Alton Gift by Marion Zimmer Bradley & Deborah J. Ross

Author:Marion Zimmer Bradley & Deborah J. Ross [Bradley, Marion Zimmer & Ross, Deborah J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction / Fantasy / General
ISBN: 9780575114128
Google: Zx16WUj-w5IC
Amazon: 0756404800
Publisher: DAW
Published: 2007-06-04T22:00:00+00:00

Illona! Preciosa!

In that unintended moment, she was indeed precious to him, a mirror of his dreams and yet entirely herself.

The music in his mind built, chord upon rising chord, waves of delight like laughter, like breath. Each surge carried them higher, linked them more deeply. Beneath their feet, he imagined the mountains humming with joy.

Cold brought Domenic back to his physical senses. He had no idea how much time had passed as they stood on the windswept hillside. Never in all his days, not even his time at Neskaya, had he ever entered into such a deep, engulfing unity with another human being. He had not even known it was possible.

Illona stirred. Domenic put his arms around her. Her cloak had fallen open. She drew its folds around them both. Leaning into him, she lifted her face. In a movement as natural as breathing, their lips met. He felt the kiss in the pit of his belly—lust, certainly, but also something deeper. A forging, a uniting. Never had he felt such balance, each of them giving and receiving in equal share. Their hearts kissed, not just their lips.

They broke apart like dancers who knew their steps perfectly. The space between them warmed with the closeness of their bodies. He could think of nothing to say, no words that would not fracture the perfect moment. There was no need to say anything. As one, they clasped hands and turned back toward Nevarsin.

They were still in rapport but able to converse about ordinary things when they neared the Tower.

Several riding animals, mules and hardy mountain ponies, stood saddled in the front yard. Tower servants bustled in and out the front gates. Sammel and Fiona, the youngest member of the circle, stood talking in agitated tones with a cristoforo monk.

Fiona looked up, seeing them. “Illona! Praise to Evanda, you’ve returned. Sammel could not reach you with his starstone and we feared something had happened.”

A delicate flush brushed Illona’s cheeks. “My attention was diverted for a time.”

“I am to blame for that,” Domenic said. “I went walking on the hills, and Illona guided me back. What is the trouble?”

The monk, a small, wiry man of middle years, answered. “We of St. Valentine’s tend the sick in honor of the Holy Bearer of Burdens. Of

late, a number of poor folk have come to us, driven from their homes by fire or hunger. The women and children we send to our sisters of the Renunciates, for no female may enter the holy confines.” Here, his glance went uneasily to Illona.

‘Tray continue, good brother,” she said serenely.

“Usually, all these poor men need is good care—a warm bed, nourishing food, and a little rest. Their bodies return to health, and they go on their way. But two days ago one of our patients became very ill.

Despite our best efforts, he grows worse. He burns as if on fire.”

“What is wrong with him?” Illona asked. “I assume your infirmarian is familiar with the various fevers and their treatments.”

The monk gestured impatiently.

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