DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 6

  She pressed the pad of her finger in the hot wax, closing her mind against the small burn. When she removed her finger, the whorls of her skin remained there imprinted on the document. If only she could seal the mercenary’s cooperation as easily. “The contract carries my sign. Lightfoot, I look into your eyes and claim you in my service until you fulfill this contract.” Without questioning her action, she placed her fingertip, still hot from the wax, on the center of his forehead. Pressure built inside her head and sparks swam before her vision. With an internal rush the pressure snapped, returning her hearing and sight. “You are mine and I will know if you dishonor our contract.”

  She smelled his fear.

  When she pulled back her hand, a red blister appeared on his skin in the shape of an inverted tear. Strange. She had not thought the touch of her finger hot enough to brand him.

  Suddenly she remembered Tulkhan’s description of a Ghebite soldier’s death. The man had been captured by Reothe, who told him to deliver his message to Tulkhan but said that once he did, he would die. The man had been whole and healthy. There had been no reason for him to utter the message then drop dead, no reason except Reothe’s touch.

  Now she had used a similar trick on Lightfoot. Imoshen did not even know if it would work, but it was clear the mercenary believed her. She smiled slowly, seeing confirmation in Lightfoot’s eyes. It was enough that he believed he was her creature. “Go now and remember, T’Imoshen granted your life and the lives of your companions when she could have taken them.”

  As he backed away, giving her a deep obeisance reminiscent of the Vaygharian merchant aristocracy, she caught Wharrd’s eye and lowered her voice. “I will go to Tulkhan.”

  “You can’t. The townspeople fear the mercenaries will murder them in their beds. They won’t be happy until they see the back of Lightfoot and his men. The rebels watch the Citadel. They await Drake’s execution as a signal to strike. If you left Northpoint the people would panic. I’ll go to Tulkhan.”

  “You are right. Tell Tulkhan the mercenaries have agreed to support him. I’ll send them over as soon as he’s ready.”

  Wharred slipped away and Imoshen’s head swam. This time last year she had been plotting against General Tulkhan to save her life and secure Fair isle. Now Tulkhan’s second-in-command was answering to her, and she was consumed with worry for the General’s safety.

  Expecting to hear a bark at any moment, the sweat of fear chilled Tulkhan’s skin, but Kornel had been right: The marsh-dwellers had hunted the narcts out around the village.

  The General and his men had crept forward during the night. Now they crouched behind boggy hillocks, watching the pole-houses as the sky lightened.

  Gleaming narct skins were strung from one high veranda to the next, flapping in the dawn breeze. Smoke issued from the central hole in the nearest roof, bringing the smell of cooking fish.

  Tulkhan gave the signal. They crept toward the headman’s pole-house. Kornel’s advice was to take this man and the village would surrender. Avoiding the green patch where a freshwater spring fed into the river, they crept ever closer. Several chickens, housed in a cage built under the base of the platform, squawked, but no one bothered to investigate.

  Tulkhan swung up onto the platform and dropped the ladder into place for his men. He slipped past the woven mat hanging in the doorway to find a woman cooking breakfast on a small metal brazier, with a baby at her breast and a child of about four at her side. She stared, too surprised by their sudden arrival to react. The headman stood before a polished plate, plucking the whiskers from his chin with a pair of shells.

  He dropped the shells and leapt for a weapon, but Tulkhan grabbed the small boy, holding his sword to the child’s throat. The woman moaned. A whimper escaped the lad and he wet himself. The General cursed. “Kornel, tell them the boy will not be harmed if they cooperate. We have captured their village.”

  When Kornel spoke, Tulkhan caught a lilt to the language that reminded him of the common trading tongue, but he didn’t understand individual words.

  The headman spoke to his woman, who lifted the mat obscuring the window. When she reported what she saw outside, the man held his hands out, palms up.

  “He is yours to command,” Kornel told Tulkhan.

  But Tulkhan had seen the anger burning in the man’s eyes and he knew his service had been earned through fear, not gratitude. “Kornel, tell him to pack enough food to travel to the Marsh-wall. We’ll take the child to ensure his cooperation.”

  When Kornel translated this, Tulkhan noticed the mother’s expression, and he didn’t like the man he saw reflected in her eyes.

  Imoshen laughed as Almona danced across the grass to her. It had taken several intensive sessions, but the child’s leg was straight. “I’m sorry. One leg will always be shorter than the other.”

  “She is lucky,” Eksyl said. “We all are.”

  Just then a Citadel servant hurried into the hospice garden. “A delegation approaches Northpoint flying the pennant of Chalkcliff Abbey.”

  Imoshen had long suspected the abbey’s seculate of supporting Reothe. Tomorrow was the Harvest Moon Festival, a holy day, and a good excuse to visit and see how the rebel leader fared. Smiling to herself, she caught the servant’s bewildered expression and recalled her own confusion when she had questioned her great-aunt about the Church’s role. This time last year she had not understood the subtle power plays.

  Imoshen bid Eksyl and the children good-bye. They insisted on escorting her up the rise to the Citadel, where she went straight to her bedchamber.

  She was determined to put on a good show for the Seculate. “Dyta, it seems we must dip into the stolen treasures to find a garment to impress the Seculate. It is just as well the late Ghebite Lord of Northpoint had an eye for riches.”

  “And sticky fingers to match,” the old woman muttered. “Will I find something for T’Reothe as well?”

  Imoshen stopped unfastening her bodice. Dyta was right. The people would expect Reothe to play a part in the ceremony. If she hoped to defuse the situation with the rebels, Reothe must be seen to be raised high, while serving her. “Yes, thank you.”

  She pulled the gown over her head and draped it on a chair, staring at the mirror. It was silver-backed glass, as fine as any found in the palace. Under her feet, the carpets lay three deep. Dyta was sure to find a garment fit for an empress, which was how she had to appear before the Seculate. She hated power politics, but if she had to play the game, she would play it to win.

  When the maid returned, Imoshen selected a red velvet tabard edged with gold brocade. Settling the skull cap of beaten gold on her hair, she adjusted the single large ruby to hang in the center of her forehead and ordered a formal ceremony of welcome.

  As High T’En music played, Imoshen completed the warmed-wine pouring ceremony, grateful to her mother for the boring hours of practice. Seven priests sipped their wine, eyes downcast. On her signal to speak, the Seculate explained his plans for the Harvest Festival and the restoration of Northpoint’s church.

  Imoshen was sure everything the Seculate saw would be reported to the head of the T’En Church. The Beatific had supported Tulkhan, but Imoshen had long suspected this canny power broker was playing a double game. She put her porcelain cup aside, rising. “I’m sure you wish to see T’Reothe, Seculate Donyx.”

  She did not miss the quickly masked eagerness in the Seculate’s beaklike face. Lifting her arm, Imoshen waited for him to join her. As her hand closed over his, she discovered the man was shielded from her gift. This was either innate, or he had experienced the T’En ability to sift the surface of a True-man’s mind via touch and had learned how to guard against it.

  Not revealing her discovery by so much as a moment’s hesitation, Imoshen escorted the Seculate to T’Ronynn’s Tower. In silence they climbed the staircase, which spiraled right so that True-man defenders could back up away from attackers while protecting their shielded sides. Once her ancestors had known who th
eir enemies were. Now she was surrounded by smiling threats, Reothe not the least of them.

  When they approached the room where he lay, Imoshen saw that her people had prepared for this visit; the guards were absent and the door of their “honored guest” was ajar. Gliding into the room, she smelled freshly crushed herbs and caught the tang of the sea breeze. The windows were open to the bay.

  As Imoshen swept Reothe the formal obeisance, lifting both hands to her forehead, she noticed the floor. Scrubbing had removed the blood, leaving a pale patch. Unbidden, the memory of her encounter with Drake returned, and dizzying revelation seized Imoshen. If Seculate Donyx discovered that she had used her gift to strike Drake, he could petition the Beatific to declare her rogue. But Tulkhan’s men had sailed, leaving Reothe the only witness. And he would not betray her, would he?

  Reothe was watching the Seculate closely, and he did not look like a man about to greet an ally.

  Straightening, Imoshen masked her turmoil with old empire formality. “T’Reothe, Seculate Donyx of Chalkcliff Abbey has come to help us stage the Harvest Feast. You will have the honor of leading the festivities.”

  Though the whites of his eyes had returned to their normal color, Reothe looked thin and pale. He sat upright, propped on pillows, but he lifted only one hand in greeting.

  “T’Imoshen.” Her name rolled off his tongue with all the cadences of High T’En. He continued in this language, offering the True-people of the Church formal greeting. He appeared to honor the Seculate and his priests, but Imoshen suspected Reothe was subtly reminding them that the Church was supposed to worship the T’En gifts.

  As Reothe’s hand hung in the air between them, Imoshen saw his fingers tremble. Before the Seculate could notice the weakness, she caught Reothe’s hand in hers. It surprised her to discover that she could not reveal Reothe’s weakness before these priests. His skin was surprisingly cool and her heart skipped a beat. It was the first time she had touched him since he had recovered from the fever’s delirium, and she realized she had missed Reothe, missed him fiercely.

  As she fought the urge to initiate the mind-touch, the moment spiraled down until there was no one but Reothe, nothing but her need to rediscover his T’En essence.

  Despite the crippling of his gifts, Reothe sensed something, and he searched her face for the subtleties he would have once been privy to. His garnet eyes narrowed in pain.

  “T’Reothe?” Seculate Donyx was perceptive.

  Reothe sank back, pale against the pillow. “I will host the Harvest Feast with honor, but I am still recovering.”

  “A carry-chair will be provided. I see we have tired you. We will withdraw,” Imoshen said. As she slipped her fingers from Reothe’s, she saw raw need in his face and understood that he was powerless, marooned in a hostile world of True-people. It touched her to the quick. Secretly horrified to discover her vulnerability to Reothe, Imoshen escorted the Beatific’s spies from the room.

  It was just as well the General had the marsh-dweller’s son to ensure the man’s cooperation, for he would never have picked the path to the Marsh-wall. For two days they had tramped through tussocky hills and bogs that all looked the same. Still water punctuated by needle-sharp grass filled every hollow.

  When the dark line first appeared on the horizon, Tulkhan had thought it was mountains, then hills, then finally he understood it was the Marsh-wall of legend. Somehow he had led his army across the festering marshes without losing a single man to the bogs or the beasts.

  They camped a little way from the wall because the ground near it was low, made that way to stop the predators, and they burned the bog itself. Just at dusk the narcts began their nightly chorus. Tulkhan knew they would prowl outside the fire circles, fighting among themselves, ready to take down an unwary man.

  “Climb the wall, Kornel; see if you can get your bearings. I want to attack Sumair at dawn the day after tomorrow. We’ll travel by night.”

  “With the twin full moons against us?”

  “The moons are going to favor us. We attack the dawn after Harvest Feast, when everyone will be sleeping off their revelry. Don’t tell me you object on religious grounds?”

  Kornel grinned and shook his head.

  Tulkhan dug into his traveling bag for sweet nuts and offered some to the child. To show they were harmless he cracked the shell and ate one himself, then cracked another for the boy, who, after catching a nod from his father, tried the crisp white flesh.

  Tulkhan grinned at his delighted expression, then casually offered the father a nut. He took it, cracking it as the General had done, indicating he found the flesh good. But it would take more than a nut to win him.

  Kornel went to leave but the marsh-dweller stopped him, asking something in a low, intense voice.

  “What does he want?” Tulkhan asked.

  Kornel snorted. “This fool thinks you’ll let him go home now that we’ve reached the wall.”

  If Tulkhan let the man go, he could make it home in two days. Two days from now the General would either have Sumair or be staging a siege. On the other hand...

  “There’s nothing stopping him going over the wall after us, raising the alarm, and warning Sumair. Then your plans would come to nothing,” Kornel said, voicing Tulkhan’s concerns.

  The General nodded. He could exact a vow from the marsh-dweller to return to his home, but what good was a vow given under duress?

  Reothe claimed Imoshen’s vow to the General had been given under duress. He said that he was Imoshen’s first choice. But Tulkhan believed that when she gave her bonding vows to him on Midwinter’s Day they had been freely given.

  He rose, throwing the shells onto the fire. “Tell—what is his name?”

  “Banuld,” Kornel said.

  “Banuld-Chi,” the man corrected.

  Tulkhan looked to Kornel.

  “The Chi is an honorific, because he is the headman,” Kornel explained sourly.

  “Banuld-Chi,” Tulkhan acknowledged the man. “Translate this, Kornel. In two nights from now you will be free to go.”

  The marsh-dweller understood him even before Kornel translated the words, and Tulkhan saw his despair.

  Tulkhan caught his arm. “Kornel, tell him I give my word. He and his son will be free to return home when their release no longer endangers us. And I’ll reward him for his service.” Tulkhan did not miss the eager light in Kornel’s eyes at the mention of a tangible reward.

  Restless, Imoshen paced her room with Ashmyr in her arms. When he fell asleep she paced with empty arms. Finally, she slipped on her cloak and climbed to the top of T’Ronynn’s Tower.

  Imoshen did not take a torch, preferring the glow of the large and small moons as they neared their full glory. But as she left the stairwell, she recognized a small silhouette. “Kalleen, what’s wrong?”

  The little woman turned, her cloak wrapped high under her chin, her small face cold and imperious. “You sent my bond-partner on a mission of state and he has not returned.”

  “Wharrd serves Fair Isle.”

  “He serves you, under Ghebite oath that comes between bond-partners!” Kalleen’s intensity made her seem larger. Her eyes were luminous in the moonlight. “His Ghebite honor is greater than his love for me.”

  “I must have news. If anyone can convince Tulkhan to reveal his plans, Wharrd can.”

  “Then why hasn’t he returned? How do you know Peirs hasn’t betrayed the General for his true king? How do you know Wharrd isn’t swinging from the ship’s mast or feeding the fish?”

  All these thoughts and more had crossed Imoshen’s mind.

  “T’Imoshen, I request permission to return to my estates.” Kalleen dropped into the formal old empire obeisance that she had seen Cariah perform so elegantly.

  The memory stung Imoshen. Of all the Keldon nobles, Lady Cariah had befriended her and helped soothe the transition of power during that first winter under Ghebite domination. When the other nobles would have shunned Kalleen, a farm gir
l who became Lady of Windhaven, Cariah had welcomed her. But Cariah made the mistake of rejecting her Ghebite lover. Unable to live with the dishonor, he had murdered her before committing suicide. They remained together in death, the stone lovers, a constant reminder to Imoshen. She had failed to anticipate their tragedy because she had not understood the Ghebite mind. Self-doubt racked her. Had she sent Wharrd to his death?

  “T’Imoshen?” Kalleen prodded.

  “So formal...”Imoshen whispered sadly. “What of Wharrd? Surely you wish to wait for him?”

  “My bond-partner has placed someone before me.” Kalleen’s chin lifted. “I will go where I can be useful. If Wharrd returns, tell him where I am. If he does not come, I will know what to think.”

  “At least stay for the Harvest Feast,” Imoshen said, and Kalleen nodded. As she went to leave, Imoshen caught her arm. “War is coming. Though you return to your estates, events may soon come to you.”

  “I pray not.”

  “I too.”

  Imoshen was surprised by a swift hug, bringing with it the scent of lavender. Kalleen’s soft lips brushed her cheek, her breath hot on Imoshen’s skin. “I am not suited to this life of leadership. I long for my own hearth, the turn of the seasons, and my family around me. Forgive me, Imoshen.”

  Then she was gone, taking with her their shared memories. Kalleen had been at the Stronghold with Imoshen when her great-aunt was still alive. Kalleen had helped sustain her through the first winter under Ghebite rule.

  A knot of pain swelled to fill Imoshen’s chest. Walking blindly to the parapets, she gripped the stone, registering its cold solidity. Tears stung her eyes, blurring her vision as she stared across the T’Ronynn Straits. The night was so clear she could almost see the lights of the blockading ships. She hoped that the reason Wharrd had not returned was because there was no news.