DARK DREAMS Page 4

  When they reached the dais Imoshen tossed the target aside and jumped to the platform, where she signaled that the display was over. The court heralds sounded the closing notes while the General’s black destrier pawed the ground restlessly.

  Imoshen caught Tulkhan’s eye as she collected her cloak. “Night comes early this close to midwinter, General. I will ride back to T’Diemn with you.”

  As Tulkhan extended his hand, he wondered why Imoshen had chosen not to ride her own horse. She leapt up before him, settling across his thighs. When he wound one arm around her waist, strands of her silver hair tickled his face and he inhaled her scent like rare perfume. She might be pure Dhamfeer, but she ?was all woman in his arms. The blood sang in his veins and suddenly he threw back his head and laughed.

  Imoshen twisted round to look up at him, searching his face. In Gheeaba an unmarried woman would not dare look a man in the eye. But then no Ghebite woman would have done what Imoshen had done today, turning what could have degenerated into a vicious fight into a celebration of martial skill. When Imoshen had taken part in the unarmed combat display, his men had muttered as though they expected him to rebuke her. But Imoshen was not a Ghebite woman. If he questioned her bravery he would not have offered his challenge.

  “You did not doubt my spear’s aim?” he prodded, full of admiration for her.

  Her lips quirked as she gave him a knowing look. “You are a great tactician, General. If you had wanted me dead you would have chosen a less public way of doing it.”

  Anger replaced admiration, making his body tighten. The horse responded to the pressure of his knees, increasing its pace as the General turned his mount towards T’Diemn.

  Weary shopkeepers packed up their stalls and children cried sleepily for their dinner. In the clear, winter twilight, a long line of carts and walkers snaked down the road to the capital, making way for General Tulkhan’s black destrier and their escort, the Elite Guard.

  Silhouetted against the setting sun’s glow, the palace towers and Basilica’s dome dominated the old city. But T’Diemn had long ago outgrown its defenses, and the city sprawled outside the old walls, prosperous and exposed.

  “I must design new defenses and repair the old,” Tulkhan said.

  “And I must oversee the restoration of the palace.”

  The General grimaced. The capital had suffered when it surrendered to his half-brother. King Gharavan had slaughtered the town officials and executed guild masters. His soldiers had camped in the palace, destroying what they did not understand and looting what they coveted.

  Imoshen had been quick to point out that Gharavan’s legacy of cruelty threatened to undermine any trust Tulkhan had established with her people. Conquering was one thing, holding was another. A conqueror had to win the people over or constantly fight rebellion.

  “General, what do you think of combining your Elite Guard with my Stronghold Guard and giving them a new name like . . . oh, the T’Diemn Palace Guard?”

  “You ask the impossible. My men would never accept women in their ranks.”

  “But you saw Crawen’s skill with the sword. Though the people of T’Diemn cheered you today, they are still uneasy. To restore their confidence we must be united.”

  “You push too hard, too fast, Imoshen. I have signed an agreement to honor the laws of the Church and that is enough for now.” It was more than enough. He needed the support of the Church but he dreaded the reaction of his men when they realized he meant to acknowledge Imoshen as his equal. It was a delicate balance. Somehow he had to appease the people of Fair Isle, yet retain the respect of his men.

  Imoshen radiated impatience but she held her tongue for once. A small mercy. Their escort was pressed close about them and it annoyed his men when Imoshen debated his decisions.

  She rode before him, brooding in silence as they reached the outskirts of T’Diemn. Mullioned windows glowed with welcome and the rich smell of roast meat hung on the winter air, making Tulkhan’s mouth water.

  Suddenly Imoshen stiffened in his arms. “Stop.”

  A plump woman thrust through Tulkhan’s Elite Guard to clutch Imoshen’s hand.

  “You must come, Empress. This way” She ran off as though Imoshen’s agreement was a foregone conclusion.

  Tulkhan halted the horse. “What is it?”

  “Down the lane, General,” Imoshen said, her face tight with foreboding.

  Tulkhan turned his mount.

  Wringing her hands, the woman waited outside a modest two-story house which bore the Cooper Guild’s symbol of two half barrels.

  “The new-life garland hangs on the door. The woman of the house must have given birth within the last small moon.” Imoshen raised her voice. “What is—?”

  Before Imoshen could finish a man threw the door open and staggered out, his face a mask of grief, a hat clutched in his hands.

  “His hat bears the new father’s badge,” Imoshen whispered. “I dread . . .” She dropped to the cobbles. “You, cooper. What is wrong?”

  He cast aside his hat as he made a deep obeisance, lifting both hands to his forehead. By this, Tulkhan knew he accorded Imoshen the honor of Empress, just as the woman in her distress had given her this title. Old habits died hard.

  “T’Imoshen?” The cooper used the royal prefix. “You must help me.”

  “Of course.” Imoshen threw Tulkhan one swift glance as she disappeared inside.

  Responding to her unspoken plea he swung down from his horse. “Wait here,” he told his men, tossing the reins to Wharrd. He paused long enough to retrieve the man’s hat. Only in Fair Isle would a man don a badge of fatherhood and decorate his house with a garland so that his neighbors could celebrate the birth of his child.

  The plump woman watched Tulkhan anxiously as he ducked his head to cross the threshold. The man’s voice carried down the stairwell to him. “... Larassa delivered our daughter this time yesterday. I offered to stay with her but she urged me to go.” A groan escaped him. “Why did I listen?”

  Tulkhan hung the hat on the hall peg and took the steps two at a time, but slowed as he came level with the landing. A young woman lay in a pool of blood.

  “No one stayed with her?” Imoshen asked, incredulous. “Right after birthing a woman is—”

  “I know. But all our relatives died in the war and we know few people in T’Diemn. I should not have left her!”

  Imoshen knelt to touch the woman’s neck. When her eyes met Tulkhan’s, he knew there was no hope.

  “A woman walks death’s shadow to bring forth new life,” Imoshen whispered. “Sometimes . . .”

  The cooper dropped to his knees, rocking back and forth. “I failed her. I must not fail her soul. You must say the words over my Larassa. Send for your T’Enchiridion and say the words for the dead.”

  “I know the passage by heart,” Imoshen said. “But you should send for the priests to do this.”

  As she rose, Tulkhan noted Imoshen’s strained face. She carried his son. Was she thinking that soon she would be facing the trials of childbirth? The thought of Imoshen lying dead in a pool of blood stunned him.

  “My daughter.” The cooper sprang to his feet, darting through a door. He returned with a babe so tightly wrapped in swaddling clothes that only her face was visible. “Does she live? I cannot tell.”

  Imoshen took the baby from him, pressing her fingers to the infant’s temples. “Alive, yes . . . but her life force flickers like a candle drowning in its own wax.” She frowned at the father. “Didn’t the midwife deal with the afterbirth?”

  “She did, but . . . You must call on the Parakletos to escort Larassa’s soul through death’s shadow. I have heard how mothers who die in childbirth refuse to be parted—”

  Imoshen hissed, pressing the baby closer.

  “T’Imoshen. I beg you.” The cooper fell on one knee. Taking her left hand he kissed her sixth finger. “You are pure T’En. The Parakletos will listen to your voice above all others. You must do this. Please.�
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  Imoshen closed her eyes. For an instant Tulkhan thought she would refuse. Then she took a deep breath and looked down at the man. “Prepare Larassa. Place her on your bonding bed while I watch over your daughter.”

  Tulkhan would have helped the man, but Imoshen drew him aside. “None but a blood relative or bond-partner must touch the dead one’s body. Come.” She studied the baby. “So cold and pale. We are lucky the babe still lives. The mother has been dead for hours.” She sniffed the air, her garnet eyes narrowing. “But her soul still lingers.”

  Tulkhan shuddered. “I don’t understand. How could the dead mother take the baby? Who are the Parakletos?”

  “Guides between this world and death’s realm. When the priest says the words for the dead, the Parakletos answer her summons, escorting the soul through death’s shadow. I have never sensed them but the danger to this baby is very real. New life is always fragile.” She frowned on the silent infant. “Considering how the mother died, this little one would be vulnerable even with the proper words over the afterbirth.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “How could you? As a trained midwife I learned how the soul of the baby is formed in the afterbirth, just as the babe’s life force is housed in the growing body. At birth the soul transfers to the baby’s body, animating the life force. The proper words must be said and the afterbirth disposed of safely to ensure the baby’s soul is securely bound.”

  “But my people don’t . . .” Tulkhan hesitated. A Ghebite man avoided his wives when they were due to give birth.

  “How often are Ghebite babies born dead or die unexpectedly? The new soul can drift, leaving the baby alive but its mind unformed. Sometimes this does not happen until the person is grown. Have you seen people whose minds wander, people who kill and have no memory of it? This is what happens if the soul is not properly fixed in the body. This little girl is barely one day old. The bond is fragile and the mother—”

  “I am ready. Come quickly,” the cooper beckoned.

  They ducked their heads to avoid the lintel. Wrapped in a rich cloth, the woman was laid out on the bed. Candles glimmered in the four corners of the room. The single mirror had been covered and the window was opened so as not to impede her soul’s passage.

  “My daughter?” The cooper peered anxiously at the pale little face.

  “We must move quickly.” Imoshen put the baby in his arms. “Hold tight to your daughter, fasten her soul and life force with your will. I’m sure Larassa would not wish to kill her baby, but the time immediately after death is very confusing. A soul which has been parted from its body by violent death often lingers for a day or more before beginning its journey through death’s shadow, and this is a tragic death. Larassa will not want to leave you and the child.” Imoshen gave him a compassionate smile. “Remember there is an honored place in death’s realm for women and babies who die in childbirth, a place alongside warriors who die defending their loved ones.”

  Tulkhan frowned. In Gheeaba fallen warriors had the honor of riding with the great Akha Khan, but priests taught that women did not possess true souls. Once dead, their life force dissipated. They were mourned but only as one might mourn the death of a favorite dog. When told of his mother’s death Tulkhan had felt nothing, though the knowledge that she had died alone and untended troubled him.

  Imoshen’s voice came to him speaking High T’En, then alternating with the language of the people. She called on the Parakletos by name, begging them to hear her plea, binding them to their task.

  As she spoke, Tulkhan heard the people in the street outside singing a dirge.

  Imoshen’s voice faltered. Tulkhan’s gaze flew to her face. Her brilliant eyes were fixed on something he could not see, the whites showing all around. A metallic taste settled on his tongue. He grimaced, recognizing that sensation. How he despised the taste of T’En power!

  Tendrils of Imoshen’s long, silver hair lifted as if they had a life of their own. The room grew oppressively cold, filled with palpable tension.

  The cooper held his daughter to his chest with fierce determination. He repeated Imoshen’s last words as she recovered, continuing the passage.

  Had it been possible, Tulkhan would have left the room to escape witnessing this T’En mystery, but his body was not his to command.

  The words flowed from Imoshen’s tongue, but although he could see her lips move, he couldn’t hear a sound for the pressure in his ears. Suddenly there was a perceptible lightening and the cooper’s legs gave way. He sank onto the chest under the window. Burying his face in the baby’s blanket, he wept softly with relief.

  Imoshen gasped, dropping to her knees. Tulkhan caught her as she pitched forward. He expected his skin to crawl with the physical contact, but she felt as warm and yielding as a True-woman. “Imoshen?”

  She moaned, her open eyes unseeing. “This time I felt the words. The Parakletos came at my call. May I never . . .” She shuddered and pushed him away, pulling herself upright using the bedpost. She looked from the dead woman on the bed to the grieving father with his baby daughter. “I have done what I can—”

  Shouts came from the street below, a combination of Ghebite soldier cant and the common trading tongue delivered imperiously. Tulkhan strode to the window.

  “What now?” Imoshen asked.

  He had to smile. “We are honored. The Beatific herself is here.”

  Imoshen’s heart sank. Since entering this home she had been laboring under the dead mother’s despairing heartbreak which hung, thick as a blanket, on the air. The effort of controlling the Parakletos when they answered her call had drained all her reserves. She did not have the strength for a confrontation with the Beatific.

  Several pairs of boots sounded on the stairs. The door swung open and a priest announced the leader of the T’En Church. The Beatific swept into the room, still dressed in the rich fur mantle she had worn to the display. Her elaborate headdress brushed the doorjambs.

  Taking in the body on the bed and the four candles, she turned on Imoshen. “What have you done?”

  “I have done nothing but serve my people,” Imoshen replied carefully.

  The Beatifies mouth thinned with anger. “You overreach yourself.”

  “It was necessary. I could not refuse—”

  “No? You have not given your Vow of Expiation. By what right do you perform this holy office?”

  “By right of birth.” Imoshen lifted both hands, fingers splayed like fans before her face. Looking over the twelve fingertips, she held the Beatific’s eyes until the woman’s gaze wavered, then she let her hands drop. “I trained at the Aayel’s side. Many times I have said the words to bind a baby’s soul.”

  “That may be so,” the Beatific conceded. “But the words for the dead are powerful tools. You should have sent to the Basilica for—”

  “T’Imoshen saved my daughter’s life.” The cooper lurched to his feet. “I begged her to say the words.”

  The Beatific ignored him. “You said the words without your T’Enchiridion, Imoshen? Or do you have it with you?” She looked pointedly at Imoshen’s empty hands. “What were you thinking? The Parakletos are not to be called lightly. One wrong word and they could take the soul of the caller!”

  Tulkhan cursed. “You risked yourself?”

  Imoshen stiffened, meeting his eyes. “I am a healer. I could not let the infant die. And I did not need the book because the Aayel made me memorize it.” She faced the Beatific. “If we had sent for help, it would have been too late. The baby’s life force was ebbing, its soul lured by the mother’s restless—”

  “You are not qualified to speak of such matters!” There was a fraught silence. Then the Beatific massaged her temples, sighing heavily. “You thought you were acting for the best, this I understand, but the sooner you take your Vow of Expiation the better.”

  Imoshen dropped to one knee, both hands extended palm up, offering the obeisance of a supplicant. “Wise Beatific, hear me. I was r
eady to take the vow on the seventeenth anniversary of my birthing day, but Fair Isle was at war and I could not travel to the Basilica. I am ready to take the vow—”

  “Of chastity? Are you ready to follow the true path for a pure T’En woman, the one dictated by your namesake, Imoshen the First?”

  Imoshen looked up startled.

  “I have claimed Imoshen.” Tulkhan strode forward. “She ca—”

  “I cannot take the vow of chastity,” Imoshen spoke quickly before Tulkhan could reveal that she carried his child. She came to her feet. “Once I would have taken that path willingly. But I was granted dispensation even before the Ghebites invaded Fair Isle. Now I must serve my people in another way.” She felt for Tulkhan, who took her arm, linking it through his. He was reassuringly solid. She drew on his certainty.

  “In other circumstance I would have called on the Church to say the words for the dead, and I concede it is wisest to speak those words from the T’Enchiridion.” Her mouth went dry as she recalled her discovery that the Parakletos were not merely an abstract concept. Even worse, they were not the benevolent beings of the Church’s teachings. She shuddered, forcing herself to go on. “This is no longer the old empire, Beatific. We must bend before the winds of change or be uprooted.”

  The True-woman’s eyes narrowed.

  Imoshen had not meant it as a threat. They were all vulnerable, none more so than she.

  “What is this Vow of Expiation, Imoshen?” Tulkhan asked.

  But the Beatific replied for her. “Before they can be accepted into society, all pure T’En must give the Vow of Expiation to the church, offering themselves in its service.”

  “Imoshen can give this vow when we make our marriage vows on Midwinters Day, that is less than six weeks away,” Tulkhan announced, sweeping the problem aside.

  Imoshen caught the Beatific’s eye. Bonding was nothing like a Ghebite marriage.

  Tulkhan continued, “No harm has been done here today and a life has been saved. My men wait outside in the cold, grumbling for their dinner. Come, Imoshen.” He gave the Beatific a nod, insulting in its brevity.