1
ILSEVEL
A trail of sparks plays across my skin, following the curve of my bosom. The fingertip forging that trail is rough, calloused, but the touch is exquisitely delicate, so soft as not to wake me. Indeed I could choose to go back to sleep if I so desired, safely tucked in the half-circle of a powerful embrace, my head resting against a muscular shoulder, listening to the deep exhale of rhythmic breaths. I feel lazy and luxurious and simultaneously exhausted all the way down to the soles of my feet. The temptation is strong to simply let myself drift away again.
But that large finger, after tracing a strange pattern along my sternum, runs lightly up the mound of my breast to play with the nipple. I catch my breath. The sensitivity of my skin in responseto that touch is marvelous! I’d never known my body could be so roused, shocked from sleep to eager heat in less than a second.
Slowly I crack my eyelids open as that finger continues its gentle explorations. I lie with my naked body stretched out alongside the powerful form of my husband, reclining with him on a large, sturdy, wood-framed bed in an elegant chamber. If I didn’t know any better, I might have thought we were back home in Beldroth. No, not Beldroth; my father’s court, though fashionable and fitted out with all the latest conveniences and amenities the civilized world has to offer, never boasted such graceful details. The door and window frames are carved in sinuous patterns of vines, leaves, and—I recognize them immediately—ilsevel blossoms, a motif that is repeated in the cracked and faded but still beautiful floor tiles. The ceiling itself is arched high and elegant, creating a sense of airy space even in this small bedchamber. The furnishings, bathed in moonlight as they currently are, look like the white bones of some long-dead, ancient being, which ought to make them grim, but instead feels merely melancholy. Like a symbol of a past long since given way to decay. Though there is unexpectedly very little decay in this room, despite more than two decades of abandonment. Thevardimnar—the blight which plagues this realm in great swaths of death—has destroyed any living creature which might have invaded these graceful halls and chambers, desecrating the memory of those who lived here. Thus a near-perfect example of former Licornyn prosperity remains untouched,here in the abandoned countryside of Cruor.
It's a far cry from thedakathtents of the Rocaryn Tribe in which my husband’s people now dwell. Nothing of old Licorna survived the initial opening of the Rift and the flood of hell which still pulses through the land. But here, in this dusty chamber, with my husband lying beside me, and the gentle glow of the fading moon softening every edge with a dreamy luminosity, I find I can, momentarily at least, forget the ever-present peril hanging over our heads.
His finger moves from one breast to the other, pausing again to trace an unfamiliar pattern on my sternum. It’s both wonderful and strange to lie so utterly vulnerable with a man who is still little more than a stranger to me. And yet I cannot bear to think of him in such terms, not anymore. How many times has he saved my life—and I his—in the ten nights of our acquaintance? If that doesn’t bond a pair of souls in a hurry, I don’t know what will. And yes, perhaps a few more conversations are in order; he only just learned my true name yesterday, not to mention my familial connection to his great enemy. Yes, we will need to talk. To sort through all the various complexities of our tangled lives.
But not yet. Not just yet.
I open my eyes wider, startled to discover a winding flash of gold threading through the ether between me and this man. It’s more overtly visible now than I am used to; ordinarily, when I perceive it at all, it’s more like a hum on the edge of my awareness. Now itgleams and glows, not a physical thing, but very real. Unignorable. It seems to originate from my husband’s chest, and I shift my head to observe it more closely, only to find myself distracted by the great, broad musculature presented before my vision. Gods spare me, but how was I ever supposed to resist such a magnificent beast of a man? Perhaps if he had proven a vicious brute, it would be different. Not this courteous and courageous protector, this noble warrior. This king.
His large hand cups my breast, as though testing the fit against his palm. I squirm a little, my heartbeat quickening. I spread my fingers across his chest, noticing something I’d not seen before—a complex pattern of shining gold, twining like a knot just above his heart. It gleams oddly, and I cannot tell if I am seeing with my eyes or some other perception is at work. Is it a tattoo, a tribal mark? When he shifts slightly, it flashes out of sight, only to return again the next moment.
“What is this?” I ask, tapping a finger against his sternum.
Taar lifts his gaze from contemplation of my body, black eyes catching hold of mine. “You are awake,zylnala,” he says simply.
I smile kittenishly, allowing myself to be distracted. “Did you sleep?”
He shakes his head. The corner of his mouth tilts.
“You must be tired.”
That tilt increases. “If bytiredyou meanbone-crushingly exhausted,then yes.” As though to put the lie to his words, hebends and kisses the peak of my breast, sending shivers sparking through my body. “But I could not let you sleep unguarded. And it was a pleasure indeed to watch you in such deep rest.”
He kisses me again then, and his tongue flicks out teasingly along the sensitive pink flesh surrounding my nipple. Fire erupts in my veins, incinerating all questions for the time being. A little “Oh!” escapes my lips in a gasp, a trace of musicality in the tone, which seems to excite him. He nuzzles into my bosom, his kisses more ardent, but seems to recall himself suddenly. Tipping his head up, he raises his brow in question. “And you, little wife? Are you tired?”
I am not. Not anymore. I wriggle my heated hips and run my fingers through his hair, catching hold and pulling his mouth back down to my skin to continue its good work. He is more than willing to comply. I arch my back, pressing into his tongue, murmuring inarticulately, keenly aware of the humming song of the golden cord, which twines all around us but somehow never tangles. Taar’s mouth moves along my breast to rest above my thrilling heart. I feel a sudden burst of golden light and song from that point. It’s just powerful enough to distract my attention, causing me to look down and attempt to catch sight of I know not what. But Taar’s head of gleaming hair blocks my view.
Now he’s moving down my body, his kisses hot and hungry, aiming for that point of ecstasy which he has taught me is my natural gift. I continue to grip his hair with one hand, guiding him, though he needs no guidance. As though more aware of mysensations than I am, he finds his way across my body, nipping, licking, relishing, delighting. When he nestles between my thighs, a growl rumbles in his throat. He shakes his head with eagerness just before gliding his tongue along my center. The sound of almost animalistic craving does something to my insides, and I give myself over to the wildness he awakens in me.
It doesn’t take long. My body is so aroused, soon the song of pleasure erupts in my throat, pouring from my lips in a long, liquid moan.
When it is over, I lay panting, staring up at the unfamiliar arches of the ceiling. The moonlight has faded, and the first tinges of dawn stain the edges of my vision. We have lain together all night, intermittently loving and resting, only to stir and love again. All this time Taar has remained singularly focused on me.
I frown slightly. Even in the shepherd’s hovel, where we took shelter during our long journey across Cruor, Taar had indulged in his own release several times over the course of the night. Not this night. Surely he must be aching with need by now.
He glides gracefully up from his crouch and stretches himself alongside my body, his face nestled once more close to my breast. I look at him, considering. His expression is peaceful, despite the shadows around his eyes and lining his mouth. He’s been through so much in these last few, terrible days. We both have. But, despite all that he has suffered, the losses he has faced, and the uncertainty of the future which is so rapidly rushing toward us with the risingof the sun, he has been nothing but generous. Lavish even, as he showers me with passion and pleasure.
My heart swells with feelings I can hardly name. Love, yes . . . but more than that. Love seems too small a word. Or perhaps my definition of love has simply been too small up until now. All I know for certain is the truth of the words which I sang to him last night, which still resound deep within my bones:Vel-sa almar. E luralma idor-hath.
My life is yours,
And, should you require it,
My death.
Well, thank the gods no death is required of me. Not yet, at least.
“Taar,” I say.
“Mmmmm?” murmured against my skin.
