DARK DREAMS Read online

  “I could say the same. How would you feel if I fought your battles for you?”

  He tensed. “You do. You did not even consult me before interviewing those interpreters.”

  Her startled look amused him despite his annoyance. For a moment she said nothing. Then she lifted her chin as if facing something unpleasant. “I see. If I have offended you, I am sorry, General Tulkhan. But I am used to making decisions and acting on them. What I did, I did for your own good.”

  “I could say the same. You do not know what honor means to a Ghebite man.”

  “And it means nothing to a Ghebite woman, to any woman?” she whispered.

  He lifted his hands helplessly.

  Imoshen moved to the door. As she opened it the candlelight cloaked her with its golden glow. When she looked back he wanted to kiss the furrow from her brow.

  “The day after tomorrow we will take our vows, General. Bonding is no dry legal transaction. It is not an exchange of property where a man acquires a wife to act as brood mare.” Emotion choked her voice. He could see tears glittering in her dark eyes. “Bonding is a joining of the souls. I only pray we will not live to regret this.”

  With that she was gone.

  He wanted to confront her, insist that what he felt for her had nothing to do with political necessity. But how could he reassure her when he had already promised himself to keep his inner self private, shielded from her T’En powers?

  A Ghebite soldier reserved his closest friendship for his equal, his sword-brother. They faced death together on the battlefield. He trusted his sword-brother with his life. A Ghebite soldier shared something less with the wife he hardly saw; after all, she was only a woman.

  Tulkhan’s head reeled. Imoshen expected him to regard her as his equal. But could he share his soul with her? Would she settle for less?

  Chapter Nine

  Imoshen hid her surprise when Tulkhan linked his arm through hers and drew her away from the others.

  “In Gheeaba it is customary for the husband to give his wife a gift the day before their wedding,‘” he said.

  It was on the tip of Imoshen’s tongue to correct him— she would never be his wife—but she did not want to destroy their accord.

  She was aware of the disapproving stares of Woodvine and Athlyng as Tulkhan led her out of the salon. According to the old customs, bond-partners fasted and purified themselves, abstaining from all contact from dawn the day before their bonding. But even before the Ghebite invasion, only old-fashioned people like Imoshen’s family and the Keld had adhered to such customs. In the High Court this observance had been reduced to fasting from midnight the night before the bonding, and this was what Imoshen planned to do.

  Tulkhan opened the door to the maproom and strode to the table, which for once was not littered with maps. Four mysterious objects were laid out there.

  “First,” he picked up Reothe the Builder’s tome. “I wanted to thank you for supplying a translation of the passages on T’Diemn’s defenses. What a mind! And to think he lived four hundred years ago!”

  Imoshen couldn’t help smiling.

  Tulkhan put the book aside and unrolled a rich velvet cloak to reveal the longest sword she had ever seen. “I wanted you to see this. I know you think my people barbarians because we don’t have written records dating back hundreds of years. But we are not ignorant. This is my grandfather’s sword which was gifted to me. As you see, the scabbard is not decorated for display but the hilt . . .” He unwrapped the hand grip. It was decorated in niello with a surprisingly graceful design of a stylized rearing horse. “This is my size—a hand-and-a-half grip. I take after my grandfather, Seerkhan the Giant, or Great. In our language Giant and Great are the same word. In my grandfather’s time a man’s life depended on his sword and his horse. I was taught never to unsheath this sword without drawing blood. The great Akha Khan demands his tribute. Come closer. I want you to see this.”

  Drawn despite herself, Imoshen stepped towards him. He took her into the circle of his arms, her back to his chest. His deep voice enveloped her. She felt warm to the core.

  “This sword should not be unsheathed in direct sunlight.” Silently he withdrew it from the fur-lined scabbard and held it before them so that Imoshen looked along the blade. “Breathe on the blade and see Akha Khan’s serpent come to life.”

  Imoshen took a deep breath and exhaled. As her breath moved up the blade a pattern like the variations of a serpent’s skin traveled up the blade and back. She gasped in wonder and went to touch the marvel.

  “No,” Tulkhan hissed. “It is dedicated to Akha Khan.”

  Imoshen’s fingers itched to stroke the gleaming blade to see if she could identify the power which animated it. “How?”

  “This weapon is a work of art. Its blade was made in three parts: entwined cold, forged, then twisted and re-forged. Then it was filed and burnished with infinite care. This is not the work of an unsophisticated people.”

  He released her to step away. His eyes met hers. She watched as he ran his finger down the blade’s edge, leaving a smear of blood.

  Holding Tulkhan’s eyes, Imoshen placed the tip of her sixth finger above the blade’s edge. She knew she could seal a wound with her healing gift. Exerting herself, she concentrated on creating a wound. A drop of blood pooled on the pad of her finger, fell, then trickled down the gleaming metal. Tulkhan’s black eyes widened. No word passed between them but they understood each other. It thrilled Imoshen.

  Tulkhan cleaned the blade before replacing it in its scabbard.

  “I thank you for sharing this with me,” she said. “It is a gift I will treasure always.”

  He laughed. “Your gift is more tangible than that.” With a flourish he opened the last object, a shallow chest. “This is your gift. A torque of pure gold to match my ceremonial belt.”

  Imoshen stared at the neck circle. Its line was elegant enough, a crescent moon. That was not what offended her. It was the subject of the filigree and niello design.

  “See.” Tulkhan unwrapped his ceremonial belt which was made of rectangular hinged squares of gold embossed with the same design. “Let me see the torque on you.”

  Imoshen opened her mouth to protest but held her tongue. Tulkhan placed the heavy gold torque around her throat, then stood back to admire the effect.

  Imoshen lifted her hand to the neck circle. It felt like a yoke of servitude, binding her to Tulkhan’s perceptions of a wife. She undid the clasp and removed the torque slowly, replacing it in its bed of velvet.

  “What is it, Imoshen?”

  “Your men deck themselves in golden jewelry—”

  “It is our way. We wear our wealth on our backs. It is not so long since we were a nomadic people, old customs died hard.”

  Imoshen sighed. He was defensive now. “What is on the torque, General?”

  Tulkhan frowned, thinking surely the design was obvious. “The great Akha Khan in the form of a black stallion.”

  “But what is he doing?”

  “Crushing the enemies of his people.” Even as Tulkhan said it he understood how this might be in bad taste considering that Imoshen’s family had died on the battlefield. “It is taken from a myth where he transforms into the stallion and tramples—”

  “Death and bloodshed!” She lifted the heavy torque from its resting place and held it before him, anger making her voice tight. Her island had been trampled by Akha Khan’s stallion and her family all killed. How could he expect her to wear this? Tears stung her eyes. “This is exquisite workmanship, but it deals with blood and death. Is the Ghebite mind so steeped in violence that it cannot create peace and beauty for its own sake?”

  “You refuse my gift?”

  “I will wear your gift with honor. But I will not be your ‘wife’ and wear her yoke of servitude.” Imoshen replaced the torque, searching his face despairingly. Suddenly she scooped up the great sword on its bed of velvet. “I value the sharing of this more than anything else!”

&
nbsp; Her declaration warmed Tulkhan. He took the sword from her and slowly rewrapped it. “Every morning when I wake I wonder, what will Imoshen confound me with today?”

  Silence hung between them, heavy with things unsaid.

  Imoshen touched his arm. “Neither of us tread an easy path, General. We will be bonded and crowned on the last day of the old year. When the sun rises the day after tomorrow, it will be dawning on a new age for Fair Isle.”

  His hand covered hers. “I did not mean to insult you with my gift.”

  “It is the gifts you cannot see that I treasure most.”

  He shook his head. “You are a rare woman, Imoshen.”

  She smiled and gave him the obeisance among equals. “I will see you at the festivities this evening.”

  Only when the door closed behind her did Tulkhan realize she had forgotten to take the torque. He would send it to her room.

  Crossing to the hearth, he stirred up the coals then sat before the fire, resting Seerkhan’s sword across his knees. His heart beat faster as he recalled Imoshen’s words. The day after tomorrow the sun would rise on a new age for Fair Isle, one fraught with danger and challenge. An age he would stamp as his own!

  Imoshen shifted impatiently, causing her new maid to drop the comb. “I’m sorry, Merkah.”

  The girl flushed, and Imoshen suspected she wasn’t used to members of the royal family apologizing.

  “It will be a grand feast tonight,” Merkah ventured.

  Imoshen nodded. This was her last evening unbonded. Tomorrow promised to be a full day with the bonding ceremony in the morning and the joint coronation after the midday meal. She longed to know whether her bonding with Tulkhan would bring peace to Fair Isle and what would become of Reothe. The temptation to do a scrying was intense but she lacked control.

  And she was still no closer in her quest for knowledge of her gifts. Though the Keeper of Knowledge had provided her with a raft of ancient documents, she could find no histories of her people and no treatises on the T’En gifts. If only the T’Elegos had not been destroyed!

  “There, T’Imoshen.” Merkah stepped back with a pleased expression and waited expectantly.

  Imoshen studied her reflection. She looked quite unlike herself. The maid had created a hairstyle worthy of the High Court. Imoshen’s hair had been smoothed over padding on the crown of her head to create a fan of silver satin, while a single deep blue sapphire hung in the center of her forehead. She had argued against a diadem of zircons, preferring the simplicity of this which echoed her sapphire blue underdress.

  “I look so ... grand,” Imoshen said. “Thank you.” But she could see it wasn’t the response Merkah had hoped for.

  The girl, recommended by Kalleen, was a capable maid but Imoshen couldn’t let her guard down. She longed for her old friend’s company.

  “You may have the rest of the evening to yourself.” Imoshen rose.

  “Very well, T’Imoshen.” Clearly disappointed, Merkah knelt to adjust the brocade tabard, which had been embroidered with the finest thread of spun silver. It hung to Imoshen’s knees over the velvet undergown.

  As Merkah rose, she tripped. Imoshen caught the girl’s arm, but she pulled away sharply. Just as quickly she offered an abrupt obeisance of apology. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  “It does not matter,” Imoshen whispered. But it did. It hurt when people pulled away from her touch as if she might contaminate them.

  She pretended to adjust her neckline in the full-length mirror. The truth of her position was not pleasant. In desperation the people might reach to her for reassurance, but in everyday life she was a pariah. In the Age of Discernment, enlightenment did not extend to the T’En. “You may go, Merkah. Join in the festivities.”

  The maid gave Imoshen the deep obeisance without meeting her eyes and silently withdrew.

  Imoshen paced the room. She was ready beforehand because she had chosen not to attend the afternoon’s formal entertainment. She had thought she needed time to compose herself for this evening and tomorrow, but now she was restless.

  Surely it would not hurt to walk the corridors of the palace? She could pretend she was making a last-minute check on the arrangements. Sweeping out into the long gallery, she strode off energetically.

  The palace of a thousand rooms was full. The Keldon nobles had all brought their own retinues, and entertainers of every kind were housed in the servants’ quarters. Mainland ambassadors and nobles had been arriving steadily for the past ten days. It was a good sign, as it meant their rulers were willing to acknowledge General Tulkhan’s sovereignty of Fair Isle. From conversation Imoshen learnt that the General was well known and respected. Even the ambassadors whose countries had been annexed to Gheeaba spoke well of him.

  She’d had to exercise diplomacy while greeting the ambassadors from the mainland triad. When the Empress had called on these southern kingdoms to honor the old alliance, they had claimed they could not mobilize their armies against the Ghebite invasion in time. Yet now they presented themselves boldly as though their excuse was not paper thin.

  Imoshen suspected Tulkhan had probably received news of his half-brother. As far as she knew Gharavan had retreated to lick his wounds. If the lack of an ambassador from his homeland troubled Tulkhan, he did not reveal it, least of all to her.

  A familiar, arrogant voice echoed up the grand staircase from the marbled foyer below. Imoshen’s skin went cold. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered around a column.

  Kinraid the Vaygharian! The sly, manipulative traitor himself! Unbidden, she recalled those terrible days. When she had not been in her Stronghold to greet the Ghebite King and his Vaygharian advisor, they had declared her a rebel. In reality she had been abducted by one of Reothe’s men, Drake, on his orders. She had escaped and returned to her Stronghold only to find the King and his Ghebites feasting in her great hall. Within a day Tulkhan had returned from the Keldon Highlands without having captured Reothe. Seeing his chance, Kinraid claimed that if the General were truly loyal to King Gharavan he would return to the Highlands at once to hunt the rebels. When the General refused to leave until spring melted the snow in the high passes, Kinraid had acted quickly. He had marched into Tulkhan’s bedchamber, where Imoshen and the General lay entwined. Kinraid had laughed as his men beat Tulkhan senseless, and had looked with cruel lust on Imoshen’s nakedness. But when his bare flesh had touched hers, she had seen his death. The Vaygharian would meet his end in flames of agony.

  Kinraid’s voice jolted her from her memories, and she looked down to see him dressed in the formal robes of the Vayghar, complete with sculptured beard and beaded hair. He was accompanied by several men in the same ornate costumes of Vayghar merchant princes. She flushed. How dare Kinraid presume on the immunity of ambassadorial status to invade her palace. The General must be warned.

  Swiftly Imoshen left the upper gallery and sped to the salon. When Imoshen saw the General’s familiar profile, she had to smile. He was watching a performance which she knew he would find excruciatingly boring. The audience needed an appreciation of ritualized song and dance and a knowledge of T’En history to understand the references. Since speaking with Tulkhan, she had discarded many entertainments which might exclude the Ghebites, but the mainland nobility still expected a little High T’En culture.

  When she could not catch Tulkhan’s eye, impatience warred with caution. It was either enter the room and disrupt the performance or get his attention by other means.

  General Tulkhan was watching the play, privately marveling that anyone could keep a straight face while decked out in such a ridiculous costumes. How they balanced on one leg while completing the delicate arm movements was beyond him. When a cymbal tinkled the Keldon nobles clicked their fingers appreciatively.

  Several of his men glanced his way. He bit his lip to hide a smile and thought about tomorrow’s arrangements. Soon Imoshen would be his by every law known to man. Despite his impatience, dread made his heart beat like a solid drum, for n
o True-man had bonded with a pure T’En woman in over six hundred years. What had Imoshen the First tried to hide with her vow of celibacy?

  Something stirred his senses. He felt as if silken fingers had stroked his skin. The touch was so sensual he had to swallow. Pinpricks of sensation dusted his lips. He wanted to find Imoshen and kiss her. The back of his neck tingled. Very slowly, he turned.

  There she was, standing in the entrance with her intense wine-dark eyes focused on him. Damn her!

  She beckoned, her expressive eyes troubled.

  He sprang to his feet, weaving through the clustered tables and chairs, heading towards her like a dog called by its master. Fury built in him.

  Wharrd met his eyes, looking for an unspoken signal to accompany him. Tulkhan shook his head. He did not want the world to know the Dhamfeer had tweaked his leash!

  “General,” Imoshen whispered. She caught his hand and drew him with her, hastening across the wide gallery into a window embrasure where they could talk in private.

  Though she radiated anger it was not directed at him.

  “I’ve seen Kinraid,” Imoshen whispered. “He dared to come here as an ambassador of Vayghar. What will we do?”

  Before he could answer, the thump of booted feet on the gallery’s parquetry floor interrupted them. Tulkhan moved out of the embrasure to see a self-important servant escorting five richly dressed Vaygharians, Kinraid amongst them.

  He sensed Imoshen at his side and her presence warmed him. It surprised him to realize he found her support reassuring.

  Kinraid stepped from the ranks and gave a formal bow of greeting. He offered a sealed scroll. “We meet again, General Tulkhan. I am ambassador to the Vayghar and these are sons of the merchant council, princes in their own right, come to celebrate your coronation.”

  Tulkhan accepted the scroll and broke the seal, reading it swiftly. Imoshen peered over his shoulder.

  As Vayghar’s official representative, Kinraid could not be refused a welcome without insulting this trading nation. The princes were there to add weight to his reputation. Tulkhan did not want to insult one of the most powerful countries on the mainland. He felt Imoshen’s tense hand on the small of his back.