DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 10

  Reothe smiled. “I will not insult you by saying you think like a man.”

  Imoshen felt the blood rush to her face, and a sweet pain filled her. Shortly after their first meeting, Tulkhan had accused her of thinking like a man, a typically Ghebite comment. She and Reothe shared a common heritage.

  Drawn to him despite her better judgment, she placed a hand on Reothe’s shoulder. When he pressed his lean cheek to the back of her hand, she felt the heat of his skin. Her lips brushed his head. She longed to open her T’En senses, reach out and touch his essence. She felt so empty she ached. The moment stretched impossibly.

  With great effort she pulled away and walked around the desk to top up her wine. “Drink to our bargain?”

  “What bargain? I have agreed to nothing, Imoshen.” His features hardened. “Or did you think to seal my agreement with the offer of your body? Tantalizing as it is, I must decline.”

  She froze. Seeing his knowing expression, she realized he could read her actions, even if he could no longer sense her thoughts. Shame and fury lashed Imoshen, but she schooled her features, putting her glass aside. “All I ask is your support to hold Fair Isle.”

  “I called off the Keldon nobles, didn’t I? I am loyal to Fair Isle. Can you say the same?”

  “All I have done has been for Fair Isle!”

  “Perhaps,” he conceded, suddenly tired.

  He stood stiffly, and Imoshen took a step toward him, her hand extended. He flicked it aside angrily. “Your maid is a terrible gossip, Imoshen. She will know exactly how long I have been alone with you. By tomorrow morning everyone will believe we are lovers.”

  “We’ve been discussing matters of state! If I were a man, they would not think otherwise.”

  He smiled slowly. “But you are not a man. You are a beautiful woman made more desirable by the power you wield. Besides”—Reothe’s eyes gleamed with painful self-knowledge—“we both know the only reason we are not lovers in deed, as well as intent, is because this body of mine is—”

  “But I have never sought to seduce you!”

  “True. Now tell me you’ve never desired me.”

  She swallowed. “You must tell them the truth.”

  “If you wish. I will explain that we were discussing how to hold Fair Isle in the event of the General’s death.” He cut short her protest with a shrug. “Let them believe what they choose, Imoshen. It is only a matter of time. The General will disown you because you carry my child.”

  “Is that why you—” She laughed bitterly. “He told me by Ghebite law he should strangle me and our son!”

  Reothe’s eyes widened in surprise.

  “What did you expect? Ghebites think differently.”

  “Yet you still live,” he countered.

  “Yes. As do you. And I don’t know why.”

  “It is a simple thing to find out.” Reothe frowned when she would not hold his eyes. “Let me guess. He made you promise not to use your gifts on him, and your honor won’t let you break a promise. Why do you find it so hard to break a vow to him, when you broke your vows to me?”

  “How can you speak of vows and honor?” Tears stung her eyes, making her realize how deeply his betrayal had hurt. “You tricked me!”

  He uttered a short bark of laughter. Her hand lashed out, but he caught her wrist and pulled her against his chest. Her heart raced, her breath caught in her throat. Everything else receded but his nearness. She could have freed herself in an instant but, treacherously, she longed for his touch.

  “Yes, I tricked you. But your body recognized me just as it does now. We were meant for each other. Only in your company do I feel truly alive, and when our minds touch...” He shuddered. For an instant Reothe’s features were illuminated by a fey passion. His beauty stole her breath. He was so Other that she feared her instinctive attraction to him.

  She sprang away, shaking her head.

  “No?” He gestured to himself. “You did this. You could have turned your gifts on me at any time.”

  But she did not dare unleash the powers he seemed so sure of. At least for the moment they were equal. His abilities were crippled and hers untutored. “How could I suspect my true potential when everyone believes the males are more powerful than the females? You hid the T’Elegos. It is as much my birthright as yours!”

  “You have only to ask and I will share everything with you.”

  She fought a heady rush of desire. He promised so much more than the knowledge of their T’En legacy, but her choice was made. “I’m sorry, Reothe. I must stand by my vow to Tulkhan.”

  “You surrendered to save your life, Imoshen. Your vow to me is of an older making and sprang from your own free will.”

  “Our betrothal belongs to a lost future.”

  “I have the Sight. I’ve glimpsed many futures. I believe we can claim the future we want. Look at your left wrist.”

  A sharp sting made her gasp and she covered her wrist. But she could not deny that the bonding scar they both shared had split open.

  Shortly after General Tulkhan accepted her surrender, Reothe had come to her at Landsend Abbey. He had offered to help her escape but she had already given the General her word, and the people of Fair Isle relied on her to smooth the transition of power. Before she could explain this, Reothe had cut their wrists to begin the bonding ceremony, but she had refused to complete the oath. In Landsend Abbey she had made a decision to follow her head, not her heart; now, just over a year later, she hoped it had been the right decision. Imoshen gritted her teeth as blood welled between her fingers.

  “Imoshen?” The tone of Reothe’s voice made her look up to see him raise his left arm. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the wound across his wrist. “I once told you it would stop bleeding on the day we were properly joined. We have shared our bodies and our minds, yet you still refuse me. This might not be a perfect future, but it is all we have and I will not give up!”

  His vehemence frightened her. She sealed the wound with her tongue, tasting the bitter tang of her blood. “You forget I hold your life in my hands.”

  “Then kill me and stop this farce, because I find it too painful to bear. You see, compassion is but another name for cruelty, sweet T’Imoshen.” His voice vibrated with truth. He turned his wrist to reveal the bleeding wound. “Heal me.”

  “Never.”

  “Then I will never reveal the T’Elegos, and you will destroy yourself and everything you love because you cannot control your powers.”

  Imoshen staggered, reaching blindly for the table.

  “Think on it, Imoshen. I am your anchor. You need me!” Torturously slow, but with great dignity, he left her.

  Chapter Seven

  Tulkhan strode to the entrance of his makeshift command shelter. The smoke of many cooking fires rose on the still, dawn air. Men called to one another, their voices carrying. After eleven years of campaigning it was familiar and reassuring.

  Tulkhan cleared his throat. “Kornel, where’s Banuld?”

  “Probably by the kitchen fires, gambling away his beer rations,” Kornel muttered, and disappeared. By the time he had returned. Tulkhan was seated under the awning at a table scavenged from some farm kitchen, drinking warm beer and eating honey cakes. Banuld looked wary, if hopeful.

  “Tell the marsh-dweller I have good news and bad. I will be sending him to his village but without his son.” Tulkhan saw the marsh-dweller’s anger quickly masked as Kornel spoke.

  “Ban?” Tulkhan lifted his arms. The boy glanced to his father, who signaled that he should obey. Eagerly, the child ran into Tulkhan’s arms. He had won the boy with sweet nuts and rides along the earthworks. Absently, Tulkhan stroked Ban’s head, feeling the many tiny plaits the marsh-dwellers used to confine their long hair. He met the father’s eyes. “Banuld-Chi, you will lead Kornel and his men through the marshes.”

  Tulkhan watched as Kornel translated. The boy nudged his arm and pointed to the nuts, and Tulkhan obligingly cracked one between his fingers.
Ban tried to do the same trick with his small hands. Tulkhan grinned, taking the nut from Ban and cracking it in his teeth as he would have done as a boy.

  Kornel ceased his translation and turned back to the General. “He asks why?”

  “I have three boatloads of mercenaries coming across the T’Ronynn Straits. I need you, Kornel, to take the shallow draft boats to the river mouth. By the time you get there, all the mercenaries will be waiting. You’ll bring them over the Marsh-wall to me. That is why I need Banuld to guide you through the marshes. I will pay him for his services.”

  Kornel nodded. “Warn the mercenaries to build big fires and post watch when they make their camp at the river mouth. That should keep the narcts at bay.”

  It was too late to warn them. Tulkhan had sent a message to Imoshen last night while he was aboard Peirs’s ship. He poured three mugs of warm beer, offering them to Kornel and Banuld, who accepted his with surprise. “To a swift passage through the marshes and a short siege!”

  When the captain translated, Banuld added his own toast with an elaborate hand signal. Tulkhan looked to Kornel, who explained, “That’s their blessing. May your feet always find dry ground.”

  Tulkhan laughed and drained his beer, wiping his mouth. “After crossing the marshes I can appreciate that!”

  Kornel grinned and eyed the remaining beer, so Tulkhan obliged. He needed their loyalty, even though he would send his own men with them; if either one betrayed him, he would be left here with the barest minimum of men and supplies.

  Tulkhan lifted his mug. “Sumair is a rich port. I hear her merchants live like princes. To the spoils of war!”

  “The spoils of war!” Kornel’s deep eyes gleamed.

  “A blockade ship has arrived with a message.” Dyta stepped back to let a young soldier with a gingery mustache and freckled skin enter Imoshen’s chamber.

  He gave her a Ghebite bow and dug inside his jerkin to remove a sealed missive. “Rawset, on behalf of General Tulkhan. I made the night crossing.”

  “Bring food and warmed wine for two, Dyta,” Imoshen said. The woman departed and Imoshen accepted the message, noting that Rawset was careful not to meet her eyes or let their fingers make contact.

  The residue of Tulkhan’s personality remained on the paper, making her skin prickle with the memory of his touch. Lifting the missive to her face, she inhaled. What she learned reassured her. Tulkhan had not written this under duress.

  Lost in thought, she rocked Ashmyr’s basket while she broke the seal and read. As Tulkhan’s words formed in her mind, his voice, his scent, and his manner returned to her. She felt dizzy with his presence and the rediscovery of her love for him. Tears of longing swam in her vision, but she blinked them away fiercely. So the General wanted his supplies and men to travel through the marshes. “You know the contents, Rawset?”

  He nodded.

  The old woman returned with a tray.

  “Dyta, tell Lightfoot the first shipload of his mercenaries will sail this morning,” Imoshen said. “Eat while I write a reply, Rawset.” She took her scriber, dipped it in the ink, then thought long and hard over a reply—so long, in fact, that the ink dried and she had to re-ink the scriber.

  Telling the General her plans did not require a great deal of thought. It was how to word her reassurances that troubled Imoshen. She was sure some rumor of how things appeared between herself and Reothe would eventually reach the General. Finally she opted for formal courtesy. When the mercenaries reached Tulkhan, he would not doubt her loyalty.

  “I want you to put this in General Tulkhan’s hands, Rawset.” She placed the message on the table. “And I want all communication that passes between the General and myself to come via you.”

  Rawset swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and pushed the plate aside. “I will not see the General until all three boatloads of mercenaries have been delivered to the marsh river mouth.”

  Imoshen nodded and lifted the candle, pointing to her message. “Hold it flat.”

  She let hot wax drip to form a puddle, then pressed her sixth finger in to seal it. The heat stung. A rush of urgency filled her as she looked down into Rawset’s face. She wanted to ensure his loyalty as she had ensured the mercenary’s. “Can I trust you, Rawset of the Ghebites?”

  He nodded. “But I am no longer a Ghebite. I am General Tulkhan’s man.”

  “Then you are my man,” Imoshen whispered. She fought the urge to touch him with her sixth finger. “You are mine.”

  His eyes never left her face. “I am yours.”

  Imoshen smiled, stepping back. “Good. Go now.”

  Four nights later, torchlight flickered as the last shipload of mercenaries left for the marsh-lands, and Imoshen stood on the docks to see them off.

  “T’Imoshen?” The harbormaster approached.

  On this, her final evening in Northpoint, Imoshen had invited the town officials for warmed wine. In a blur of weariness, she led them back to the great hall, where she performed the leave-taking ceremony, serving them with her own hands, her servitude to them a symbol of her servitude to Fair Isle. She said all the right things, but nothing could change the facts. From the lowliest candle trimmer to Imoshen herself, they faced an uncertain future.

  At last they departed and Imoshen retreated to T’Ronynn’s Tower. She felt Ashmyr’s weight as she climbed the stairs. All was quiet; the servants, their preparations completed, were already in bed.

  The door to her room had been left ajar, and she saw that the windows were also open. The candles had not been lit and the fire had been allowed to burn down to embers. Imoshen sniffed in annoyance.

  Ashmyr slept soundly as she placed him in his basket, tucking the down-filled comforter around him. She straightened, arched her back, and slipped off her boots, wriggling her bare toes on the rug. It was cold, but there was no point in stirring up the flames until she closed the windows.

  Padding lightly across the floor, she went to the semicircle and leaned out to pull in each window. The night was so clear she could almost see the lights of the blockading ships across the straits. Tulkhan had entrusted her to keep Fair Isle safe. She missed her great-aunt’s advice. If the rebels hadn’t tried to assassinate Tulkhan, the Aayel might still be alive. Unarmed, he had fought off three attackers, which hadn’t done his reputation any harm. But it was the Aayel’s bravery that Imoshen recalled. Her great-aunt had taken the blame on herself, saving Imoshen by committing suicide. That failed assassination attempt had cost Imoshen dearly.

  As she crossed to the fireplace, a shape detached itself from the shadows. An assassin?

  Light arced across the room, a thousand small comets of fire. Flames roared up in the grate, throwing crazy, leaping shadows, illuminating Reothe’s arrested expression as he balanced precariously without his walking stick.

  “Imoshen, don’t!” Reothe’s warning cut through the roaring in her head.

  She staggered back several steps, almost tripping over the baby. With a gasp she discovered live coals glowing on his blanket, eating their way through to him. With a soundless cry of horror, she plucked the coals from the cradle and threw them into the roaring fire.

  No pain registered.

  “Imoshen, the bed curtains.”

  Hungry yellow flames licked at the thick material that was tied back to the bedposts. Pushing Reothe aside, she snatched the water pitcher and doused the fire.

  But the room was still thick with the smell of smoke, and the fire had dropped as suddenly as it rose. All around her on the floor, the chair, and her desk were the winking, glowing eyes of live coals. Cursing under her breath, she snatched up the hot coals, dropping them in the jug. Any on the floor she stamped out while Reothe lit the candles. He rebuilt the fire, coaxing it to burn brightly, and the sweet scent of fresh popping resin filled the room, overlaying the smell of charred material.

  Imoshen went to the windows to empty the water jug of its charcoal sludge. When she turned, Reothe was just rising, one hand on the m
antelpiece to steady himself.

  He met her gaze, a rueful smile lighting his sharp features. “Remind me never to surprise you.”

  “I was thinking of the assassination attempt on Tulkhan.” She put the jug aside.

  “Did you get all the live coals?”

  “Yes.” Only then did she become aware of the pain in her fingers and feet. Gritting her teeth, she confronted Reothe. “Why are you here?”

  “I bribed your maid to go to bed early.”

  “That is how, not why.”

  “That was quite spectacular. If I had been an assassin, I would have been surprised enough for you to incapacitate me before I could strike. But it was also dangerous. Ashmyr—”

  “Don’t you think I know!” She inspected the sleeping infant, but he was blissfully unaware.

  “You’re burned. Where are your herbs?”

  Imoshen was so weary, and she found the idea of Reothe taking care of her insidiously sweet. “The herbs are in the small cabinet behind my desk.” Sinking into the chair, she watched him limp to the cabinet and study its contents. “You don’t need your walking stick?”

  “I pace the parapets three times a day.”

  Imoshen watched as he unstoppered a glass jar and sniffed the contents. “You will find the—”

  “I know what I am looking for. Healing might be your gift, but I have a working knowledge of herbal lore.”

  She smiled at his tone. In pain but perversely happy, she waited as he returned with the soothing ointment. It was odd to find Reothe kneeling at her feet. A little quiver swept through her. His strong hand closed around her ankle, and she turned her face away to hide the pain he was causing her.

  “Curse me, if it will help,” he urged.

  Imoshen had to smile. She stole a look at him. He was watching her fondly. If only... A stab of loss made her gasp.

  “I’m clumsy,” he apologized.