DARK DREAMS Page 12

  She entered the square three long strides ahead of him, her silver hair glistening in the torchlight. Without missing a beat, she broke into a line of dancers and tore a burning torch from someone’s hand.

  A torch was as good a weapon as any under the circumstances. Tulkhan shouldered a youth aside and darted forward to join her, also grabbing a torch. But the dancers had stopped. They stared and pointed as Imoshen leapt onto the rim of the fountain.

  “T’Imoshen!” Their cry went up.

  Joyously the revelers surged forward, dragging Tulkhan with them. Arms reached for Imoshen. As he watched, they hoisted her off the fountain and carried her high on their shoulders. Cheering, leaping people surrounded him. He saw Imoshen search the crowd for him and waved. She returned his signal.

  “To the palace!” Imoshen gestured, pointing the torch.

  Relief washed over Tulkhan as the crowd took up her cry. They broke into stirring song and surged through the streets towards the palace.

  Studying the merry faces around him, the General strained to identify the masks of their attackers. Pressed amidst the bodies, he could not maneuver, could not even use his drawn sword, but at least they were being escorted back to safety. The singing, laughing crowd carried Imoshen right across the square and deposited her on the steps of the palace, where they began another song, linking arms and swaying.

  Tulkhan forced his way to the steps to join her. He saw surprise register on the unmasked faces of those nearest. When Imoshen drew him to her side and kissed his cheek, several tore off their masks and tossed them in the air.

  Imoshen lifted the burning torch high, her voice meant only for him. “Smile, General. Caper Night has saved your life.”

  “My life wouldn’t have been at risk if you hadn’t gone off alone!”

  She tossed her head, eyes glittering with anger.

  He wanted to shake her, to make her realize how close they had come to death.

  “You should trust me, General.”

  Light spilled down the steps of the palace as the doors to the grand entrance opened. Imoshen slipped away from Tulkhan to speak with the bewildered servants then returned to his side, taking his hand in hers. “Sing, General. They are singing of their love for Fair Isle.”

  He realized what he thought was a rowdy drinking song was really a tribute to their homeland. By the time they were ready to repeat the chorus he was able to join in.

  The last notes drifted away and the crowd looked up at them expectantly. Tulkhan tensed. Crowds were unpredictable animals. Then he heard noises behind him.

  “Right on time,” Imoshen muttered with relief. She dropped his hand to direct the servants. “Go out into the crowd and serve them.”

  Tulkhan watched as a long line of servants moved past him, carrying trays laden with food. The revelers cheered and waited with surprising courtesy to be served. The people of Fair Isle would never cease to amaze him.

  “We can slip away now,” Imoshen whispered, retreating up the steps.

  He followed. Their footsteps echoed in the marbled foyer. Drawing her into an antechamber he snatched the torch from her hand and flung it in the unlit fireplace along with his. “If those attackers on the bridge weren’t waiting for us, who were they after?”

  “Thieves looking for a party of drunken revelers?” She shrugged. “How should I know? What does it matter? We escaped them.”

  The wood in the grate burst into flame. Imoshen stepped closer and extended her hands towards the warmth. A shudder gripped her.

  Of course she was cold. She had thrown her cloak at their attackers to buy him time. She had faced death at his side. Admiration stirred in Tulkhan. He knew of no Ghebite woman who would have stood by him like that, or would have been capable of thinking on her feet as she had. “Imoshen?”

  When she looked up at him her eyes were haunted by the danger she had passed through. Before he could stop himself Tulkhan opened his arms and she went to him. True, she was Dhamfeer, the people’s revered T’En, but she was also Imoshen and not half as sure of herself as she pretended.

  “Imoshen? You are unhurt?”

  With a half-sob she turned her face into his neck, her hot breath and damp tears warming his throat.

  “How many times must I walk through death’s shadow?” she whispered.

  Tulkhan had no answer.

  Tulkhan had joined with the Keldon nobles and Ghebites to watch a T’En display match. It was staged in a hall built specifically for this purpose with tiered seats on three sides.

  The match was yet another example of T’En absurdity, played with flat paddles and rag balls and following obscure rules. There was much explanation of points taken and loud guffaws from his own men who found the niceties of the game beyond them.

  Tulkhan stiffened as Imoshen received a message from a servant. Was she leaving to go to her lover?

  When she slipped away, Tulkhan decided he must discover the truth. His hand settled on his sword hilt as he stalked down the long gallery to the bedchamber wing. Imoshen was a distant figure ahead of him, sailing noiselessly through the fingers of afternoon sunlight which pierced the narrow windows. Even in this small connecting gallery the T’En had indulged their love of beauty. Lifelike paintings of vistas containing fantastic mythological figures filled each niche.

  Imoshen entered the wing of bedchambers and he waited before following. If she was being unfaithful, he wanted to catch her in an incriminating situation, something she could not talk her way out of.

  Heart pounding, he marched up the stairwell after her, dreading what he would discover, for he could not live with the dishonor of her betrayal. He would kill her and then himself.

  As Imoshen entered Cariah’s bedchamber, three young men turned to face her.

  “I have their recommendations,” Cariah said.

  Imoshen took the letters, saying, “The post of interpreter will not be an easy one. The Ghebites—”

  The door burst open, crashing against the wall. In the reverberating silence General Tulkhan stood in the entrance glowering, naked sword blade raised.

  Imoshen’s heart plunged. What was he doing here battle-ready, weapon in hand? Surely he had not imagined her in danger, not in the palace itself? Perhaps there was some heinous plot she knew nothing about. Imoshen’s skin grew cold as she realized the door had been ripped off its hinges. Tulkhan must have thrown his whole body behind it, must have feared for her life.

  The General observed the room’s occupants then sheathed his sword. “What are you doing, Imoshen?”

  “Interviewing prospective interpreters.”

  “In Lady Cariah’s bedchamber?”

  Foreseeing trouble, Imoshen turned to the young men. “Leave now. I will contact you.”

  One of them plucked his recommendation from her hands. “I was mistaken. I could not work with . . .” He glanced to Tulkhan then scurried out, followed by the others.

  The General strode across to Imoshen taking the letters from her. While he frowned over them she cast Cariah a pleading look.

  But Cariah tilted her head as the Basilica’s bells rang. “Is that the half-hour bell already? I must go. I am late to meet Sahorrd.”

  “Sahorrd? I thought it was Jacolm?” General Tulkhan muttered, but Cariah had already departed.

  “I can’t keep track of her lovers,” Imoshen said.

  He sank onto the chair. “What are these are letters of recommendation for?”

  “I was trying to find tactful interpreters to assist your lord commanders when they take over their estates.”

  “Is that what you have been doing these afternoons?” he demanded.

  She hesitated, surprised by the urgency of his tone. “I did try to speak with you the night of their investiture, but—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She recognized the pain in his voice. As a healer her instinctive reaction was to offer comfort. She searched his upturned face. “Surely you did not think I was in danger here in t
he palace itself? Have you had word of a plot against my life?”

  “A plot?”

  “You burst in with your weapon drawn . . .”

  He stifled a bitter laugh.

  She stepped back unnerved. “I ... I don’t understand, General.”

  Cursing, he sprang to his feet and marched towards the door.

  As Imoshen watched his departing back anger overrode her confusion, driving her tongue. “In the old empire we did not reward kindness with boorish behavior!”

  He turned. “Is that how you see us? Barbarians who need nursemaids?”

  “No!” The cry was out before she could stop it. “This was for my people as much as yours. Your men are loyal and skilled commanders but they are not like you.”

  “And what am I, Imoshen?”

  Heart hammering, she dragged in a ragged breath. This was her chance. She had wanted to speak with him free of hangers-on and court protocol, but suddenly she found his intense dark gaze frightening.

  “What am I to you, Imoshen?” he asked, striding back to search her face.

  Resolutely she met his eyes. If there was going to be anything between them it had to be built on honesty. When she spoke, her words sprang from a deep need to believe this was the truth; for if it wasn’t, all her hopes and plans were laid on a foundation of shifting sand. Swallowing her trepidation she closed the distance between them. Splaying her hand across his chest, she said, “You are a fair and good True-man who seeks to do what is right for all of Fair Isle, not just for your own Ghebite soldiers.”

  Something like a groan escaped him as he caught her in his arms.

  A rush of warmth filled Imoshen. She could feel his great heart hammering under her palm which was pinned against his chest. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to be held like this.

  But Imoshen had to have answers. She pulled away. “Why have you been so cold to me, General? What aren’t you telling me?”

  His lips found hers, drowning her questions, drowning all coherent thought. Desire ignited her. She wanted to forget everything in this moment. Only this was real, this passion and this man.

  She felt tears escape her closed lids and did not care. Everything weighed upon her—the resistance of the Keldon nobles and their unspoken condemnation of her. Then there was the knowledge that her every action was being watched by foreign ambassadors while they debated whether to support the rebel T’Reothe or the Ghebite general. Rights and wrongs did not bother these pragmatic brokers of power, only results. Yet she could bear all this if only she knew she had the General’s trust.

  As his lips covered hers, Imoshen gave herself up to the hunger of his kiss. She knew they should not be touching like this, not when they were to be bonded soon, but she needed to feel his desire for her. His hands cradled her head and his thumbs brushed her cheeks.

  “You’re crying?”

  “No.” She shook her head and would have pulled away, but he caught her arm, making her wince. Her split-sleeve parted to reveal livid bruises.

  “I hurt you last night?”

  She shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

  “Forgive me?” he asked, voice thick with emotion.

  A laugh escaped Imoshen. “For what? How could I be so mean-spirited when you were only thinking of my safety?”

  He shook his head, drawing back a little. “I judged you by Ghebite standards. I listened to evil advice.”

  “From the Beatific?” It was out before Imoshen could stop herself. When he pulled away sharply she ground her teeth in frustration.

  “I told you to keep out of my head.”

  “I wasn’t in your head! I have eyes. I can see and I’m not stupid, although your Ghebite men treat me as if I were!” She lifted trembling hands to her face, brushing the hated weak tears from her cheeks. “Oh, General, is there any hope for us?”

  “Us?”

  Imoshen faltered. “Fair Isle. The peace is so fragile. The Keld watch your men like hawks, looking for any slight, imagined or real. Your commanders seem to seek ways to flaunt their rise in status. A hundred times a day Cariah and I have to soothe ruffled feathers.”

  He snorted. “I have seen the way Cariah soothes ruffled feathers. Which of my commanders hasn’t she bedded?”

  “Peirs, I think. And Wharrd,” Imoshen replied automatically, then wondered why Tulkhan glared at her.

  “In Gheeaba a woman of good standing would never take a lover!”

  “In Gheeaba a woman is the property of her father, husband, or son. No wonder she has no love for men!”

  Tulkhan shook his head despairingly, but Imoshen thought she detected a faint gleam of amusement in his obsidian eyes.

  “Ah, Imoshen, you have no idea!” he told her.

  Relief warmed her but she stifled it, hardening her resolve. To need his approval weakened her. “Then explain what I don’t understand. Perhaps I don’t know a great deal about your culture, but I can learn. To keep me in ignorance demeans us both!”

  He sighed. “The Cadre would argue to keep a woman in ignorance is the only true kindness for she does not have the ability to cope with the same intellectual complexities as a man.”

  Imoshen laughed outright. “That Cadre is a prime example of his own argument. Because his mind is closed, he cannot see the Beatific for what she is. She sits in the Basilica and weaves her web of power!”

  Tulkhan gave a snort of laughter then rubbed his chin ruefully, watching her intently.

  “What?” Imoshen asked, feeling strangely lighthearted.

  He shook his head, offering his arm in a formal gesture. “T’Imoshen?”

  She laid her arm along his and closed her fingers over his hand. Regally, she inclined her head. “General Tulkhan?”

  “I believe there is an entertainment being performed in the forecourt to welcome the newly arrived nobles and ambassadors from the Amirate,” he said. “Our presence is expected.”

  “If we are lucky it will all be over before we get there,” Imoshen whispered, falling into step with him. She darted a quick look up at him and caught his grin.

  “You are terrible, Imoshen.”

  She sighed elaborately. “Yes. My mother despaired of me. She said I was too wild for the high court.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You will have to prove your mother wrong.”

  A little ball of sorrow formed inside Imoshen. It was true. She longed for her simple life at the Stronghold, now irrevocably lost. But she would have to succeed in the elaborate game of court life, for the fate of Fair Isle lay amidst its seething factions.

  She frowned. Would Reothe dare to move against Tulkhan without her support? Because of the formality of the old empire, she had not come to know Reothe as well as she now knew the General, but she had to acknowledge the powerful pull she felt towards him. They shared the same T’En heritage but the affinity went deeper than that. She feared it was intrinsic.

  Chapter Seven

  Tulkhan put aside his plans for T’Diemn’s defense, irritated by the scratching on the door. Damn these palace servants with their little metal doorcombs, creeping about in their silent slippers, obsequiously bowing to him while smirking behind his back. “Enter.”

  Imoshen strode in and placed a sheaf of papers on his desk. “I have selected fifteen interpreters for you to make the final selection from.”

  Tulkhan was not convinced his men would accept the advice of Fair Isle interpreters. He missed Wharrd’s counsel. Following custom, after bonding Kalleen and Wharrd had left to visit their estates.

  Every day Tulkhan watched Imoshen win over ambassadors from both the mainland and the archipelago, securing her position. If only he could be certain of Imoshen’s motivation.

  Tulkhan read the top letter. The man could read and write in three languages. The General fought a surge of despair because few of his commanders could do more than sign their own names. If he foisted a Fair Isle scholar on them they would be sure to take insult.

  “You’ll note I chose onl
y men so as not to offend your commanders,” Imoshen said, eager to convince him but Tulkhan looked up at her dubiously. “Believe me, General, in all of Fair Isle you have no more loyal supporter!”

  “For the good of Fair Isle,” he said, his Ghebite features impassive.

  “What? Yes, for the good of my people—and yours.”

  “And if you thought that T’Reothe stood a better chance of holding the island, would you throw your support behind him with as much ingenuity and vigor?”

  She gasped, instant denial leaping to her lips, but he spoke quickly, overriding her.

  “Think long and hard before you answer that, Imoshen,” he warned, “because I can smell a lie!”

  She swallowed, resentment flooding her.

  “He was your betrothed,” Tulkhan continued. “You broke your T’En Church vows of celibacy to—”

  “I had given no vows of celibacy. I wasn’t old enough!”

  “It was expected.” The General’s expression was implacable. “You thought little enough of your honor to break your vow to your betrothed.”

  Fury consumed Imoshen. “You stood at the gates of my Stronghold with an army. You threatened to put my people to the sword. What would you like me to have done, sacrifice their souls for my personal honor?” She drew in a shaky breath. “I took the path of peace.”

  “So, from your lips I hear it. You support me out of necessity.” He smiled grimly. “Do you wonder that I question your loyalty?”

  “You twist my words,” she snapped, holding his eyes. “Whatever my reasons, I stand at your side now. The worm of doubt is in you, General, not me.”

  When he did not respond she gave him the formal T’En obeisance and turned to go, sadness welling in her.

  “I heard from Wharrd. He and Kalleen plan to be here for our bonding,” Tulkhan said to her retreating back.

  Imoshen hesitated then turned to face him. He sat sideways at the table, his long legs thrust out toward the fire. Even seated, he dominated the room and not simply with his size. It was the force of his personality.