave a small shake of his head. “To ask his advice.”

  A slight frown creased his father’s brow. Turisan stayed to listen a while longer, then quietly left his seat. He felt Jharan’s gaze follow him.

  Stepping onto the colonnade, Turisan saw that the sun was nearing the snowy peaks to the west. He paused, looking out at the fountain court, inhaling the fountains’ moist breath, then followed colonnades to cross from the palace to the magehall.

  Rephanin’s attendant greeted him and led him down a curving hallway lit by sparse torchlight. She stopped before a door and knocked softly.

  “Lord Turisan is here to see you, my lord.”

  “He may enter.”

  The attendant opened the door and stepped aside. Turisan went in, glancing around a room he had never seen before as the door closed quietly behind him.

  Rephanin’s taste seemed a combination of lavish and spare. What ornaments he possessed were rich, but they were few: a pair of carved chairs with cushions covered in thick gold velvet, a small table between them of finest darkwood, a single tapestry that was plainly the work of Clan Ælvanen’s best weavers. The room was lit only by the freshly built fire upon the hearth.

  Rephanin came forward, adjusting the fall of a tunic he had apparently just donned. He stepped to a set of shelves along one wall and picked up a flagon.


  “Would you care for a cup of wine?”

  “Thank you, yes. The Council was tiresome today.”

  Rephanin’s lip curved in a smile as he handed Turisan a finely wrought silver cup. “Tell me.”

  Turisan sighed, settling into his chair. “It would not interest you, I fear. An argument over whether to occupy High Holding.”

  Rephanin took the other chair and sipped his own wine. “And the result?”

  “It was left undecided.”

  “Never let it be said that the Ælven Council makes decisions lightly.”

  Turisan laughed. “Or swiftly.”

  He took another mouthful of wine, enjoying its subtle flavors of fruit and wood. Looking up, he saw that the magelord was watching him. He swallowed, pondering how to raise the subject that had brought him there.

  Rephanin spared him the trouble. “So you feel mindspeech is a dangerous distraction.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “You are not the first to tell me so.”

  Turisan raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  Rephanin placed his cup on the table, then leaned back and laced his fingers together. “You are distracted when in company, sometimes embarrassingly so. When walking or otherwise moving, you may lose sense of where you are. At any time you may be taken off guard by physical sensations that are disorienting.”

  “Yes.” Turisan nodded, impressed. “Can we avoid any of this?”

  A small smile crossed Rephanin’s face. “Most of it. You and your lady must establish some customs between you.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “The single most helpful thing is to agree upon a signal that you will use when you wish to make contact. It is far less distracting than beginning with speech, and gives your partner the opportunity to refuse or to find privacy.”

  “What sort of signal?”

  Rephanin hesitated, gazing down at his hands. “With your permission, it would be easier to demonstrate than to explain.”

  Turisan felt an echo of past wariness, but with an effort he dismissed it. He had come for Rephanin’s help and had no cause to mistrust him.

  “Very well.”

  Are you ready?

  Startled at the magelord’s voice, Turisan nearly spilled his wine. A cold tingle washed through him as he realized that what he had hitherto shared only with Eliani was no longer exclusively theirs.

  It had never been that, he knew. Rephanin could speak with anyone in his presence, though Turisan had never heard him speak before. He set down his cup and drew a breath to steady himself.

  Yes.

  Rephanin sat up straight in his chair, and his eyes closed. In a moment Turisan sensed a slight pressure on his brow and a warmth, as if someone had rested a hand there. Behind the sensation he caught a whisper of Rephanin’s khi—powerful yet restrained—that struck him with awe.

  The pressure vanished as the magelord opened his eyes. Turisan nodded slowly.

  “I see. How is it done?”

  Easiest to show you. Follow me.

  At once Turisan was again aware of Rephanin’s khi, but this time it was open to him, vast and potent, inviting him into a closeness he had shared only with Eliani. He hesitated, and immediately his attention was directed to a soft grayness, a barrier concealing part of the magelord’s khi from him, which he found reassuring.

  Accepting the contact, he was drawn in and for a moment experienced the sort of double awareness that often disturbed him—his own body and Rephanin’s at once. He closed his eyes, and the feeling quickly passed.

  He found his thoughts trailing the magelord’s, reaching through the khi of his body, finding the point of focus, and applying a gentle brightness of khi to it. The signal’s sensation returned, then faded in the next moment as Rephanin withdrew.

  Turisan opened his eyes, inhaled, and reached for his cup, feeling slightly stunned. A sip of wine served to calm him.

  “Thank you. That will help a great deal, I think.”

  Rephanin leaned back in his chair. “Choose a different point to signal that you are not in a position to speak—the back of a hand, for example.”

  “Would it not be as easy to speak?”

  “When you are accustomed to it, you will find the signal is faster and less obtrusive.”

  Turisan nodded. “What else?”

  “You and Lady Eliani should agree upon when to avoid intruding upon each other. It may be difficult, given how swiftly she is traveling.”

  “I will discuss it with her, thank you. I have another question. Last night two of her party were wounded, and Eliani blessed them with healing. I felt it through my ribbon.” He ran his hand along the woven ribbon and looked up at the magelord, who seemed astonished.

  “A healing? I did not know Lady Eliani was a healer.”

  “She is not. She tried only because the wounded requested it. Can you tell me why I felt it?”

  Rephanin slowly shook his head, his expression unreadable. “You will have to ask Heléri. I have never heard of such an occurrence.”

  “I will consult her, then.”

  Rephanin reached for his wine and took a deep swallow, turning the cup around in his hands as he stared into the fire. Turisan waited, not wishing to intrude on his thoughts. At last Rephanin stirred and glanced up at him.

  “You have further questions?”

  “Only one. Did Dejharin and Dironen have such difficulties?”

  Rephanin gave a soft laugh. “I do not know. I was acquainted with them, but only slightly. I was fairly young at that time and not nearly as important as they.”

  Turisan nodded and took another sip of wine. “Like me, compared with you.”

  “Oh, no.”

  The magelord’s gray eyes fixed on him intently. Turisan shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under that gaze.

  Rephanin spoke softly. “You are far more important than I. You are a distance speaker; you and your lady are the only such partners we have at present.”

  Turisan paused before answering. “And your gift of speaking with anyone nearby is the only such we have had in all ælven history. Is that not so?”

  Rephanin’s gaze dropped. “In recorded history, yes. I am—a curiosity.” A corner of his mouth curved wryly.

  Turisan frowned, surprised that Rephanin, who by all reports was well aware of his worth, would so underrate himself. He gazed thoughtfully at the magelord.

  “And all the mages you have trained, all the work you have done—that adds nothing to your importance?”

  Rephanin’s expression hardened as he stared into the fire. “If someday it can be said that I did more good than harm, I will have lived a useful life.”

  He drew a breath, then seemed to cast off the somber mood, favoring Turisan with a smile as he rose from his chair. “And now it is time for me to meet with my circle. I hope you will find my suggestions helpful.”

  Turisan stood as well, leaving his cup on the table. “Most helpful. Thank you again.”

  Without thinking, he extended an arm, and after a slight hesitation the magelord clasped it. Turisan felt again the hint of controlled power in Rephanin’s khi.

  They parted, Rephanin going to his circle and Turisan returning across the colonnade to Hallowhall. The sun had set, and the blue of twilight was fast deepening under a quarter moon.

  Turisan paused at the balustrade overlooking the fountain court. Another formal banquet awaited him—one he dared not miss if he wished to escape his father’s displeasure—but he was not ready to face the councillors yet and allowed the fountains’ whisper to lure him into the courtyard.

  The evening was chill enough that he found himself alone in the gardens. He strolled along the paths, listening to the water’s music and thinking over his encounter with Rephanin.

  All his life he had held the magelord in awe. Since childhood Rephanin had been to him a figure of mystery and undetermined threat. Now that he had shared khi with the magelord, he wondered why he had felt so intimidated. He had n
ot felt threatened, save when the strange hunger touched the magelord’s gaze. He was beginning to think it was merely envy, though why Rephanin should envy him he could not guess.

  Eliani. He envies the gift.

  A stray breeze blew a fountain’s mist into his face. He blinked, recalling that until today he had known of Rephanin’s gift only by report. Indeed, until today he had seen no proof of the magelord’s mindspeech nor heard of any who claimed to have experienced it. Something had changed.

  Turisan?

  Distracted by Eliani’s voice, he smiled. Yes, my heart?

  We are coming into Highstone. We will spend the night, replenish our supplies, and set out in the morning.

  Enjoy your rest. I must go and feast with the councillors.

  Speak to me when you are finished.

  I will do better than that. Harken to this.

  Drawing a breath, he closed his eyes and reached out to send her the signal Rephanin had taught him. He sensed her surprise.

  What is that?

  A gentle request for your attention. Rephanin showed me how.

  Rephanin!

  Yes—he had good advice for us. I will explain it to you when we both have leisure.

  He sensed her skepticism. Very well. Enjoy your feast.

  Turisan smiled, sending his love to enfold her, catching his breath at her swift, fierce response. She slipped away, and he opened his eyes, staying for a moment in the courtyard before returning to the palace and his duty.

  Luruthin watched the white-gold rays of the sun’s farewell stretch upward from the peaks of the Ebons as the party entered Highstone’s public circle. They were greeted with joy by the citizens, who instantly surrounded Eliani, pelting her with questions. Luruthin dismounted and gratefully gave his reins over to a groom who hurried out from the stables.

  Gharinan, who was serving as temporary governor in Felisan and Eliani’s absence, came to greet them, and Eliani at once led him back to the Hall, talking intently of supplies, horses, and riders. Ten of the Southfæld Guard who had ridden this far were to be replaced by ten from Alpinon’s Guard, the Southfælders to return to reinforce the outpost at Midrange.