DARK DREAMS Page 24

  He shook his head in wonder. “Imoshen.”

  “What?”

  “The Cadre would be horrified to see a woman at a man’s—”

  “I see.” Anger made her voice hard but this was not the moment to make her stand. “My people will expect me to do the right thing. Someone from Fair Isle must be present to honor Sahorrd in death.” There was only one male of equal rank to her, and she could hardly ask Reothe. “With emotions running the way they are, I cannot ask any of the Keldon nobles. The Beatific would be ideal if she were not a woman.”

  “Murgon the Tractarian,” Tulkhan suggested.

  Her first impulse was to deny the man this honor. Of all Church officials he was the last person she wished to represent her. It would elevate his importance in the eyes of the Ghebites.

  “You have a better suggestion?” Tulkhan pressed.

  She sighed. “I will write a missive to the Beatific, appointing him as my delegate. Wording it without offending her will be a challenge.”

  Tulkhan gave her a wry smile and hope stirred within Imoshen.

  “You see, all it takes is a little compromise,” Tulkhan said. “If you would but speak with Cariah—”

  “Enough! What you call compromise would see the women of Fair Isle reduced to property. I will not do it.” Imoshen’s rage drained away, leaving her dizzy. She reached for the mantelpiece and missed.

  Startled, Tulkhan caught her, swinging her up into his arms. Her skin branded his. Remorse stirred him. “You are sick.”

  “The Beatific,” Imoshen mumbled. “I must—”

  “I will speak with her. You should be in bed.”

  “. . . trust you to think that,” she whispered.

  He grinned and carried her into the bedchamber. “Can I get you something?”

  Imoshen frowned at him, her eyes glassy with fever as she lay back on the pillow. “Bring the tisane.”

  Imoshen appeared to be asleep when he returned to the bed but she roused herself enough to drain the medicine.

  He sat on the bed next to her, pulling the covers up.

  She brushed his hands away. “I can do that.”

  “I know. But I want to.”

  A tear slipped down Imoshen’s cheek. “Oh, General. Everything has gone wrong and I try so hard. . . .”

  “We both do.” He pushed her fever-damp hair from her forehead.

  Imoshen fought to open her eyes.

  “Sleep.”

  “But—”

  “There is always tomorrow, Imoshen. For once, trust me.”

  Her hand felt for his and her six fingers closed around his five. Tulkhan held her hand until she slept.

  “General Tulkhan?” Lord Fairban approached anxiously.

  Tulkhan had spent a restless night going over and over the events surrounding Sahorrd’s death, wondering if he could have acted otherwise.

  “Fairban.” Tulkhan tensed. Why couldn’t this man control his daughter? Then he flushed as he imagined Imoshen’s mocking laughter. He was thinking like a Ghebite. Learning the T’En alphabet was not enough. He had to understand the way the people thought.

  “The Master of the Thespers’ Guild tells me my daughter is missing. She did not meet with him this morning as arranged and her sisters have not seen her.” Lord Fairban began reasonably, but his voice gained intensity as he spoke. “Unless she has taken refuge with T’Imoshen, I fear for her safety. Where is your man Jacolm?”

  Tulkhan ground his teeth as he saw the Vaygharians enter the room. Everyone was looking his way, making no pretense of polite conversation. The fatal duel and Cariah’s subsequent rejection of the winner had provided the court with a feast of speculation.

  “Commander Peirs?” Tulkhan called his trusted veteran. “Send for Jacolm.”

  To maintain the appearance of normalcy, Tulkhan joined in a game of chance, but his gaze kept returning to the doorway. When he caught sight of Peirs he rose and the others made no pretense of continuing the game.

  Peirs gave a formal salute.

  “Well, man?” Tulkhan snapped, then winced.

  “Jacolm cannot be found. His bed has not been slept in and his—”

  Lord Fairban cursed.

  Tulkhan signaled for silence. “Peirs, organize a search of the palace, then the grounds. Locate Jacolm’s horse and kit.”

  “I checked. Untouched. The kit is still in his room.”

  Lord Fairban paled. “If that Ghebite has—”

  “Get moving!” Tulkhan rounded on his men, who hurried away. The Keld watched him silently. Though no one spoke, he could almost sense them withdrawing from him.

  Tulkhan ran his hand through his hair. He needed to find Cariah and Jacolm before the worst could happen. The implications rocked him. In desperation he thought of Imoshen and the scrying platter. Without a word he strode from the room, heading for their chambers. Every servant he passed avoided his eyes.

  Imoshen would understand the need to use her gifts just this once. He only hoped she was well enough.

  The new maid gave a gasp of surprise when he threw the door open.

  “Where is she?”

  The girl glanced to the door of the Empress’s bedchamber.

  He strode past her and thrust the door open. The bed was empty.

  “You look for me, General?”

  He spun to see Imoshen’s blanket-shrouded form rise from the rug before the fire. Two bright spots of color burned in her white cheeks. Her pale beauty glowed with the inner furnace of a fever.

  “You are no better.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Suddenly he didn’t want to tell her.

  “Is it Cariah?” Imoshen’s voice was a croak.

  “She’s missing.”

  “And the Ghebite?”

  “Jacolm’s missing too.”

  “He has abducted her?”

  “His horse and kit are still here.”

  Imoshen clutched the back of the chair for support.

  He tried to reassure her. “I have men searching the palace.”

  She sank to her knees before the fire. “It’s my fault. She wanted to run but I told her to stay!”

  “No, it’s my fault. I should have foreseen Jacolm’s reaction. What man could face such disgrace?”

  “What disgrace?”

  Tulkhan had no time to explain. He crossed the room, lifting Imoshen to her feet. “We must find them before it’s too late. Are you well enough to do a scrying?”

  She stiffened. “You insisted that I never use—”

  “Lives are at stake.”

  “So you would use my T’En gifts when it suits you?”

  “Yes!” Why was she hesitating?

  “If I do this, what stops you from having me locked away like some unclean thing?”

  “Have done with this!” He heard the maid’s gasp. “You, girl. I know you’re listening at the door. Bring the scrying plate!”

  Imoshen closed her eyes and stood absolutely still. Tulkhan’s hands tingled. A prickling sensation ran up his arms. Shocked, he released her flesh, stepping back sharply.

  “So you don’t need the scrying plate?”

  “Focus. The Aayel said it was all a matter of discipline and focus. I dread . . .” Imoshen grimaced in concentration. “They are not in the palace buildings. It is very hard, people are running everywhere. There is so much tension.”

  “Search the grounds.”

  “I am.”

  Merkah returned with the plate, but Tulkhan waved her away. “Go, and keep out.”

  “I find no bright points of life, only—” Imoshen’s knees buckled and she staggered. Tulkhan caught her. In that instant a wave of nausea swept over him. Roiling, dark emotions blotted his vision.

  Imoshen moaned. “Heated fever dreams. The taste of death on my tongue—”

  Tulkhan cursed. She was delirious. He should call for the maid and have her put Imoshen to bed.

  “Now I understand the visions,” Imoshen moaned. “I thought
them feverish nightmares but it was Cariah trying to reach me.”

  “What do you mean?” Tulkhan demanded.

  Imoshen shook her head and pushed past him.

  Tulkhan watched her unsteady passage across the room. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “I must face this.”

  He strode after her, sweeping her off her feet, blanket and all. “You can barely walk.”

  For once she did not resist him. “The place I sense lies beyond the lake. You can’t carry me that far.”

  “We’ll ride.”

  By the time they had entered the stables, they were accompanied by half the court, including Fairban and his two younger daughters.

  “Saddle my horse,” Tulkhan called to a stableboy, ignoring all demands for an explanation. He stepped up into the saddle and held out his arm to Imoshen. She clasped his forearm, put a bare foot on his boot, and was hauled up into his arms.

  Her face was starkly pale. Her eyes glittered strangely and even with the blanket between them he could feel the overflow of her T’En gifts, rolling off her skin like heat radiating from a blacksmith’s forge. It made his heart race. And though he knew it probably damned his soul for all eternity, he realized that he liked the sensation.

  Imoshen guided them out beyond the ornamental gardens to the lake and the woods.

  “That way.” Eyes closed, Imoshen led them unerringly through the winter-bare trees.

  They slowed to pick their way over the treacherous ground, hollows hidden by deep drifts.

  “Which way now?” Tulkhan asked. The others had caught up with them, and were floundering through the thick snow.

  She flinched. “You have to ask?”

  Then he saw a dark patch already half buried by the lightly falling snow.

  Imoshen twisted from his arms and half fell from the mount. Barefoot she staggered through the drifts. He threw his leg over the saddle. When he caught up with her she was on her knees before the figures.

  They could have been entwined in a lovers’ embrace. Snow dusted their heads and clothes. Cariah lay in Jacolm’s arms, her face swollen and distorted.

  Tulkhan knew Jacolm had strangled her, then cradled her body while he cut his wrists right up to the elbow. His blood soaked them, both, a great, black stain.

  “Poor Jacolm,” Tulkhan whispered. “He could not live with the dishonor. He loved her—”

  “Love?” Imoshen sprang to her feet, flinging the blanket off. She wore nothing but a thin shift and her hair was loose. Already a crown of powder-fine snow clung to her head, her lashes.

  “Love?” Imoshen repeated. “Love does not kill what it cannot have!”

  Lord Fairban leapt down from his mount with a keening cry of pain. His sobbing daughters waded through the snow to his side, trying to restrain him.

  “Cariah!” he moaned, beside himself with grief.

  Tulkhan looked over their heads to a contingent of his men awaiting his orders. They would have to bring the bodies in and prepare them for burial. Which Church would claim precedence, or would it be to each their own?

  It was a nightmare.

  “You!” Lord Fairban spun to accuse Tulkhan. “You could have stopped this. She had already turned them down. It did not have to come to this!”

  “The moment she turned them down it led to this! Don’t you understand? Jacolm could not face the disgrace. No Ghebite could!” Tulkhan felt his voice vibrate with anger. Why couldn’t these people see? As much as he loathed the pointless loss of life, he understood it.

  Lord Fairban launched himself at Tulkhan’s throat. The General caught the old man’s clawed hands, turning them aside. Deranged by grief, Lord Fairban fought with manic fury, while Tulkhan fought only to keep him at arm’s length.

  Even in his prime, the smaller man would never had been a match for him.

  Lord Fairban’s daughters and servants surged forward to restrain the old man. The Ghebites barreled into the melee, pushing people down into the snow and drawing their weapons. Tulkhan bellowed instructions, ordering them to put away their swords, but his voice was drowned by the screams. Soon blood would be shed and the precarious peace shattered.

  Frantically Tulkhan searched the crowd for Imoshen’s fair head, fearing she would be struck down and accidentally killed, or left lying unconscious in the snow. In her feverish state the chill would be enough to kill her.

  He thrust people aside, vaguely aware that Lord Fairban was being dragged away by three Ghebites. In the midst of the wrestling bodies Tulkhan saw Imoshen, a solitary figure kneeling before the corpses.

  Just as he darted forward to comfort her, a woman cannoned into him. The force of the impact sent him to his knees and he barely saved them both from falling under the hooves of the frantic horse.

  Imoshen was staring at the dead lovers, seeing minute details. Unbidden, she relived the moments before their deaths. At first Cariah had argued but Jacolm would not listen, then Imoshen knew Cariah’s terror when she realized he meant to kill her. She experienced her friend’s battle for life and her defeat. She perceived Cariah’s soul which raged impotently, unable to leave the site of her murder.

  At the same time she felt the Ghebite commander’s utter despair. He had killed his best friend and sword-brother, only to be publicly humiliated by the woman he adored. Even as he strangled her, he told her he loved her. But, dishonored, he had no choice. Jacohn’s soul had departed with his acceptance of death.

  Imoshen’s heart swelled with ferocious pity. Despair settled upon her like a great stone. Her grief was not only for those present, it was for all her people and for Tulkhan’s men too.

  In her heightened state, Imoshen could feel everyone fighting behind her, a seething mass of True-people. Their anger, fueled by loss, rose like a great tide of torment, threatening to engulf her. Their swirling passion drummed on her consciousness, almost overpowering her with its force. Channeling, she used it to empower her T’En gifts.

  As Imoshen stroked Cariah’s sixth finger, she watched the young woman’s features settle into a peaceful pose, all trace of violent death eradicated. Now Cariah lay in Jacolm’s arms as if embraced. Dusted with snow, they were an island of stillness in a sea of emotion.

  Cariah’s impatient soul ate into Imoshen’s awareness, demanding justice, demanding acknowledgment. The words for the dead spilled from Imoshen’s desperate lips. This time she would not be bluffed by the Parakletos; this time she would bind them to her will. Anger filled her throat so that the words choked before they were born. It did not matter, the words had only to form in her mind and the Parakletos came. Eagerly.

  She had no fear, she was a instrument for the rage of those present. Emotion impossible to contain consumed her. Her heart was stone. Stone was immortal, a timeless memorial, and the Parakletos were her stonemasons. Their purpose appeased Cariah’s tortured soul, and with appeasement came acceptance. Their task completed, the Parakletos returned to death’s shadow and Cariah’s soul accompanied them.

  Tulkhan felt a great pressure inside his head, a roaring which drowned all noise, then something snapped and he staggered, dizzy with relief. Around him grappling bodies parted, some dropping to their knees. One woman stood staring blankly.

  Thrusting past disoriented people, he strode to Imoshen’s side. At his touch she fell sideways into a snowdrift, as stiff and still as a corpse. Horrified, he dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Her skin was cold, her lips blue. He was terrified he had lost her.

  “Imoshen!”

  Remorse seared him. Desperate, he lifted her in his arms and carried her towards the horses. Strange. A few moments ago the others had been intent on wreaking vengeance; now they stood stunned as if their desperate emotions had turned to smoke.

  He handed Imoshen’s unconscious form to Peirs and climbed into the saddle. “Pass her up.” Tulkhan focused on taking her weight, arranging her comfortably across his thighs and wrapping her in the blanket someone had retrieved from the snow
. He shouldn’t have asked this of her. He nodded to Peirs. “Bring the bodies in and have them prepared for burial.”

  “No!” Cariah’s youngest sister cried. “It cannot be!”

  “What now?” Peirs muttered.

  “See for yourself.” The girl stumbled back and her sister moved forward, accompanied by curious servants.

  There was silence as they inspected the bodies. Suddenly the servant called on the T’En for protection.

  “Frozen like stone,” Cariah’s sister marveled.

  “What curse is this?” Peirs asked uneasily.

  “I can’t move my Lady Cariah. She has turned to stone,” the servant cried, close to panic.

  “Impossible!”

  “Frozen, that’s all,” Peirs said, going to inspect the bodies himself.

  Their startled comments washed over Tulkhan. But even as the others sought to satisfy their curiosity a strange certainty settled around his heart. Imoshen’s flesh had been as cold as stone when he touched her, and smooth as marble.

  The others fell back as he urged his horse forward.

  Silently, Tulkhan looked down at the bodies, trapped forever in a stone-cold embrace. Even the dusting of snow had been transformed. A knife turned in Tulkhan’s stomach. Imoshen had ensured Cariah and Jacolm would be a perpetual reminder of his failure to understand.

  “White marble,” he whispered, recognizing the stone.

  Someone cursed. Cariah’s youngest sister declared it a miracle. Lord Fairban muttered something in High T’En. As he spoke, the others fell silent, turning to Tulkhan and the unconscious Imoshen.

  The General’s arms tightened around her and his mount shifted uneasily, sensing the animosity and fear. Tulkhan watched them draw back, uniting against the unknown. Even the Keld averted their faces, lifting their left hands to their eyes then upwards, deflecting the evil so that it passed over them.

  His own men stared at him, their faces filled with such awe and dread that Tulkhan sensed that if he wasn’t holding Imoshen safely in his arms, they might have leapt on her and torn her apart. Years of command told him he had to seize the moment.