DARK DREAMS Read online

  “T’Imoshen,” he greeted her formally. “Dockside Hospice calls on your healing expertise this night.”

  As patron of the Healing Guild she had an obligation to help, but it went deeper than that. She could not turn away someone in need. “Kalleen, my cloak.”

  It was lucky Kalleen did not know T’Diemn well enough to realize how dangerous it was to venture out on Caper Night. No harm was meant, but decent folk stayed indoors and barred their windows.

  The girl returned with both their cloaks.

  “Don’t bother with yours. No need for you to have a late night too,” Imoshen told her. “The healer will guide me.”

  Kalleen looked dubious.

  “I’m sure I saw Wharrd at the entertainments. Why don’t you rescue him from the dueling poets?”

  Kalleen smiled. “You should take an escort.”

  Tulkhan had said the same, offering her the use of his Elite Guard. But she did not want Ghebites hounding her every step. “I know. I’ll take Crawen, she’s at my door tonight.”

  General Tulkhan was glad he had missed the dueling poets. Their ability to wrest a rhyme from thin air and wield it like a weapon unnerved him.

  Kalleen and Wharrd were occupied in the far end of the room but he saw no sign of Imoshen.

  Cariah swept forward to greet him. Instinctively he bristled. Was this woman providing a cloak for Imoshen’s infidelity?

  “General Tulkhan. Would you like to hear a reading?”

  Anything but that. He never knew when the thing was over. According to the T’En nobles, the pauses were as significant as the words. Clapping was considered gauche and finger-clicking your approval in the wrong place brought embarrassed silence.

  “Where is Imoshen?”

  “I don’t know. She was here a little while ago.”

  Nicely evasive. Perhaps she was with a lover right now. A rush of fury coursed through his veins like liquid fire. He stalked past Cariah to join Wharrd and Kalleen.

  “Where is Imoshen, Kalleen?” Would the girl he too?

  Kalleen stiffened, responding to his unspoken threat. “Doing what she must to serve her people.”

  “Just what does that mean?”

  “She’s been called away to help in a healing. She may be on her way back already.”

  “Back?” Tulkhan barked.

  “From the hospice.”

  Tulkhan’s body tightened. He’d heard all about the excesses of tonight’s celebrations from students at the Halls of Learning. “Imoshen has left the palace on Caper Night?”

  Kalleen nodded. “A healer from the Dockside Hospice came for her. Where are you going?”

  “To escort her back to the palace.”

  Tulkhan didn’t want a large group to accompany him, that would attract attention. Luckily Sahorrd and Jacolm were nearby and they caught his signal, following him out of the chamber. As he left he was aware of many curious eyes watching them.

  Kalleen bustled after him like an officious little bird. “T’Imoshen is—”

  “Out alone on Caper Night!” He seized Kalleen’s small wrist. “What if someone with a grudge against the old empire catches her?”

  “She took one of her Stronghold Guard,” Kalleen said.

  “Who?”

  “Crawen.”

  Tulkhan cursed. “Stay here. If Imoshen returns alone, tell her I would speak with her.” He did not wait for an answer.

  * * *

  A single candle burned in the hospice’s empty foyer, symbolizing welcome for anyone in need.

  Imoshen left her cloak on the peg. “I don’t know how long I’ll be, Crawen. The kitchen is down the back.”

  Rifkin lit a second candle and led Imoshen up a set of narrow stairs to a small door. He scratched softly before standing aside.

  Imoshen entered a small room, closing the door after her. A candle burned beside numerous glass jars of dried or pulverized herbs stacked on a narrow table. The room’s only occupant was a beggar, huddled on the low bed. She smiled to herself. It seemed right to her that the highest should be called upon to serve the lowest. It represented all that was good in the old empire.

  Imoshen lifted the candle and approached. “How may I help you, grandfather?”

  The beggar looked up and stood slowly, seemed to keep rising so that he grew taller than her. Suddenly the hood fell back from his beggar’s cloak to reveal silver hair, sharp cheekbones, and T’En eyes.

  “It is I who have come to help you, Imoshen.”

  “Reothe.” The word was torn from her. Her breath caught in her throat. The healer had betrayed her. No. Rifkin had probably seen what she first saw—a lowly beggar.

  The rebel leader stepped forward, his eyes glittering in the shuddering candle flame. Every time she saw Reothe she was reminded of her own T’En traits and of how the True-people must see her. Tonight he was austere, inspired by an inner fire like a legendary warrior from the T’Elegos.

  “I heard that the General has claimed Fair Isle and forced you to accept him,” Reothe whispered tensely. “These Ghebites have no respect for T’En women, for any women. Come away with me, Imoshen.”

  “I can’t.”

  He caught her free hand, bringing it to his lips. She felt the warm rush of his breath on her knuckles.

  “Why not? You refused me last time for fear of pointless bloodshed. But now that the General has been betrayed by his own people, he cannot call on the resources of Gheeaba to resist us. Join with me tonight and we will sweep him from the island by midsummer and fulfill our betrothal oaths.”

  “No.”

  “Think, Imoshen. Joined we could be so much more than apart,” Reothe pressed.

  His intensity made her body resonate. Imoshen’s sight blurred with the visions conjured by his words. Fair Isle restored, Reothe as her bond-partner. Suddenly it seemed not just possible but the only viable alternative.

  “Don’t do that!” Imoshen hissed, twisting her hand free from his. “I won’t let you use your gift to influence me. My decisions must be based on cold hard logic!”

  His garnet eyes narrowed. “Logic tells me General Tulkhan cannot hold Fair Isle without Gheeaba’s support. Logic tells me that the people will unite behind us, if we are united. Would you side with a Ghebite invader against your own blood kin?”

  Imoshen’s head reeled.

  He caught her hands in his. “We can do it, Imoshen. Come to me, this very night.”

  Reothe’s fierce will illuminated his features. She could drown in his eyes. Worse, she suspected he was right.

  “The Ghebites were in the wrong to invade our peaceful island,” Reothe whispered, his thumbs caressing the back of her hands. “They stole our future. This spring we should have made our bonding vows before your family.”

  Imoshen moaned.

  Tulkhan strode the streets of T’Diemn with Wharrd and Jacolm on either side of him and Sahorrd at his back carrying a single lantern. The larger thoroughfares were lit at night but down by the docks it would be pitch-black.

  When they crossed the fortified bridge the shops and homes perched precariously on its sides were closed and boarded shut. Their upper storys almost met in places, excluding the light of the waning larger moon.

  “Dockside Hospice is in the roughest area, catering to the merchant sailors,” Wharrd said as they passed under the bridge tower. “There have been strangers in the dockside taverns asking questions about you, General. Gharavan won’t rest—”

  “You think this could be my half-brother’s idea of revenge? But why? He has the rest of the Ghebite Empire. All I took was Fair Isle—”

  “And his pride. You humbled him before his followers, sent him packing!”

  Tulkhan shook his head. He still had trouble reconciling his half-brother’s actions with the boy he’d known.

  Just as they came out of the tower’s archway, a dozen apprentices ran around the corner, jostling them. They laughed, waving torches and paint-sodden brooms. Six young people danced around T
ulkhan, singing a doggerel which praised the Silversmith Guild and made jest of others. Paint slopped on his boots.

  Suddenly another band of apprentices in different masks charged out of the laneway opposite, waving brooms and brushes. Tulkhan lost sight of his men in the crush.

  Laughing faces with masks awry tried to stop him but he forged through, anxiety for Imoshen gnawing at him.

  Once free of the crowd Tulkhan broke into a run, one hand on his sword hilt to steady it. Having studied T’Diemn’s layout, he knew he could find the hospice. His long legs ate up the distance. He ran down narrow lanes towards the smell of the docks. Several more turns and he saw the open hospice door, dimly lit by its welcoming candle.

  Perhaps he was wrong and this was a perfectly innocent call for Imoshen’s healing gift. He heard laughter coming from behind a closed door and marched down the hall. Throwing the door open he found Crawen and a healer sharing warmed wine and hot cakes. So much for guarding Imoshen.

  “Where is T’Imoshen? I am here to escort her back to the palace.”

  “This way.” The healer hurriedly put his wine aside.

  Crawen came to her feet with a hand on her sword hilt. “Don’t bother,” Tulkhan snapped.

  “Don’t speak of my family!” Imoshen closed her eyes to shut out Reothe. With a great effort of will she pulled her hands free of his. “Don’t speak of what might have been. The Ghebites are here. Fair Isle has surrendered. What you ask would bring more war to our people, Reothe, more bloodshed.”

  “Death in a righteous cause. It would not be the first time the T’En gave their lives. The Paragian Guard laid down their lives to secure Fair Isle. Surely we—”

  “Reothe?” Imoshen clutched his arm. She longed to tell him of her meeting with the Parakletos in the catacombs but was too ashamed to reveal her cowardice. “I performed the ceremony for the dead. I called the Parakletos. When they came, they. . . .” She shuddered. “They are not the benevolent creatures the Church claims.”

  He laughed grimly. “Cruel bluff. They have no power in this world except when summoned, and then the words bind them. But you and I must be especially wary. The barriers between this world and the next are much frailer for pure T’En and the Parakletos are malicious creatures. They will try to drag you into death’s shadow with them.” A haunted expression shadowed his eyes. “I’ve walked with them in their world and—”

  “But I thought no one could escape?”

  He focused on her and fear prickled across her skin because his eyes were windows to death’s shadow, then the moment passed and he smiled grimly. “Most of what the Church teaches is distorted or simply not true.”

  “I suspected but ... I can’t believe—”

  “Believe me. There is much I could show you.” His voice grew intimate. “No one can give you what I can, Imoshen.”

  She could not break his gaze.

  “This is our chance. We can influence events this very night. My rebels are hidden in the city awaiting orders. I could get us into the palace, into the Ghebite General’s bedchamber. By dawn he would be dead, his Elite Guard captured, and the palace would be ours.” Visionary fervor illuminated Reothe. “Think of it, Imoshen. With General Tulkhan gone—”

  “But that is murder!”

  A short bark of laughter escaped him. “And this is war!”

  Imoshen turned away, her mind filled with a vision of Tulkhan murdered in his bed. His blood staining the sheets, all his dreams and passion extinguished.

  Tulkhan! Even now she thought she heard his voice. Startled, she darted to the door and swung it open. She was amazed to see him approaching with the healer. The General’s broad shoulders filled the hall almost as if he had been conjured by her thoughts of him.

  Rifkin greeted her. “Your escort is here, T’Imoshen. How fares the beggar?”

  Her heart sank.

  Already, Rifkin and Tulkhan were waiting for her to step aside and let them enter. The General thrust the door open, peering past her into the room. Shadows clung to the far corners but no one hid in them.

  “Gone.” Imoshen’s throat was so dry she could hardly speak. She gestured to the table with its equipment. “I was just cleaning up.”

  Tulkhan thrust past her and strode to the window, looking down.

  “He wouldn’t leave that way,” Rifkin said. “There’s only the river below. He must have slipped out while I was with Crawen.”

  Imoshen realized Reothe had leapt into the river. In his beggar’s guise, he could only have carried a knife, and for all he knew Tulkhan might have been accompanied by a dozen of his Elite Guard.

  “Then you are free to go?” Tulkhan rounded on Imoshen. She shuddered. Would she ever be free of the expectation of others? Tulkhan thrust the candle into her hand, drawing her out of the room.

  Imoshen shielded the flame as they sped down the steps to the entry where Crawen awaited them. Tulkhan barely allowed Imoshen time to bid the healer goodbye before they were out on the street, their single candle casting a small pool of light.

  “I don’t know what possessed you to come out alone on this night of all nights, Imoshen!”

  “I had to answer a call for help.”

  “What if it had been a hoax?”

  “I took my own guard. Besides, I trusted Healer Rifkin.” It would not do to reveal how her trust had been betrayed.

  Armed men with a lantern rounded the bend. Imoshen tensed.

  “General!” Wharrd exclaimed. “You should have waited for us.”

  Raucous laughter echoed down the street, drowning out the General’s reply.

  “Here.” Tulkhan snatched the candle from Imoshen, pinching it out. He took Sahorrd’s lantern and thrust it into her hands. “You carry the lantern to free up his sword arm. Come.”

  Shame stung Imoshen. The meaning was clear. Tulkhan thought she was useless, capable only of carrying a lantern, and he ignored Crawen altogether.

  As several laughing apprentices charged around the lower end of the street, Tulkhan grabbed Imoshen’s free arm. Dragging her with him, he strode up the hill.

  The General moved so swiftly that she was hard pressed to keep up with him. Only the taverns and less reputable teahouses were open, their lights and patrons spilling into the streets. Snatches of song and laughter rang out on the otherwise quiet night air. Imoshen lost track of where she was. Then suddenly she recognized a shop front. Two more bends and they would approach the fortified bridge. Soon they would be in the better lit streets of old T’Diemn.

  But before they could enter the bridge, a dozen or more revelers, students by their cloaks and masks, charged out of the laneway and cannoned into them.

  “Run, Imoshen!” Tulkhan sprinted ahead.

  She ran at his heels, half stumbling to keep up, the lantern swinging awkwardly. From the shouts and laughter behind them she could tell the others had been waylaid. They were probably having their faces or some other part of their anatomy painted.

  Imoshen’s booted heels struck the bridge’s stonework with a hollow sound which echoed off the closed shop faces. She took the chance to catch her breath as Tulkhan slowed to a fast walk. A group of masked revelers left the dark entrance of a shop and wove drunkenly towards them.

  When Tulkhan cursed, the revelers’ appearance suddenly turned sinister. The General caught her arm again. She’d have bruises tomorrow. She strained to see the lower half of the faces of those approaching them.

  Three steps, two . . .

  The rasp of weapons being drawn made her mouth go dry with fear. Tulkhan’s sword was already in his hand. She didn’t remember him drawing it.

  “Get behind me.” He shoved her into a doorway.

  Imoshen unsheathed her knife, but it didn’t have the reach of a sword and if she risked a throw she would leave herself disarmed.

  A figure lunged. Tulkhan parried and struck. There was no time for finesse. Laughing, mocking masks were set above grim tight mouths, their attackers danced around them ready to d
eal death.

  Imoshen feinted with the knife at an overeager attacker, then lashed out with the lantern to defend Tulkhan’s unprotected left side. The attacker’s return blow tore the lantern from her fingers, and oil spilt, carrying little blue flames which clung greedily to the man’s clothes.

  “Fire!” Imoshen screamed. That was guaranteed to bring the bridge’s inhabitants out. The shops and houses were built of wood. “Fire!”

  Tulkhan kicked the nearest attacker in the thigh and darted out into the center of the bridge.

  “Now, Imoshen, run!”

  Her line of sight free, Imoshen threw her knife at the third attacker. Tulkhan’s assailant rolled to his feet. Imoshen tore off her cloak and flung it in his face before fleeing. The heavy thump of Tulkhan’s boots told her he was at her heels.

  Down the length of the dark bridge she ran, heading for the pool of light beyond. Moonlight illuminated the courtyard, and beyond that a narrow passage led through the gates of old T’Diemn—the perfect place to be ambushed and killed.

  Skidding on the cobbles, she looked back the way they’d come. Their attackers were closing in, and behind them were more figures. She could not tell if they were the other Ghebites or students.

  “Quickly!” Tulkhan dragged her into the dark passage. Running blind she paced him, heading for the crescent of light at the end of the tunnel.

  They hesitated under the streetlight. Before them were two paths, one into the ring-road which ran around inside the walls of the old city, the other into a square where she could see glimpses of jostling bodies and torches.

  “This way.” She made for the square.

  “No, Imoshen.”

  She ignored him.

  Frustration and fear surged through Tulkhan. He didn’t want to enter a square full of potential killers, masked enemies who hid behind laughing young men and women. In that crowd someone could get close enough to sink a knife between his ribs or Imoshen’s. But their attackers had almost caught up and his own men were nowhere in sight. Cursing Imoshen’s impulsiveness, he charged after her.