DARK DREAMS Page 2

  Anger flooded Imoshen. “I won’t be heavy with child forever, so your argument doesn’t stand up!”

  The familiar taste settled on her tongue, warning her that her T’En gift threatened to surface, but she refused to call on her powers to cloud his mind or distract his aim. To use her innate ability against the General now would negate everything.

  Absorbed in her silent inner battle she gave ground. Her heel sank into the snow. Her guard wavered.

  The General struck. She blocked.

  The force of his blow tore the hilt from her useless fingers, sending her weapon spinning across the courtyard to clatter against the stone wall and drop blade first into a snow drift.

  Silence hammered loud in the palace’s inner courtyard.

  Tulkhan smiled. It pleased him to have Imoshen at his mercy. She stood panting. Two spots of color flamed in her pale cheeks. Damp with sweat, her thin undershirt clung to her breasts as she struggled to regain her breath. He was reminded of the first time he’d seen her, restrained by five of his Elite Guard but not defeated. She had been injured defending a library of knowledge, crimson blood trickling down her white throat over her high breasts. He craved her then just as he craved her now.

  She glared at him. Her distinctive T’En scent, at once so familiar yet alien, drew him. It tempted him to forget all reason.

  He needed to make her admit that she wanted him. At the same time he despised himself, despised his hunger for her. How could he want her, the antithesis of a Ghebite woman? There she stood, defiantly tall and strong limbed, refusing to admit his mastery.

  Unlike Ghebite women, Imoshen used no feminine wiles to arouse and entice him. Instead of diminutive womanly curves, delicate coppery skin, and deferent dark eyes, he faced those accursed T’En eyes. Rich as ruby wine held to the candle flame, they blazed with keen intelligence.

  He had grown up hearing tales of this legendary race and their ability to enslave a True-man. But in Imoshen he had found a much more dangerous enemy—a living, breathing woman whose fierce pride and passion called to him against his better judgment.

  His body urged him to ignore the stricture which forbade physical contact before their formal union. His blood was up. He saw the comprehension in her eyes, saw a flush of anticipation race across the pearly skin of her throat, and felt his own body respond. By the gods, he was but a breath away from taking her here in the snow. And who would know? Who would dare raise voice against him if he did?

  Silently, she straightened. Dropping the defensive stance of a fighter, she inclined her head acknowledging him the victor. A ragged cheer echoed across the courtyard, startling Tulkhan. He spun to see a dozen of his men, the three commanders amongst them, standing under the arch on the far balcony.

  He grinned reluctantly and marveled that they did not demand that Imoshen be punished for daring to raise a weapon against him. Then he returned his attention to her. She had fought as well as any untrained man, and she had fought in the knowledge that she was outclassed.

  He raised the sword point to her throat and she lifted her chin to avoid the blade.

  “The Ghebite sword is not meant for a woman’s hand. Kneel and concede me the victor,” he ordered in a voice meant to carry, then added more softly, “Kneel, Imoshen. Do not insult me before my men.”

  “And you do not insult me?” Her voice was breathy with anguish and exertion.

  He frowned, surprised that she would see it this way. As he watched, the feral light of battle faded from her eyes. She swallowed. He saw her wince and recalled the blow he had delivered to her ribs. He knew that her every breath must hurt, yet she did not complain. Unlike Ghebite women she made light of being pregnant and did not hesitate to ride.

  “You fight well,” he said, recalling another time when she had stood at his side and faced death. Curse his weak-willed half-brother, Gharavan. Curse the Vaygharian’s sweet, poisoned tongue for planting the seeds of betrayal in Gharavan’s mind. The youth had been king only one summer when his advisor’s words of treachery overrode Tulkhan’s years of service. Tulkhan would have served his half-brother as loyally as he had served their father but he had not been given the chance.

  He had been arrested in Imoshen’s Stronghold, and together they had been thrown into her dungeon on false charges of treason. Only her maid’s bravery and Imoshen’s T’En trickery had saved them. “You were not outclassed when you faced the Vaygharian, Imoshen.”

  “That night I fought for my life against an enemy I despised. Besides, the Vaygharian did not seek to kill me, his aim was to escape.” Imoshen’s gaze flickered past him to their audience on the balcony. When she spoke her voice was low and intense. “General, why won’t you trust me?”

  A bitter laugh escaped him. Trust one of the T’En, a dreaded Dhamfeer as the saying went in his own language? Everything he had ever been taught went against that concept. “Kneel and acknowledge me the victor.”

  She hesitated.

  Shouting down from the balcony, one of the Ghebites advised the General what to do with this recalcitrant female. Even though he spoke Gheeaban, his meaning was clear enough to make Imoshen’s nostrils flare with fury.

  Tulkhan smiled ruefully. He had been a heartbeat away from acting on just that advice.

  Imoshen’s eyes darkened to mulberry black, glittering dangerously as she dropped to one knee and slowly bent her head. The men cheered loudly. But when she raised her mocking gaze a jolt of understanding hit Tulkhan. She might be on her knee to him, but in her heart she would never kneel.

  His mouth went dry. Her defiance goaded him. He wanted to lose himself in a battle for mastery. Only when she was in his arms, under him, could he appease his passion for her. But if he guessed correctly, every touch, every look weakened his resolve, laying his mind open to her T’En gifts.

  Bed her? Yes. Trust her? Never!

  “I yield to you, General,” she said, but her expression denied her words.

  Tulkhan grimaced. Just as Imoshen had been forced to surrender her Stronghold to him, he vowed she would ultimately admit him the master. Then Fair Isle and all it contained would be his. It was imperative he held Fair Isle, for he could not return to his homeland.

  Imoshen had advised him to kill his half-brother, but he could not execute the boy he had taught to ride. Gharavan’s betrayal still stung, for Tulkhan had loved him, even though his half-brother’s birth had been his disinheritance.

  Years of devoted service had earned Tulkhan the respect of his men and the command of the Ghebite army, but they could not make him the son of the king’s first wife. He had planned to kneel before his father as conqueror of the legendary Fair Isle. For hundreds of years the island had been growing rich on the trade routes between the mainland and the archipelago. Protected by its vigorous merchant navy, Fair Isle was the envy of the bickering mainland kingdoms. And Tulkhan had meant to present this jewel in the crown to his father.

  But the invasion had gone sour. His father had fallen on the battlefield leading a secondary attack on the island. Far in front of the larger army, Tulkhan had given Gharavan his fealty and continued the campaign, ultimately winning Fair Isle for the young Ghebite King.

  And how had he been rewarded for his loyalty? Tulkhan skirted Gharavan’s treachery like an open wound, returning to practical, tactical matters. After his half-brother’s betrayal, Tulkhan had banished the young King and claimed this island for his own, effectively exiling himself and his warriors from Gheeaba forever. He and the men who had remained loyal to him were outcasts, Fair Isle their only home. Yet he could not hope to hold the island without Imoshen’s support.

  Tulkhan stepped back, sheathed his sword, and offered Imoshen his hand. With a tug he pulled her lightly to her feet. In that instant he saw the hunger she felt for him before she could mask it. An answering need moved him. It was there between them, this primal pull, body to body.

  He’d been a fool to think casual bedding would be enough. He licked his lips. Their bonding da
y could not come soon enough.

  Behind him, unaware of the undercurrents, his men signaled their approval with the Ghebite battle cry.

  Imoshen glanced at them then back to Tulkhan. “Thank you for the lesson in swordplay, General.” Once more the T’En royal, she gave him a graceful obeisance between equals, inclining her head and raising one hand to her forehead.

  When she met his eyes he thought she seemed pleased. Why?

  “Now I must issue invitations for the celebration tomorrow night. The townspeople will have heard that you signed the document acknowledging Church Law, but when they see you sitting down with the head of the T’En Church they will really believe it.” She turned away from him.

  Bemused, Tulkhan watched her leave the courtyard. Imoshen had deliberately humbled herself before his men, yet she had done it on her own terms. The old wives’ tales were right, truly the Dhamfeer were a devious race.

  Imoshen returned to her chambers where she discarded her soiled shirt, wincing as she peeled down her trousers. Confronting Tulkhan was worth the pain. Her mother had often said she was a willful creature.

  Imoshen faltered, but there was no time to mourn her family, lost on the battlefield. If they had agreed to take her with them, she would have died fighting by their sides; but no, they said she was too young, at seventeen. Yet they had left her to run the family Stronghold, where she was responsible for the lives of a thousand people. Her great-aunt had been her sole support.

  Hot tears of anger stung Imoshen’s eyes. Even in death her parents had not wanted to acknowledge their Throwback daughter. She brushed the tears away roughly, glaring at the marble bathing chamber. A bitter laugh escaped her. Soon she would be bonded with the General, co-ruler of Fair Isle. Her parents could never have foreseen that.

  But her great-aunt had. The only other member of their family to be born pure T’En, her great-aunt had devoted her life to the service of the Church and on her hundredth birthday had been rewarded with the title of “the Aayel.” She had advised Imoshen to surrender the Stronghold and accept terms. Even so, their lives hung by a thread. As the last remnants of the old royal line their very existence would foster insurgence. They needed a lever on their captor. The Aayel had used her mind-reading gift to discover the General’s secret fear and most fervent desire. In Gheeaba, a man’s virility was judged by how many sons he produced. Tulkhan’s only arranged marriage had been annulled after his wife had not produced a child within three years. The Aayel’s advice for Imoshen had been to seduce Tulkhan, and ensure that she conceive a boy.

  It had seemed an impossible task, yet when it came to consummating the Harvest Feast the General had played into Imoshen’s hands. Every year the fertility of the land was ensured with a ritual consummation. Usually a young man and woman from one of the local villages were chosen, but that year the General had claimed Imoshen. She had told him the moment she felt his son’s life flare into being.

  However, she would not have lived to conceive this child if the Aayel had not saved her life by sacrificing her own.

  When an assassination attempt on Tulkhan had failed, he had ordered the execution of the last of the old royal line as punishment. The Aayel has chosen to assume blame, absolving Imoshen, and had then taken her own in an abbreviated form of the T’En ritual suicide.

  Grimly Imoshen stared at herself in the silver-backed mirror. She hoped that if she were ever faced with such a choice, she would be as brave.

  Tentatively she touched her still-flat belly, shaking her head in wonder. Her child broke with six centuries of tradition. She shuddered. Her pregnancy made her feel vulnerable. Pure T’En women were supposed to be chaste, devoting themselves to the Church. To take a lover was to court death.

  Yet she should not feel as if she was committing a crime, for before the invasion, the Empress had granted dispensation for her to break with custom and bond with Reothe.

  Imoshen swayed, sinking to her knees. She must not think of Reothe and what might have been. When she had surrendered her Stronghold to the General she had believed Reothe dead. As last surviving member of the extended royal family, her duty was to help her people recover from the Ghebite invasion. For this purpose she had gone to Landsend Abbey only to be confronted by Reothe. Slipping unseen into her chamber, he had intended to complete their bonding vows, escape with her, and retake the island.

  Imoshen’s left wrist tingled and she lifted it to her mouth. Licking the bonding scar, she urged it to fade. To remember was to feel, and she did not want to recall Reothe’s arms around her, or his determination as he cut his wrist, then hers to mingle their blood. She had not wanted to refuse him but she could not sanction more bloodshed. Reothe represented her lost dreams and now her loyalty must be to the people of Fair Isle and the General.

  She looked down at her left wrist where the scar was now all but invisible. So much rested on her. She had to believe she had made the right choice.

  “How can I be your maid if you won’t let me serve you?” Kalleen demanded, running into the room.

  With a relieved laugh Imoshen came to her feet. “Soon you will be the Lady of Windhaven and have servants of your own.”

  The girl used a choice farmyard word. “I’m not the Lady of Windhaven yet.”

  “It is only right that your loyalty and bravery be rewarded,” Imoshen said. She suspected there would be many who resented seeing a farm girl elevated to nobility. But it was due to Kalleen that she and Tulkhan had ended Gharavan’s brief reign.

  Kalleen gasped as Imoshen turned. “That bruise on your ribs! Did the General do that because you dared lift a sword to him?”

  Imoshen sighed. “Does everyone know?”

  “The Ghebites are saying that if you had been properly disciplined you would know your place. They say the General should beat you every day until he breaks your spirit.”

  Imoshen cursed softly under her breath.

  “Should I unpack the Empress’s formal gowns for tomorrow night?” Kalleen asked, practical as always.

  Imoshen thought of the fearful town dignitaries, of the General’s wary eyes and of the Beatific, leader of the T’En Church, who remained an enigma.

  Imoshen sighed. Her only experience of the Empress’s court had been a visit the summer before Tulkhan attacked. At the time the subtleties of the power interplay between the Church and the Empress had not interested her. She had simply accepted that the Church venerated the T’En gifts and in return the T’En served the Church. But since entering the capital as Tulkhan’s captive she had sensed a wariness in the woman who should have been her closest ally.

  Imoshen turned to Kalleen. “For the celebration, I must remind them of the old empire. I must be T’Imoshen, the last princess of the T’En. Yes, unpack the formal gowns and jewelry.”

  “It is lucky the Empress was nearly as tall as you,” Kalleen said as she left.

  Imoshen sank into a warm bath with a sigh of relief. The General might mock Fair Isle’s aristocracy, grown complacent after six hundred years of uninterrupted rule, and he might scorn the highly ritualized behavior of the court, but he could not fail to be impressed by hot, running water.

  Dimly she heard Kalleen’s raised voice from the room beyond.

  “My lady’s in the bath, General Tulkhan!” Kalleen snapped, darting forward as if she intended to restrain him. “You can’t go in.”

  “Then you’d better tell Imoshen to come out because I want to speak with her!”

  Radiating disdain, the maid bundled up Imoshen’s clothing and retreated to the bathing chamber.

  Tulkhan heard their voices. He imagined Imoshen, her pale flesh glowing from the hot bath as she dressed indignantly. He smiled to himself. Confronting Imoshen was always invigorating, any excuse would do.

  Already once today she had stood before him, disarmed but not beaten. He should have refused to let her touch the Ghebite sword yet he could not resist her challenge, and because of this he’d just broken up a fight between the palace st
able workers and his own horse handlers.

  “General Tulkhan?” Imoshen greeted him, weaving the ends of her long silver hair into one thick plait.

  He turned, aware of her frank gaze. Clearly it did not trouble Imoshen that she had just stepped naked from the bath. The knowledge that they were soon to be married and then he would have the right to join her in the bathing chamber made Tulkhan short with the maid. “You are dismissed, Kalleen.”

  Instead of obeying him she looked to Imoshen, who nodded. This irritated Tulkhan. The palace’s army of servants were always deferring to Imoshen.

  “You wanted to speak with me?” she asked.

  “I will assign several of my Elite Guard as your private escort when you leave the palace.”

  “I have my own Stronghold Guard,” Imoshen said. “Besides, I can look—”

  “Hear me out. By raising a sword to me you have broken Ghebite law—”

  “Hear me out, General. This is not Gheeaba. And tomorrow night we celebrate yesterday’s signing of the document which recognizes the Church Laws of Fair Isle. In this land anyone can bear arms in defense of themselves and their loved ones.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Imoshen. My army is quartered in T’Diemn. They hear garbled stories of how you insult me by taking up arms against me. The customs of Fair Isle confuse them. Every day they see women walking about the streets, running businesses, sitting in tea houses and taverns, laughing and talking.”

  “So?”

  Tulkhan repressed a wave of frustration. “In Gheeaba a woman covers her face to walk out in public. Don’t look outraged. It is just the way things are. My men don’t know what to make of women who look them in the eye and laugh.”

  “It’ll do them good!”

  “Imoshen. Be serious!”

  She bit back a smile. “I am listening, General. Surely in the years you’ve been on campaign your men have seen how other countries live.”

  “Less than you’d think. We traveled as an army and camped as an army. They are good men but simple. Even our bone-setter, Wharrd, is wary of you, and he has worked at your side helping with healings.” He could tell his arguments had not convinced her. “By the gods, Imoshen, I am trying to honor you. If my Elite Guard escorted you, it would be the same as if I was at your side. It would look right to my men.”