DARK DREAMS Page 23

  “More chicken scrawl?” He gave a mock sigh.

  Imoshen swallowed. The familiar teasing note in his voice warmed her. “I could teach you.”

  Tulkhan rolled his eyes. “Taught by a woman!” he complained. “In Gheeaba women don’t read or write.”

  She stiffened.

  “Don’t be angry with me, Imoshen. I did not make the rules.”

  “You Ghebite men have a lot to answer for!”

  He gave her a disarming smile. “Here I am, at your mercy. Use me.”

  His meaning was clear. Imoshen felt a smile tug at her lips.

  “Very well.” She slid out the sheet of notepaper and dipped the scriber in the ink. “The first letter of the T’En alphabet is shaped like this.”

  Tulkhan groaned, but sat at her side to study. Imoshen felt the warmth of his body seep through her clothing. It was only by exercising great self-discipline that she continued the lesson.

  These were the moments she savored—when there was no one to observe or judge them and their differences faded. Even teaching Tulkhan the T’En alphabet was a sinful pleasure she hugged to herself before she had to relinquish him once again to palace politics.

  Chapter Twelve

  “I don’t know what they expect me to do.” Lord Fairban was genuinely distressed. “My daughter has already refused them both. Surely it is her decision?”

  Imoshen smiled, for this was obvious. “Then forget it. Cariah has her status as an independent noblewoman not to mention the support of the Thespers’ Guild. No one can force her to do anything against her will. Even if she were a poor farm girl, the choice of bond-partner would be hers alone.”

  Lord Fairban nodded but he didn’t look convinced. Imoshen felt impatient. What did he expect her to do?

  She pushed that thought aside as unworthy. The old lord had turned to her, the least she could do was consider the situation, carefully, but it was hard to think clearly. Late into the night and again since dawn she had been tending the sick. A debilitating winter fever had swept through the servants and begun to work its way through the nobles. She supposed it was inevitable, considering the number of people inhabiting the palace. To save her own strength she had used her healing gifts only on the worst afflicted, relying on basic herbal lore for the majority of cases. Even so she felt drained, fragile.

  Finally, to escape the confines of the sickroom, she had slipped away to the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where she knew the Ghebites would be practicing their swordsmanship.

  She had wanted to lose herself in the secret vice of admiring General Tulkhan, but she had not been allowed this indulgence, for Lord Fairban had approached her. She wished the old lord would take himself and his troubles away and let her enjoy the General’s unconscious display in peace.

  The Ghebites were stripped to the waist and their gleaming bodies steamed in the cold. Imoshen felt her gaze irresistibly drawn to Tulkhan. He was downing a drink in between bouts and she longed to go down and challenge him. Maybe later when the men left she would slip down, tie up her formal skirts, and ask him again to train her in the use of Ghebite weapons.

  Sword practice was one of the endless Ghebite customs designed to exclude and confine women. She suspected these traditions were designed for the express purpose of bonding the males closer. In a society where a man’s only equal was another male, it was no surprise to see that the relationships men shared went beyond mere friendship, like sword-brothers. King Gharavan had only been following the custom when he took the Vaygharian as his lover.

  She would have found it all quite fascinating if understanding the Ghebites had not been a matter of life and death for her people.

  The timbre of the fighting changed, piercing Imoshen’s abstraction. There was trouble. General Tulkhan intervened. The two men bristled at each other like rabid dogs.

  “That’s them,” Lord Fairban whispered, and Imoshen jumped. She had forgotten him. “Sahorrd saw me last night. He said he wanted to marry Cariah. I told him that bonding was not a matter to bring up with me, that he had to ask her. If she accepted him, we three could discuss the joining of their estates. Then later that same night Jacolm came to me with the same request.”

  “But Cariah refused them both,” Imoshen said. She wasn’t surprised. Bonding with a jealous Ghebite male would severely restrict Cariah’s freedom.

  Raised voices ruled the courtyard, echoing off the walls. Imoshen caught Cariah’s name, butchered by the soldier’s harsh accents. Tulkhan strode between the two men. She half expected him to knock some sense into them, but instead a heated discussion followed.

  “If Cariah has refused them both, why are they still arguing?” Imoshen asked Lord Fairban. He had no answer. As she watched, a decision seemed to be reached. “The General is sending for something or someone.”

  While they waited, Jacolm and Sahorrd were led to opposite ends of the courtyard by their companions.

  Tulkhan strode over to stand below Imoshen. “There will be a duel. Send for the Lady Cariah of Fairban. She should be present to greet the winner.”

  “I will find her,” Lord Fairban said.

  He stepped back from Tulkhan’s view, turning anxiously to Imoshen.

  “Do it,” she whispered. “I swear no harm will come to her.”

  When he had gone she leant over the balcony, speaking only for Tulkhan’s ears. “What is the problem, General?”

  He grimaced. “Cariah has come between Sahorrd and Jacolm. If they hadn’t been sword-brothers it might not be so bad, but they are each determined to have her.”

  “Surely that is her decision. Stop this before—”

  “Be sensible, Imoshen. I cannot ask a man to dishonor himself before his brothers-at-arms!”

  Imoshen opened her mouth to speak, but a man approached Tulkhan.

  “Ahh, the dueling swords. No lectures now, Imoshen. I have no choice.” Tulkhan went over to his men.

  Annoyed with his dismissal, Imoshen watched Sahorrd and Jacolm select their weapons. As much as she wanted to, she knew she should not intervene. She only hoped the men could work off their ill feelings without too much bloodshed.

  With formal signals the Ghebites touched the tips of their weapons, bowed, then stepped back, waiting grimly.

  Imoshen stiffened. Those were wicked weapons. Surely this was no more than a fight to first blood.

  “Imoshen?” Cariah said as she approached, graceful even when hurrying. Her father hung back, perhaps reluctant to bear witness.

  “Lady Cariah!” Tulkhan called.

  Imoshen looked down into the courtyard to see both men give Cariah a formal salute, then fall into fighting stance.

  “What—?” Cariah began but her words were drowned as the men leapt at one another, their swords ringing. She gasped, stepping closer to Imoshen. “More sword practice? Why was I called?”

  “Not practice. A duel.”

  “The fools!”

  “They fight over you, like dogs over a bone.” Imoshen could not keep the scorn from her voice.

  Metal scraped on metal, obscenely loud in the charged silence.

  “Surely it is not to the death?” Cariah whispered uneasily.

  “I trust not,” Imoshen answered. “The General will stop them before it gets to that point.”

  Cariah’s hand closed over Imoshen’s, telegraphing her distress.

  “What do they hope to gain by this display? It will not make me change my mind,” Cariah muttered.

  “Perhaps if they shed a little blood it would ease their hot heads,” Imoshen suggested. She heard Lord Fairban shift uneasily and glanced at him. His mouth was grim, and he winced as the sound of screeching swords echoed off the courtyard walls.

  Just then the old man cried, “One of them is down!”

  Imoshen’s gaze flew to the courtyard and a sickening certainty swept her. For Sahorrd and his sword-brother this was a fight to the death.

  Time slowed agonizingly. Down on one knee, Sahorrd lunged under h
is opponent’s guard, aiming a killing blow to Jacolm’s exposed upper thigh. But Jacolm leapt back to avoid the fatal strike, missing his chance to finish the bout.

  “One of them is going to die.” Imoshen had not meant to speak aloud.

  “Can you tell which one?” Cariah demanded.

  Imoshen did not know. She studied the duelists, wondering whether foretelling death was part of her gift.

  A subtle shift passed over her sight as she searched for signs. The strangely graceful movements of the fighting men slowed and the ring of metal on metal sang, lingering on the air in visible arcs of sound.

  “Imoshen?” Cariah pleaded, her voice rustling across Imoshen’s perception.

  “I . . .” She shrugged helplessly. Both men were surrounded by an aura of vibrating air but what this meant she could not tell.

  “T’Imoshen?” Cariah pressed, resorting to formality in her desperation.

  Imoshen met her eyes. In that fleeting glimpse she saw the same aura around Cariah’s beautiful face. Fear clutched her.

  “What is it? What did you see?” Cariah demanded.

  A man’s hoarse scream rent the air.

  Stunned, Imoshen looked down to see Sahorrd on the ground clutching his belly. She knew without examining him that it was a fatal wound. Even with her skills she could not stem that much blood, repair those damaged organs.

  Cariah gasped Sahorrd’s name, her face suddenly pale.

  Tulkhan stepped forward and took the weapon from Jacolm, who stood frozen. He did not resist when his General led him toward their balcony and lifted his arm in a sign of victory.

  “Jacolm will see you, Lord Fairban, to claim your daughter,” the General announced.

  The old man shook his head, looking to Imoshen to explain the misunderstanding, but it was Cariah who answered.

  “My father has no say in this. It is my decision and I won’t have him!” Her voice rose with fury. “You killed without cause, Jacolm. Murderer!”

  Imoshen dragged Cariah into the shadows of the balcony out of the sight of the men below. “Quiet. Think what you do!”

  But Cariah was beyond thought. Her furious voice carried into the courtyard below. “I despise them all. Ghebite barbarians!”

  “That may be so, but we are at their mercy,” Imoshen hissed, finally reaching Cariah through her grief. She slid her arm around the woman’s shoulders to support her, then walked to the balustrade to face the Ghebites.

  “The Lady Cariah of Fairban has already refused both men, as is her right,” Imoshen told them. “In Fair Isle we respect the free will of the individual. This duel changes nothing!”

  Even as she said this, Imoshen felt a flare of heat and the force of Cariah’s fury made her body tremble. It was a strangely seductive sensation. It called to her, wooing her with its dark passion. She wanted to bathe in such rage. Startled, Imoshen dropped Cariah’s arm, stepping away from her.

  The General glared up at them as though demanding Imoshen recall her words. In a flash of revelation she understood that to do so would deny Cariah, and every woman of Fair Isle, the right to choose her bond-partner. It would relegate them to possessions like the Ghebite women who were given in “marriage” to consolidate house-lines.

  “Jacolm fought for her.” Tulkhan’s voice sounded forced, as if he was trying to maintain a reasonable tone. “She belongs—”

  “I am not a prize!” Cariah snapped.

  Tulkhan indicated the body. “A man lies dead!”

  “By whose hand?” Imoshen asked, heart in her mouth. She would not see Cariah blamed for Sahorrd’s death.

  With an inarticulate cry Cariah ran along the balcony and through the far door.

  There was stunned silence then one of the Ghebites yelled, “A man lies dead because of that bitch!”

  “No! He lies dead because he would not respect her choice.” But Imoshen’s voice could not be heard above the furious shouts of the Ghebites, and even if they had listened, she doubted they would understand.

  Wordlessly, General Tulkhan shook his head and turned away to rejoin his men. Only Jacolm remained, staring unseeing up at Imoshen. Her heart filled with a cold foreboding.

  In his agitation Lord Fairban clutched Imoshen’s arm, drawing her into the shadows. “You should have stopped them!”

  Impatiently Imoshen indicated the courtyard where the Ghebites seethed like a simmering pot about to boil over. “How could I stop that?”

  “But you are the T’En Empress!”

  “To them I am a nothing but a hated Dhamfeer, a female at that!” Imoshen heard the bitter edge to her voice and saw him register the truth of her words.

  “Barbarians . . .”

  “We must salvage the situation. Come, my lord. A man lies dead and the proper words must be said over his body.” She took the old man’s arm. “Sahorrd’s death arose from a misunderstanding and the Ghebites will realize this when their heads are cooler.” Her words sounded hollow even to her own ears.

  Imoshen rested her forehead on the windowpane, relishing the feel of the cold glass on her skin. The Empress’s rooms were designed to promote peace and serenity. Today this did nothing for her.

  Her eyes ached with each heartbeat. Her skin felt fragile. She knew she was coming down with the same ague which had struck so many of the others and she had a fever-breaking tisane ready to take but she was too weary to move.

  Since the duel this morning, the palace had been in ferment. Several altercations had broken out in the entertainment wing as Keldon nobles and Ghebites argued over who was at fault. It had taken great diplomacy on Imoshen’s part to soothe their self-righteous anger. At last she had retreated to her rooms too disheartened and weary to move. It was growing dark and according to Ghebite custom the words for the dead had to be said before dusk. No matter how tired she was, she had to attend the ceremony for Sahorrd to show proper respect.

  Someone scratched at the door, then entered before Imoshen could summon the strength to deny them.

  “I must speak with you,” Cariah began. “I keep asking myself if I am to blame . . .” She stopped, her shoulders sagging with sudden despair. “I am heartsore and want nothing more than to be alone. I have come to ask whether I should retreat to my estates.”

  “If you left now it would be seen as an admission of guilt, when all you have done is insist on your rights.”

  Cariah sighed. “My guildmaster agrees with you. He advised me to stay. And so I must.” She managed a stiff smile. “Even though all my instincts tell me to run. I feel threatened by every whisper, every look. Those Ghebites would kill me with a glance, if they could.”

  Imoshen slid her arm around Cariah’s shoulder, offering wordless comfort. Without meaning to, she inhaled the scent of Cariah’s hair. She could smell her pain and felt an instinctive urge to ease it. “We must not reveal any sign of weakness. I will stand by you.”

  Cariah shuddered. “It is the whispering and watching. I cannot stand it.”

  “You feel the force of their emotions. It is your T’En gift. When this is over you and I can—”

  Cariah pulled away. “I feel nothing.” She met Imoshen’s eyes. “You frighten me with such talk. A part of me wants to run from you, too.”

  Imoshen felt as if she had been delivered a physical blow. She turned away in pain. If Cariah, who was more T’En than most, could still fear her, what hope was there for others to accept her, love her?

  “Jacolm! Why did he kill Sahorrd?” Cariah cried suddenly. “He loved him.”

  “Who knows what love means to them?” Imoshen muttered, then winced to hear her callous words.

  Cariah resumed pacing. “I should have handled it differently.”

  Imoshen restrained her impatience. “If you cannot say no to a Ghebite male, then what chance have other women, women who are not independently wealthy with the connections of a noble family, women who do not have the power of a guild behind them? Do not berate yourself, Cariah. There is more to this than simply
you, Jacolm, and Sahorrd. The right of all the women of Fair Isle to control their lives is at stake.”

  “I did not think . . .”

  “Go now.”

  “Forgive me, T’Imoshen, you see further than I.” Cariah gave a formal obeisance and Imoshen was aware of a subtle shift in the balance of their relationship.

  When Cariah retreated, closing the door softly behind her, Imoshen stared unseeing into the flames. It was too cruel—Cariah, of all people, feared her. She felt overwhelmed by the escalation of events. Everything was unraveling.

  Her muscles ached with the onset of the fever and she added more wood to the fire to warm her cold bones.

  The door swung open and Tulkhan strode in without so much as a word of greeting. Imoshen straightened. He vibrated with repressed anger. A little dart of despair pierced her and she turned away from him.

  “At least look at me, Imoshen!” Tulkhan’s voice was raw.

  She turned to face him.

  “Get this woman to accept Jacolm.”

  A bitter laugh escaped her.

  He cursed. “Is it so impossible?”

  “What do you think?” She stared across the room at him, a cultural chasm between them. “Cariah has already rejected both men.”

  Tulkhan gave an exasperated grimace. “She would have his name—”

  Imoshen snorted. “She has her own name.”

  “... his protection.”

  “She needs no protection. She is a respected member of the Thespers’ Guild and a property holder in her own right. Why should she ally herself with Jacolm, or any man, unless she wants to?”

  “Then why did she he with him, with them both?”

  Imoshen had to laugh. “Why do you think? Don’t your Ghebite women enjoy bedding their men?”

  Tulkhan flushed; Imoshen shook her head in wonder. “Why did they have to duel—”

  He made an impatient gesture. “You don’t understand what honor means to us.” But she could see in his care-worn face the grief he felt.

  Imoshen’s head throbbed and her throat felt tight. She could hardly think and there was still Sahorrd’s burial ceremony to endure. “Please leave. I will dress now. In Fair Isle we wear our finest clothes to honor the dead but I don’t want to offend your people. What should I wear to honor Sahorrd?”