DARK DREAMS Read online

  Tulkhan grinned.

  “It’s the Lady Kalleen for me,” Wharrd admitted. “It has been since we first took the Stronghold. I’d have married her without the Windhaven estate. As far as I’m concerned, our bonding day can’t come too soon.”

  He said this with such relish that Tulkhan smiled. If only he could look on his and Imoshen’s approaching bonding with the same unreserved enthusiasm.

  “I usually like them with a bit of meat on their bones,” Jacolm remarked as if he were talking about a brood mare. “But that head of red hair promises a fire a man could warm himself in!”

  Wharrd chuckled. “Beware you don’t get burnt!”

  But Jacolm insisted he knew how to handle himself and their banter turned crude even by soldiers’ standards.

  Tulkhan studied the three women. Little Kalleen was a lively thing and the Keldon noblewoman was a beauty, but neither of them stirred him like Imoshen did. He wondered what three such disparate women could possibly be talking about. Clothes, men?

  At that moment Imoshen and her two companions turned and glanced in Tulkhan’s direction, their expressions disconcertingly intense.

  Imoshen’s perceptive eyes met his and he felt a tug. Tulkhan found himself walking towards her, wending his way through the revelers.

  Imoshen stepped away from her companions, her gaze fixed eagerly on his face. “General, I want to speak with you about your lord commanders. They—”

  “In time,” Tulkhan said. He turned to the redheaded beauty. “Lady Cariah, you know my finest swordsman, now Lord Commander Jacolm.” As he suspected, the man lost no time asking her to dance.

  Wharrd then spirited Kalleen away, which left Tulkhan alone with Imoshen. It was the outcome he had both wanted and dreaded.

  Imoshen’s hand closed on his forearm and he responded immediately. Surely she must feel it too. Was he an open book to her, so transparent that she laughed at his hopeless, helpless craving for her?

  He slipped her hand from his arm, intending to put her away from him, but instead he pulled her closer. “Let’s dance.”

  “I thought you said you couldn’t dance.”

  “I lied.”

  Imoshen laughed and shook her head.

  He stared down into her upturned face, feeling a smile on his own lips. If only he was a soldier and she a camp-follower. He would simply lead her away to a secluded corner and seduce her. Already he felt his body reacting to the thought of her uninhibited response.

  Tulkhan knew Imoshen wanted him. He could feel it now in the way she melded against him. How could he wait until their official bonding day, when his body raged at him to claim her?

  “Only five weeks till midwinter,” Imoshen whispered.

  Furious, Tulkhan stepped back. She had done it again, skimmed the surface of his mind.

  “What is it?” Imoshen hissed, intently watching his face.

  She looked so innocent. Was she unaware of what she was doing even as she invaded his privacy? “I have no time for this. I have matter of state to deal with.”

  Imoshen watched the General stalk off, his back stiff with tension. What possessed him? Here she was trying to help his men assume control of their estates and he would not even listen to her.

  Annoyance flashed through her, but it was tinged with regret. She had to admit she’d felt a heady rush of desire when he held her. And now her body thrummed with a need that made his rejection of her doubly cruel.

  Impatience drove Imoshen as she glided across the empty anteroom to the door of Lady Cariah’s private bedchamber. She scratched on the door tang, her comb sending its delicate clear notes ahead of her as she pushed the door open. “Are you feeling better, Cariah?”

  It was nearly time for the noon meal and Cariah had retreated to her bedroom, complaining of a headache. Imoshen hated to disturb her, but already a day had passed since they had spoken of the General’s lord commanders and their new estates. Imoshen was concerned for her people. They needed someone to explain their customs and beliefs to their new overlords.

  “I have a tisane for your headache, Cariah,” Imoshen called.

  The woman’s tousled head thrust through the bed curtain and she laughed. “A moment.”

  Cariah reappeared a few heartbeats later, slipping through the closed bed curtains dressed in a simple under-shift.

  “I made you this.” Imoshen offered the prepared draught.

  “The Aayel always gave it to me if my head ached. And I wanted a chance to talk to you about—”

  “Wait. We must be alone.” Cariah put the tisane aside and raised her voice. “Jacolm, get dressed. I will see you tonight.”

  Imoshen’s face stung with heat as she realized she had interrupted their lovemaking. There was a muttering and rustling from inside the closed bed before the man climbed out, still lacing his breeches.

  “Cariah, I—” Imoshen began, but the woman gestured for her to be silent.

  Jacolm glared at the pair of them from under his heavy black brows, then recollected himself and made a perfunctory Ghebite bow before hastening away, shirt tails flapping.

  When the bedchamber’s door closed Imoshen sank onto a seat, covering her hot face. “Oh, Cariah!”

  But she was laughing. “Hush. The wait will make our joining all the sweeter tonight. Jacolm is over sure of himself anyway.” She sat down next to Imoshen, taking her hand.

  Imoshen felt the warmth of Cariah’s skin, noting the sensual flush in her face. Without wishing to, she registered the subtle change in Cariah’s scent. She glowed with life and passion, making Imoshen feel inexperienced and gauche.

  “I am sorry.” Imoshen could not meet Cariah’s knowing eyes. “I forget the ways of the high court. I only visited once. For the most part my family kept me secluded even from my own relatives.”

  Cariah squeezed her hand. “You wanted to speak with me?”

  Imoshen bit her lip. Naturally Cariah did not want to hear how she lived as an outcast. The T’En traits Cariah bore were subtle enough to let her pass amongst True-people. A flash of resentment stung Imoshen but she put it aside as unworthy.

  “Of course,” she said. “I have been thinking and I don’t want to send priests as advisors with the new lord commanders. I’d prefer to send lesser masters from the Halls of Learning,” Imoshen smiled, “as interpreters.”

  Cariah laughed. “How could they refuse?” Relief flooded Imoshen. “Then I must select the most tactful of lesser masters for these posts.” Again she hesitated. “The General might not believe this necessary but if it is already arranged—”

  “Use my chamber to interview them.”

  “And then?” Tulkhan asked, his voice as cold as the ache in his chest.

  The little man flinched at his tone but continued. “As she has done for several days, your betrothed entered Lady Cariah’s bedchamber. The princess was in there from one bell to next. After she left three men slipped away.”

  Tulkhan winced. The thought of Imoshen’s quicksilver passion being ignited by another man’s touch was abhorrent to him. Nausea roiled in his belly. He could not believe it of Imoshen.

  “Leave me!” He dismissed the man, a trusted Ghebite who had spied for him on other occasions.

  Tulkhan rose, knowing he should be preparing for the hunt. It was one of the few pastimes both his own people and the Keld enjoyed.

  He knew he should expose Imoshen, yet. . . With bitter insight he understood he feared to confront her because he did not want to discover the truth.

  “He comes,” Kalleen hissed, then hurried past Imoshen, disappearing around the corner.

  Imoshen straightened, her heart thumping. This was ridiculous, but every time she had tried to speak with the General he had been too busy to see her, forcing her to rely on this little ruse. She had asked Kalleen to watch for him and warn her of his approach.

  She heard the thud of his booted feet. Good, he was alone. It was much harder to speak when his commanders were with him.

  I
moshen stepped out of the doorway and collided with him as he rounded the bend.

  “General?” she gasped.

  “Imoshen.” He accorded her a cold welcome.

  She ignored it and plunged on. “I’m glad to see you. I promised to show you the plans of old T’Diemn. Come this way.”

  For a moment he looked blank, then he nodded grimly. It did not bode well. She was hoping that if she lured him away from his men and showed him something of interest, his manner might change.

  They made their way to the palace library in silence. As the Keeper of the Knowledge scurried off to get documents, Imoshen cleared her throat.

  “I’m glad you asked me about the River Diemn. I was able to hunt up ... Ah, here it is.” She thanked the old man and spread the large tome on the table, opening it at the right page. “T’Diemn was originally built on several hills, with the river skirting their bases. Every second year it would flood with much loss of life and livelihood. T’Imoshen the Third’s younger brother diverted the river, taming it so that a small portion flowed through T’Diemn, bringing fresh water, while the rest flowed around the city walls. That was when he designed the palace’s ornamental lake—”

  “The lake is not natural?”

  “No. Neither is the forest. Then he improved on the original design of old T’Diemn, which was laid out in concentric circles with streets running directly from the south to the north gates and from east to west. He built the ring-road within the city walls so that reinforcements could be rushed to the defenses if the walls were breached. He designed the fortified bridge we crossed to enter the old part of the city.”

  “That bridge? But you can’t see daylight for the shops and homes.”

  Imoshen nodded. “They are more recent additions. Originally it was built for defense. You know where the bridge ends in an L-shaped bay before the outer and inner gates of the old city? If attackers managed to cross the river, they would be pinned there, by the defenders on the gate towers.”

  Tulkhan shook his head. It never ceased to amaze him. The T’En had created great feats of engineering and built fortifications more sophisticated than any he had come across elsewhere, then they had let it all go in their complacency.

  “I thought you might like to see this.” Imoshen’s smile warmed him.

  Still, he was surprised when she opened the last pages of the book to reveal intricate faded drawings of complex machines.

  “Imoshen the Third’s brother attempted to build a flying machine. But he couldn’t get a person off the ground for more than a gliding flight. And this—”

  “Some kind of siege machine?” Tulkhan studied the drawing. “The wheels would only work over smooth ground. The metal plates would stop defenders from setting fire to the machine, and protect the men crouching behind it, but it would be very heavy, hard to transport.”

  “I don’t think it was ever built. Reothe lived at the beginning of the Age of Consolidation, when Fair Isle no longer faced internal threat. The T’En—”

  “What did you call him?”

  Imoshen stopped, took a slow breath, and raised her eyes to his. “He was T’Reothe the Builder. My kinsman Reothe was named after him, just as I was named after T’Imoshen the First. They are common names.”

  Tulkhan stared at Imoshen. It was always there between them, her cultural heritage, her T’En traits, and her broken vows to the rebel leader.

  “Here.” She pushed the old volume aside and selected another, opening it. “If you follow the family lines you will see the same names turn up again and again.”

  Tulkhan stared at the indecipherable High T’En script. He couldn’t even read the dates. “More chicken scrawl.”

  “It is our family tree. Here is Reothe the Builder, my ancestor.” Imoshen smiled as she turned the page. “He heralded the Age of Consolidation, which lasted around three hundred years. The Age of Discernment began with the stoning of the last rogue T’En a hundred years ago.” She turned two more pages, tracing the line, and pointed. “Here I am. Imoshen the Last.”

  Then she blinked in dismay, as if hearing her words.

  But Tulkhan had no sympathy for her. He found it hard to credit what he saw before him, six hundred and sixteen years of births, deaths, and marriages. The written records of his Ghebite royal family went back only as far as his grandfather’s time. Before that the histories and traditions of his monadic people had been remembered by the tale-teller of each tribe.

  Nomads did not carry heavy items like books. It was only when Tulkan’s father was a boy and his people moved into the palace of their first conquered kingdom that they begun to write down their oral histories, transposing a tent culture to a more permanent home. Strictly translated they were not house-lines, as he had told Imoshen, but tent-lines.

  He felt her watching him now and tapped the page. “In this book you have six hundred years of blood lines, father to son?”

  Imoshen laughed. “You’re thinking like a Ghebite, General. This book itself was begun four hundred years ago at the dawn of the Age of Consolidation, transcribed from fragmentary older records. But yes, it traces the royal line from empress to daughter for just over six hundred years. The males only inherited, as in Reothe the Builder’s case, if the empress had no daughters. Emperor Reothe bonded with his second cousin to consolidate the royal line.”

  His eager gaze returned to the book of war machines. “I want to study this, particularly the parts referring to the defense of old T’Diemn. Have it sent to my bedchamber.”

  “You can take it now if you like.”

  “No. I’m late already. I’m supposed to view the Passing Out Parade at the Halls of Learning.” He could not hide his reluctance and saw her answering smile. “Could you translate those passages for me by tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I can’t. I have an engagement.”

  Anger hardened in him. An engagement with her lover? “Break it.”

  “I can’t. Like you I have responsibilities.”

  Was Imoshen betraying him? True, their vows had not been given, only a commitment to marry. Tulkhan frowned. Broken vows meant nothing to Imoshen.

  “I must go.” He stepped back.

  “I will have the book sent to your bedchamber.”

  He wanted to tell her to bring it herself or not to bother. But he did not know what he would say if he opened his mouth, so he strode out in silence, leaving Imoshen looking confused and hurt.

  How could she look so innocent if she was taking lovers? If his men believed he was being cuckolded, they would expect him to salvage his honor with her death.

  Chapter Six

  Imoshen stood by the balcony door, tracing the lines of the beveled glass. Tulkhan had not returned from the Halls of Learning. It was one of those clear, crystal cold nights of winter and she longed to escape the confines of the palace. Opening the door she stepped out onto the balcony which overlooked the city. She wished she was an apprentice being granted her year’s service, or a student of the Halls of Learning accepting her passing out for the year.

  Soon it would be Midwinter’s Day, and the scholars had agreed the historic bonding of the last T’En princess with the Ghebite General would determine the end of the Age of Discernment and the dawn of a new age.

  She had spoken only yesterday with the engravers at the royal mint to approve the design of the new coin they were producing to celebrate her bonding with the General. Resentment warmed Imoshen, for Tulkhan had been too busy to accompany her.

  She turned, resting her elbows on the balustrade to survey the palace, its windows blazing in the night, its towers dark against the stars. A movement on Sard’s Tower caught Imoshen’s attention. She frowned. It looked for all the world like the Keeper of the Knowledge struggling with a bulky object. Curious, she darted inside and retraced her steps to the long gallery before making her way to the tower.

  By the time she found him, the old man had set up his equipment and was seated on a stool with a blanket wrapped around him, st
udying the stars.

  “I thought so!” Imoshen crowed. “Can I have a look?”

  He stood up with good grace.

  She took his place, peering through the enlarged farseer.

  “Amazing. I can see patterns on the large moon!”

  “Mountains.”

  “You think so?” She studied it.

  “Take a look at the smaller moon. I think the concentric circles are artificial constructions, primitive fortifications perhaps.”

  Imoshen was not so sure. She pivoted the instrument to study the spires and rooftops of T’Diemn, looking for something she could recognize. A gasp escaped her. “What’s that glow? Something’s burning.”

  Leaving the farseer on its tripod, Imoshen went to the edge of the tower, and the Keeper of the Knowledge joined her there.

  “Look.” She pointed. “A building’s burning within the old city walls.”

  “That’s the Caper Night bonfire in the main square of the Halls of Learning. They’ll celebrate, paint their faces, and don their masks. Before long they’ll be roaming the streets looking for mischief.”

  “I’ve heard they fight pitched battles in the streets.”

  He laughed. “Last Caper Night they caught one of the guild masters, stripped his shoes off him, and painted his feet bright red. There’s no harm in it. There’s always been rivalry between the Greater and Lesser Guilds and the students from the Halls of Learning—battles with brooms and paint brushes, guild symbols painted out, white-washed hall ensigns. Why, I remember the Caper Night I graduated . . .”

  Someone suddenly burst through the open trapdoor.

  “Imoshen!” Kalleen snapped. “I’ve searched half the palace for you. There’s a messenger waiting and it’s urgent.”

  “Urgent?” Imoshen’s stomach clenched in fear for the General.

  Imoshen’s soft slippers flew over the polished wood of the palace corridors. When she opened the door to her chamber and saw a familiar face, relief flooded her. “Healer Rifkin. What is it?”