DARK DREAMS Page 13

  Their bonding . . .

  He was deliberately flaunting their imminent intimacy.

  She felt her cheeks grow hot. It was impossible to hide her reaction when her skin was so fair. She saw his features tighten.

  Daring him to comment, she held his gaze. The silence stretched. She sensed that he wanted something from her, but was unable to determine what.

  Suddenly he pushed the letters back towards her. “Take these. When my men assume control of their estates I will not send your watchdogs with them.”

  Rejection made her stomach clench. She picked up the sheaf of papers, straightening them. “The farmer folk speak their own language.”

  “They’ll find someone who can speak the trading tongue.”

  “But—”

  “Enough!” He sprang to his feet, striding to the door. “My men would have nothing in common with your over-cultured scholars!”

  Deeply troubled, Imoshen returned to her room and left the letters on her desk. If her judgment was wrong in this, how could she trust her instincts? A wave of despair swamped her. She needed Cariah’s cool-headed counsel.

  Heart thumping, Imoshen paused by the open doors of the crowded gaming salon. Slowing to a casual stroll, she wove through the tables.

  Catching Cariah’s eye, Imoshen used old empire signals to let her know that she wished to speak privately. With innate elegance Cariah made towards a door which led to the withdrawing room.

  “Lady Cariah,” Jacolm called. “Stay and give me good luck. Sahorrd and I are losing hand after hand.”

  “Later,” Cariah answered as she joined Imoshen.

  “Why doesn’t he ask you to advise him on what cards to play? At least then he might win a game!” Imoshen muttered.

  Cariah bit back a laugh. “Imoshen, you know he thinks the complexities of a card game too much for my feeble mind!”

  “How can you bear it? Prove him wrong!”

  Cariah’s lips parted in a smile sensual as a cat’s. “When I am ready. Not everything can be achieved by direct confrontation. Now, what troubles you?”

  Through the withdrawing room window Imoshen could just make out the shapes of a formal garden with knee-high hedges and topiaried trees—a classic example of T’En order and formality.

  Jacolm and Sahorrd laughed raucously, crowing their victory over a turn of the cards. The sound rubbed on Imoshen’s raw nerves, fraying the edges of her control. She felt the T’En ability move in her, shifting like a restless, eager beast. It was more than she could bear.

  “Do you fear your T’En heritage, Cariah?” she asked abruptly. “Failing—”

  “Hush!” The woman closed the connecting door then returned.

  A dim light filtered through the stained-glass window, illuminating Cariah’s features as she spun to face Imoshen, her eyes luminous. “How can you speak of failure? Soon you will be bonded with General Tulkhan, soon you will be co-ruler of Fair Isle. You are on the brink of achieving everything. Why, you even carry his child.”

  “How did you know that?”

  Cariah blinked. “Kalleen told me. Forgive me if-—”

  “Kalleen did not know.”

  “She suspected. So I . . .”

  “You what?” Imoshen pressed.

  Cariah silently lifted her hand and placed it palm down over Imoshen’s flat belly.

  “I felt the growing life,” Cariah told her. “This child is historic . . .”

  Imoshen covered Cariah’s hand with her own and opened her T’En senses, willing herself to feel that same fragile life. Her heart rate lifted and that recognizable taste settled on her tongue, sharp enough to sting.

  Cariah gasped, pulling her hand away.

  “What?” Imoshen asked, seeing Cariah’s startled expression. “You felt my T’En gifts?”

  Cariah nodded. “I’ve never come across it so strongly before. But then you are the first pure T’En I’ve known. T’Reothe’s voyages coincided with my times at court so I never met him. Though I did hear rumors.” She shuddered. “You made my skin crawl.”

  Imoshen laughed. “If I don’t cloak it, even General Tulkhan knows when I use my gift on him and he is pure Ghebite! I wanted to feel my child’s life force stirring. Was I going about it the right way? Show me.”

  Cariah shook her head slowly. “I am not tutored in the gifts, anything I know I deduced myself.” She caught Imoshen’s hand and placed her palm open on her belly. “By accident I felt the life force moving in you when we touched.”

  A strange tension gripped Imoshen, a skin prickling awareness of ... “You do have the T’En gifts!”

  “No! Only a little. Don’t tell anyone, I—”

  “Cariah!” Imoshen dropped to her knees, clasping Cariah’s hands to her face, kissing her palms. Tears of relief tightened her throat. “Teach me what you have discovered. Together we can make sense of this. I have been so alone, so frightened. The Aayel died before she could instruct me. I feel the gifts stir in me. I fear what I cannot control.”

  “Hsst! You must not speak so.” Cariah sank to kneel with Imoshen, casting a swift look towards the closed door. “ They must never suspect.”

  “Suspect? They know I am a Throwback cursed with these gifts. How can they not suspect?” Imoshen demanded. Then she saw Cariah’s expression and with an unwelcome jolt she understood her duplicity. It was Cariah’s own gifts the woman did not want revealed. Until this moment Imoshen had assumed only the pure T’En were gifted. It was said their part-T’En cousins were more aware of the use of the gifts, but. . . “You live a lie, Cariah. You deny what you are!”

  “Don’t be so quick to condemn me, Imoshen!” Her beautiful face twisted with emotion. “I saw my mother sicken and die, locked away in the tower of my family’s Stronghold because as much as my father loved her, he feared her more. I will not be an object of fear and hatred!” Her face hardened. “At best I could coach you in hiding your gifts and you already know how to cloak them.”

  Guilt lanced Imoshen. How many times as a child had she longed to be accepted? What would she have done if she could have hidden her heritage? She could not judge this woman.

  “I’m sorry. Forgive me, Cariah,” she whispered. “I did not think of your position.”

  Tears spilled over Cariah’s lower lids, chasing each other across her cheeks. She fought to hold back a sob.

  Her pain touched Imoshen. Lifting a hand she smoothed the tear track from Cariah’s soft cheek. “Forgive my cruel words.”

  “Life is cruel!” Cariah turned her face away, wiping the dampness from her cheeks impatiently. The bitterness in her voice surprised Imoshen. “We must take what we can, while we can.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Imoshen took hold of Cariah’s shoulders, turning her, willing the woman to meet her gaze.

  Cariah shook her head pityingly. “You are so young. One day you will see.”

  “No. I have to believe there is hope,” Imoshen whispered, fervently. “If I did not, I could not bear to live. My family are all dead. The Aayel died so that I would live. I must believe we are capable of greatness—”

  Cariah kissed her.

  The gesture was so unexpected Imoshen froze, experiencing those soft lips on hers, salty with tears. The gentleness of the caress was unmistakable. Cariah offered love.

  Imoshen gasped and pulled away.

  Cariah sank back onto her heels. Her mouth trembled, unshed tears glistening in her pleading eyes. “Don’t reject me, Imoshen.”

  Stunned, Imoshen stared.

  Cariah’s hand lifted imploringly.

  “I . . .” Imoshen floundered.

  Abruptly, Cariah rose and stood before the mirror over the mantlepiece. In the dim light she made a great production of straightening her hair and smoothing her face to remove all traces of emotion.

  “I surprise you. You are unsophisticated. This was the way of the old empire,” she explained with brittle casualness. “T’Ysanna was my first lover. She shared her men with me, ta
ught me to enjoy them for what they could give but to look elsewhere for true love.”

  Imoshen could hear Cariah distancing herself, denying what had passed between them.

  With a smile Cariah returned to face Imoshen, offering a hand to help her rise. “Come, tidy your face. They will be watching us.”

  Imoshen stood stiffly, clasping Cariah’s hand. She refused to release it, instead she lifted it to her lips, kissing the soft skin. “Don’t draw away from me, Cariah. I am out of my depth. I need your counsel.”

  “You deny me in one breath, then in the next . . .” Cariah stiffened. “What you ask is cruel.”

  Pain twisted in Imoshen. “I’m sorry if I am cruel in my need.”

  “Here we are. Just for you!” The Keeper of the Knowledge beamed at Imoshen as he unwrapped the first of two packages. “You would not believe what I went through to hide these from King Gharavan’s men!”

  Imoshen gasped. She had never seen anything like it. The edges of the pages were thick with gilt, but it was the cover and spine which astounded her. She stroked the plush velvet, her fingers tracing the inlaid jewels. “This must date from the Age of Consolidation!”

  “Middle period.” The Keeper nodded and gently opened the tapestry pouch removing the second volume. “This one is even more magnificent.”

  “Pure gold?” Imoshen laughed.

  “It is exquisite work,” he snapped. “See the filigree, the granulation. This is real craftsmanship!”

  Imoshen had to agree. “May I?”

  He hesitated, unwilling to let the book pass from his hand to hers.

  “I will take care,” Imoshen promised. “You know how much I value knowledge.”

  At last he left her alone to search the book’s indexes, but she was disappointed. Though the books themselves were valuable works of art, they contained nothing more unusual than a collection of poems and a study of Keldon Highland customs. Still she would read them, searching for a clue to her T’En gifts, even a reference to other sources was helpful.

  Imoshen sighed, replacing the volumes. She felt so alone. Cariah had drawn away from her and Imoshen could not blame her. Cariah helped with the entertainments, but instead of sharing her private time with Imoshen she spent it with her lovers. Imoshen tried not to begrudge this. Lady Cariah Fairban was enough like her sisters to be accepted. When she sang beautifully and danced with the Thespers’ Guild, no one acknowledged that it was her T’En heritage which enabled her to move them to tears of joy. Imoshen tried not to resent this ambiguity.

  In the days leading up to her bonding with General Tulkhan, Imoshen had walked the corridors of the palace with no one to call friend, cut off from Cariah and cold-shouldered by the General.

  She desperately missed Kalleen who had left with Wharrd after their bonding. It had only been when Kalleen asked for formal blessing from Imoshen that she made the connection between touching the tip of her little sixth finger to the center of Kalleen’s forehead and the origin of the old empire obeisance. When people raised their hands to their foreheads they were acknowledging the T’En blessing. Old customs were deeply ingrained.

  Imoshen smiled, recalling how the people of her Stronghold had stroked her sixth finger for luck. A wave of homesickness swept over her.

  Food had no flavor and her life was as grey as the ever-shortening winter days. By the cusp of spring the babe would begin to show and everyone would see how she had flaunted tradition.

  “Finished already?” the Keeper asked. “If you told me what you are after . . .”

  Imoshen shook her head. She did not dare reveal her real purpose. “Just curious. I am content to wander the library. You may go.”

  She knew the old man liked to spend his days in the kitchen, sipping mulled wine near the ovens where the heat warmed the ache from his bones. There he enjoyed the company of the cook and bored the scullery maids with his stories.

  He nodded and smiled, bright old eyes fixed on her. “He was very like you, earnestly studying the old tomes.”

  Imoshen’s mouth went dry. Only one other person was like her. “Reothe?”

  “He was a pleasure to teach.”

  Imoshen did not want to hear tales of Reothe’s boyhood. She did not want to dwell on how lonely he must have been. Knowing the high court, he would have lived as an object of pity and ridicule. Her heart went out to that boy, but Reothe was no longer a defenseless child and she would do well to remember that. “You were his tutor?”

  “Yes, before he went to the Halls of Learning.” The Keeper’s face glowed with pride. “I have a copy of the treatise on philosophy he wrote ?when he was fifteen. He argued—”

  But Imoshen had no time for philosophy; she dared to ask, “Was there anything on the T’En that he particularly liked to read?”

  “Everything. He devoured everything we had on the T’En, then he moved on to the great library in the Halls of Learning. He was disappointed because they don’t study the T’En there, but his debates were legendary. When he took his place on T’Ashmyr’s stone there was standing room only around the library stoves!”

  Imoshen tried not to show her disappointment. “Can you show me the books about the T’En?”

  The old man laughed. “Every book mentions the T’En.”

  Imoshen looked down. She longed to trust the Keeper. But what would he say if she revealed she wanted to harness her gifts?

  “No matter how high he rose, Reothe never forgot his old teacher,” the man continued fondly. He pulled something from inside his vest and unwrapped it. “When he returned triumphant from his first voyage to the archipelago he brought me this.”

  “What is it?” Imoshen asked. “A religious artifact?”

  “A shrunken human head.”

  Imoshen shuddered. How primitive the dwellers of the archipelago were. Fair Isle was literally an island of culture in a sea of barbarism. She could not, would not let the heritage of her T’En culture sink into darkness.

  Tulkhan rubbed his eyes wearily. Despite its subsequent alterations, he believed the old city of T’Diemn could be made secure again. If he could have devoted all his time to the problem of fortifying the new city he would have come up with a solution by now. But he had to greet ambassadors so he could observe the interchange between them, particularly the triad of prosperous mainland kingdoms which he had not conquered.

  He focused on the map of T’Diemn and its surrounds. Every street, every gate and spring was marked. It was all to scale with the highest points in gradients of color so that when he looked on it, it seemed three-dimensional. There was no point in building fortifications around new T’Diemn if he did not include that hillock to the south. Any general worth his salt would mount an offensive from that hilltop, yet it would mean taking the fortifications out to the hill since the outlying market gardens only reached its base, or pulling back and being prepared to sacrifice those people and their livelihood. Every decision was a compromise.

  The door to his maproom flew open. Imoshen stood there in nothing but a thin nightgown, her feet bare, her hair loose on her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale and her chest rose and fell as if she had been running.

  “You could not leave well enough alone, could you?” she demanded. “You thought you knew better!”

  Tulkhan put the scriber down with exaggerated patience. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Her eyes widened with fear.

  Tulkhan felt a prickling sensation travel across his skin. “What is it?”

  She took a deep breath. “You had better come.”

  When Tulkhan collected his sword from the back of his chair she made a noise in her throat.

  “What?”

  “Cold steel will not help,” she whispered, then hurried off.

  He followed, lengthening his stride to keep up with her as he buckled his sword belt. “Should I call out my Elite Guard?”

  “Not for this.”

  The evening’s entertainments had finished long ago and t
he servants had cleared away. Only the occasional sconce of candles lit the way.

  Tulkhan fought a sense of foreboding as Imoshen glided down the steps to the Tribulation Portrait Gallery and stopped at the entrance to the gallery. It was deserted and unlit except for a branch of candles which sat on the floor about halfway along, before a gaping hole in the wainscotting.

  “The secret passage has been forced!”

  “He fled,” Imoshen whispered. “I don’t blame him.”

  “Who?”

  “The servant who found this.” Imoshen spoke over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall. “He was taking a shortcut through this gallery to meet his lover!”

  Tulkhan picked up the branch of candles and peered through the splintered wainscotting into the secret passage. The stale smell of dusty air made him grimace. He straightened and looked at Imoshen. “What would you have me do? How do you even know it is my people? It could be some of your builders.”

  “My builders would not be so stupid. They know better than to disturb the past. And they would not be so crude. If they wanted to explore the passage, they would remove the skirting board and wainscotting, then replace it afterwards, not bludgeon a hole with a battle axe. No. It is one or more of your men. My guess is Harholfe and his friends.”

  Tulkhan frowned. “They’ve gone looking for gold.”

  “Isn’t the gold room gold enough?”

  “It’s the challenge.” He grinned then sobered. “What do you expect me to do? Go after them like misbehaving boys? Likely as not they’ll find nothing down there but storerooms and rat holes just as you said—”

  “That was not all I said.”

  “No.” Tulkhan had not forgotten, merely tried to deny what he did not wish to face. He shook his head. “We must bring them out.”

  He ducked his head and stepped through the jagged gap. He’d taken four steps when he realized Imoshen was not following him. Turning on the stair he looked back up to her, her face framed by the splintered wood. Six candle flames danced in her fixed eyes.

  Tulkhan’s body tightened, responding to her fear. His free hand went to his sword hilt. But Imoshen had said cold steel would not help him against what lay below.