UNSHEATHED

Chapter Fifty Six

Liran sat outside his pavilion, exhausted, yet too tired to sleep. He looked into his wine, sniffed it, finding the aroma rather wonderful, and gave a moment of thanks to First Commander Alkema for sending him the gift. He should try to get some rest before it was time to pack up and leave once more.

He had never realized how much went into moving an army. Every day his soldiers took down his tent, packed up his trunks of clothing and papers, and put them and all of his furnishings into one of the large wagons. Then, after a long, slow ride they would unpack it all and set everything up again for his comfort. And that was just what they did for him. There was much more to do after that.

He was thankful for these luxuries. More than a little, since healing often left him feeling raw and drained. Normally he would have just sunk into the furs in his cot and drifted off to a deep slumber, but there was too much to trouble him.

Elena had been attacked by Kaldene soldiers.

Obviously this was the work of their enemy. He had spent the night dealing with other after effects of this same insidious influence. Scores of injured soldiers were brought to the infirmary, hobbling in with their injuries, aided by their fellows. No wonder he was exhausted. He dealt with as many as he could until Adina came to him and told him to leave. Only she would dare to speak to him like that.

Liran took a mouthful of the wine, savouring the fruity warmth of it with its hints of summers past in the after taste. Glorious. He ran his fingers through his hair. The gesture made him think of his father. The man was long dead, but Liran still thought of him often.

"Liran?"

Adina stood across from his table. Liran looked up.

"Back already?"

"I looked after our Field Marshall. It was nothing too serious." Adina took the seat beside Liran.

"Wine? Alkema's vintage."

Adina shook her head. "Thank you, but no. I find it muddles my thinking, and that affects my healing."

"Too bad, it's superb." He saluted her with his cup and took another swallow. A glass of wine hardly had any impact on a man of his size. He'd have to drink the whole bottle.

Adina looked at Liran as if she wanted to say something. After a moment, though, she rose and bid him farewell. Liran wondered what was on her mind.

He tilted his glass up and downed the rest. The raw feeling was starting to abate. Adina had been wise to suggest he needed a break from healing. It was affecting him much more these days. Tonight he had succumbed to an onslaught of memories by one of his patients. Normally he kept his shielding extra tight. No one wanted their liege lord to learn their innermost desires and secrets, and he respected that. But tonight he slipped, and a mental image from one of the Trillas soldiers of his company hit him full on. It was all hot-blooded desire, a scene of coupling with a lover back in Castillon. Liran flushed uncomfortably as he remembered.

Unfortunately healing required a connection of hand to skin, and so gloves had to be removed, but then the connection might be mental as well as physical if the healer wasn't careful to block his mind off from his patient's. Marulan walked a fine line between helping and invading their patient's privacy. Respect was a huge part of their training, hammered in at every occasion.

Marulan were often free thinkers. If they weren't, they would be shocked by half of what they saw in their patients' minds. It wasn't always possible to keep their barriers tight enough. Sometimes it happened just like that. A Marulan had to be able to accept that others had their own ways and avoid judgement.

He looked down at his palms resting in his lap. The slightly shiny area in the middle was the only thing that indicated that this area of his skin was different. He had inherited this from his mother, for only the Hilliri possessed this quality. Adina seldom wore gloves, which marked her as unusual, for most of the Hilliri kept their sensitive palm skin covered. Only the Marulan were willing to take a risk and remove their gloves, but only then for the need to heal.

He remembered, unwillingly, the throb of craving at the man's pulse points. He had dreamed, and wandered into memories that obviously brought him to somewhere he would rather be, with someone comforting. It was understandable, but it pulled Liran's mind to places he didn't want to go, or rather, where he wanted badly to go, but had disciplined himself not to.

His mind wanted to wander into fields of long copper-tinged golden tresses, hills and valleys of sun-kissed bronzed flesh, where blue-green eyes flashed as a wide smile lit her face.

Elena.

He felt his own pulse flare with the image. It was getting more difficult to keep such thoughts out. The demands of maru healing frayed his concentration, and although he steeled himself well, he was slipping. He tried to keep busy--tried to keep away, but the effort was becoming more and more of a strain.

He poured himself another glass of wine and drank half in one gulp. He chided himself for not savouring the fine vintage more slowly. As he picked up the bottle, an image filled his mind. A summer's day in full heat, the sun beating a sweltering heat down upon him, or rather, whoever had been handling the bottle at the time. Liran slipped on his gloves, too tired to allow such visions to trouble him anymore and felt a dullness set over him.

That was better.

But gloves wouldn't buffer him from the troublesome thoughts of Elena. Ever since he recognized his feelings, he tried to push them down, tuck them away. After all, what could he do with them? Rainna still lived, and they were still married. Even if Rainna died, and she surely would for her treason. If she ever set foot again in Castillon, he would have to deal with her.

The Hilliri who never strayed from their spouses, nor ever gallivanted before they married, could not be more different than the Trillas, who too often trifled with each other. In Castillon, their sunset pairings, every night a different companion, were legendary. Two cultures could hardly be more different.

What would happen if he chose to ignore the taboo of his mother's people? He might accept the stares from the Hilliri. Perhaps they would assume he was simply more like his father's people than they previously thought. He could bear that, but what troubled him most was the shadow touch.

He wondered how his mother had accepted it. His father had been a famous womanizer before they had met, and had probably bedded half of the town of Madrezza. How did she deal with the shadows of his past whenever she touched him? Liran smiled, remembering how his mother and father would spend days shut in together, the door locked, after his father's return from a journey. They were famous lovers, after all. Lengthy ballads had been written and sung the world over about their passion. But as much as he wanted to touch Elena, he couldn't imagine getting past images of Maranus, Sandro or some other past lover that would invariably invade his thoughts.

He fingered his half empty glass, lifted it to his lips and downed the rest. Warmth soothed his throat as it went down. He was being foolish and sorry for himself. He had made his choices long ago, and had promised himself that he wouldn't regret them, whatever happened. It wasn't likely that Elena would feel the same anyway. Besides, he was, quite arguably, a freak.

A runner arrived and handed him a letter. He opened it and read. Scouts had located the Imperial encampment within half a day's ride.

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Cheers!

Rebecca