DARK DREAMS Page 6

  A pang of insecurity stabbed Imoshen. How she longed to have that air of effortless elegance. Again she was reminded of the painfully self-conscious sixteen-year-old she had been on her first visit to the palace less than two years ago. Just finding her way about the endless rooms had been a challenge then, without having to try to unravel the politics of the court. But she was no longer that child. She had a role to play and needed their cooperation.

  Resolving to win the Keldon noblewomen’s support, Imoshen took Cariah’s hand, returning her formal greeting.

  Imoshen couldn’t help admiring her hair. It fell around Cariah’s shoulders like a shawl of burnished copper. Good. All three of the Fairban women were beautiful enough to arouse the interest of the Ghebite commanders.

  “I am honored to greet you and your sisters. We need the civilizing influence of your presence at . . .” Imoshen’s fingers curled around Cariah’s, the invitation on the tip of her tongue, but all thought fled as she registered the oddity of the hand held in hers. Lord Fairban’s first daughter had six fingers.

  Startled, Imoshen’s gaze darted to Cariah’s face. She read tolerant amusement in the older woman’s eyes.

  Heat flooded Imoshen’s cheeks. She was no better than the younger Fairban women. Why did they find her T’En characteristics disturbing when their own sister carried T’En blood? Perhaps it was because Imoshen confronted them with something they wished to deny.

  “Our mother had the eyes as well as the six fingers,” Cariah explained, seeing Imoshen’s confusion.

  “Y . . . Your mother?” Imoshen faltered.

  “Long dead. Father would never bond again.”

  The conversation was much too personal for old empire protocol, but then Imoshen always had trouble containing her unruly tongue. Her own mother had despaired of her.

  The enormity of her loss hit her.

  “My mother is dead, too. They are all dead!” Even as tears threatened, shame flooded Imoshen. But she could not contain the soul-deep sobs which shook her. She had not let herself grieve. There’d been no time, and now it was as if a dam had broken. Unable to contain the fury of her tears, Imoshen turned away, covering her face in despair. Surely this worldly woman would despise her.

  But Cariah slid her arms around Imoshen’s shoulders, offering unconditional comfort, and for a few moments Imoshen knew the peace of compassion as she weathered the storm of her loss. Then she pulled away.

  Ashamed to have revealed her weakness, she walked to a mirror. As she composed herself she was acutely aware of the noblewomen and their maids reflected behind her.

  “Forgive me.” Imoshen turned to face them, giving the lesser bow of supplication. “I am here to invite you to the celebration tonight.”

  “You honor us,” the Lady Cariah replied, and though Imoshen searched that beautiful face, she could read no mockery.

  Imoshen took formal leave of them and even as the door closed she could hear the buzz of comment behind her. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation.

  Though they were stubborn Keldon nobles, poor cousins of the prosperous T’En court, they were still steeped in its traditions. Grief, love—all strong emotions had been highly ritualized in the court.

  Imoshen castigated herself. To weep in the arms of a stranger was unheard of. The Keldon women would think her as uncouth as the Ghebite barbarians. How could she look the Lady Cariah in the eye tonight?

  But she had to. Somehow she would hide her discomfort, for she could not leave the General to host the evening alone. But first she must reorganize the menu to include Keldon delicacies.

  “T’Imoshen? Where is the Empress?” an anxious voice called.

  The cook looked to Imoshen, and she summoned a smile, even though the sound of running feet made her stomach cramp with fear. Hopefully it was simply a crisis of protocol precipitated by an unthinking Ghebite.

  A youth thrust the door open and stood there panting. By his dress he was one of the outdoor servants, and by his state, he had searched the endless corridors of the palace for her.

  “I am here.” Her voice sounded calm. Only she could feel the pounding of her heart. Absurdly, her first thought was for Tulkhan’s safety.

  “The Ghebite priest has gone mad!” the youth announced. “He’s destroying the hothouse!”

  This was the last thing Imoshen had expected. A laugh almost escaped her. The hothouse supplied the palace with year-round fresh vegetables. Why would that pompous, self-important priest object to fresh vegetables?

  “Why—”

  “Come and see!” Even in his agitation, the youth did not dare touch her.

  Imoshen left the amended feast menu on the scrubbed tabletop and marched out of the kitchen, followed by the kitchen staff. Human nature being what it was, they welcomed any excuse to put their work aside, and this promised to be entertaining, for no one liked the Cadre.

  She smiled grimly but the smile slipped from her face when she heard the sound of smashing glass. Even in T’Diemn, glass was valuable, especially glass crafted for large windows.

  She caught the arm of the nearest scullery maid. “Fetch General Tulkhan.”

  The girl gave the old empire obeisance and hurried off.

  With the youth dancing in front of her like an agitated puppy, and a growing crowd of spectators following her, Imoshen approached the large hothouse. Several anxious gardeners ran up to her, their voices strident with outrage as they told her how the priest had marched into the hothouse raving about blasphemy. It made no sense. No sense at all.

  When Imoshen thrust the door open, the heat hit her, followed by the rich smell of fecund earth. Tray after tray of sprouting seeds stretched before her. Inoffensive tomato seedlings lay bruised and trampled.

  Unaware of his audience, the Cadre swung the rake at another window. The sound of shattering glass threatened Imoshen’s composure. She tasted the forewarning of the T’En gift on her tongue, aroused by the excitement and her anger.

  “Cease this destruction immediately!” Her voice rang out as she strode through debris.

  But the priest was too intent, deafened by his own actions, to hear her. He positioned himself before another window and raised the rake. Imoshen came up behind him, tore the rake from his hand, and tossed it aside. She caught him by the scruff of his neck, swinging him off his feet.

  Empowered by her fury it took little effort to hold the Cadre off the ground. The startled priest shrieked and clutched frantically at his collar which had risen up under his chin.

  “What is the matter with you?” Imoshen shook him as a dog shakes a rat and said the first thing that came into her head. “Do you hate fresh carrots?”

  The absurdity of it made the servants laugh. She suspected they were as relieved as she was to find the threat was not armed Ghebites slaughtering innocents.

  The priest clawed at his throat, his face going red.

  Imoshen opened her mouth to speak but General Tulkhan forestalled her.

  “What’s going on here?” His deep voice cut through the nervous giggles, silencing everyone.

  Imoshen dropped the priest in disgust, indicating the destruction. “Isn’t it obvious? Your priest objects to fresh vegetables!”

  General Tulkhan contained his annoyance. Summoned by a frantic palace servant, he had been expecting something far worse than this. “Explain yourself, Cadre.”

  Glaring at Imoshen, the priest rearranged his elaborate collar ruff and dirt-stained surplice. “It is an abomination!”

  “Since when is fresh food an abomination?” Imoshen snapped.

  “What is this place?” Tulkhan demanded.

  “The hothouse where the palace’s fresh vegetables are grown,” Imoshen explained. “You wouldn’t need this in Gheeaba. During our long, cold winters, the windows capture the heat of the sun.”

  “It is an abomination in the eyes of the great Akha Khan!” the Cadre insisted. Quick as thought, he darted past Imoshen to pull a plant out by its roots, shaking it fiercely so
that damp earth flew everywhere. “This is the abomination, this and all its brothers!”

  Imoshen wrinkled her nose. “You object to a cup of herbal tea?”

  Tulkhan felt a smile tug at his lips but kept his voice neutral. “This is a tea plant?”

  “We dry the leaves, boil water, and make an infusion which we drink,” Imoshen explained. “It is one of many teas sold in the teahouses throughout—”

  “Tell him what it’s used for,” the priest insisted, his eyes gleaming triumphantly.

  “Women drink it to control their fertility,” Imoshen replied.

  “Exactly!” The priest stepped forward, waving the plant under General Tulkhan’s nose. “This is the root of the evil in Fair Isle. This plant is an abomination. No wonder the women of this island know no shame. No wonder their men are emasculated!” Spittle flew from the Cadre’s lips. “It is a woman’s lot to bear children. She is the property of her husband, and the sons she produces are his heirs. The more sons the better to make a strong house-line!” The Cadre glared at Imoshen. “To interfere with a woman’s natural bearing of children is an abomination, an affront to Akha Khan. Think of all the Ghebite sons who would never be born to take up arms if this plant were used in Gheeaba!”

  Imoshen made a rude sound. “I should prepare a shipload and send it—”

  “You dare to mock me, Dhamfeer bitch?” the priest rounded on her. “You are twice over an abomination!”

  The palace servants gasped, turning fearfully to Imoshen. She towered over the priest, her brilliant, wine-dark eyes flashing dangerously. Even from half a body length away, Tulkhan could feel the overflow of her T’En gifts rolling off her skin.

  “Leaving aside my race—” Imoshen’s control was more frightening than rage. “Leaving aside the fact that Ghebite men don’t think their women possess true souls but are only one step above the beasts of the field, I would like you to explain to me what is wrong with preventing unwanted children? Surely it is better for a family to be able to feed the children they have than to breed irresponsibly?”

  “See how she twists everything?” the priest demanded. “Cunning Dhamfeer! Listen to her long enough and you’ll believe black is white, General. You must protect yourself from her. You must protect your men from the women of Fair Isle. These women would emasculate our men, play them false with their vile herb! What man does not want sons? What man would not believe himself a lesser man if his wife did not produce a babe every year, or at least every second year?”

  “Like a prize pig?” Imoshen asked, her eyes glittering.

  Tulkhan was aware of her fury but he was also aware that a Ghebite warrior who had risen high enough to afford to keep three or even four wives expected to see them all heavy with child. Thirty, maybe even forty, children was not unheard of. Hopefully, half would be male. With all those sons to further the interests of his house-line, while his daughters married to consolidate alliances, he would be considered a rich man. However that was back in Gheeaba and this was Fair Isle.

  The priest flung the herb to the cobbles and ground it under his foot. “General, you must order all these plants destroyed. Send your men throughout the island to collect them. Pile these vile herbs in every village square and burn the lot. It is the only way to teach the women of Fair Isle their place!”

  Imoshen felt her world tilt on its axis. General Tulkhan’s Ghebite features gave nothing away. Surely he could not be considering this? The priest would undo six hundred years of T’En civilization and reduce the women of Fair Isle to slaves like their Ghebite counterparts.

  She covered the distance between them, instinctively taking the General’s arm, seeking contact with his mind. In the moment before he raised his guard, she sensed his reluctance to shame the priest.

  Her fingers tightened. “Every woman of Fair Isle grows this herb in her garden. Every woman decides when to have a child. Would you deny her this? Would you make her fearful of physical love? As a healer, I know there are women who cannot carry a baby. It would kill them.” Imoshen searched Tulkhan’s face but his features remained impassive. How could she convince him? Suddenly, she recalled his one secret fear and understood the moment had come to use this knowledge. “There are other women who have trouble conceiving children. They use a variety of this herb to bring on fertility. Would you deny those women and their bond-partners the joy of their own child?”

  She saw a muscle jump under the General’s coppery skin.

  “Cadre,” Tulkhan’s voice was explosive in the strained silence. “An agreement with the T’En Church has been signed.”

  Imoshen took a step back, releasing the General’s arm.

  “By the terms of this agreement,” Tulkhan continued, “we will not interfere with their worship and they will not interfere with ours. I charge you not to force your beliefs on the people of Fair Isle. This law you propose would be impossible to enforce. Any plot of dirt or windowsill pot can be used to grow this herb. Would you have my army reduced to gardeners, rooting out unwanted weeds?”

  Put that way it did seem absurd. When the palace staff tittered, the Cadre glared at Imoshen. She held his eyes. He had brought this ridicule upon himself.

  “Take care of your soldiers’ souls, Cadre,” Imoshen advised, linking her arm through Tulkhan’s once again. Whatever dissonance there might be between them personally, before his men and her people they had to present a united front. “And leave the temporal lives of the people to us. Come, General.”

  They left the Cadre fuming and walked towards the hothouse door. There Tulkhan turned to Imoshen, deliberately removing her arm from his. “Don’t think I don’t know what you are about.”

  Imoshen stiffened. “General, what is at stake here is much larger than you or me. It is the fate of the women of Fair Isle. Would you see half your subjects reduced to wife-slaves? Would you be the cause of a generation of unwanted children left to roam the streets, begging or stealing their bread, as I have heard they do on the mainland?”

  “T’Imoshen?” a gardener spoke, hovering at a polite distance.

  Imoshen searched the General’s face. He was a clever man, but he was also steeped in the culture of his people. How far could she push him before he pushed back?

  “I have work to do,” Tulkhan ground out, according her the barest nod of civility.

  Imoshen gave him the obeisance between equals, the significance of which would not be lost on her servants and, knowing how sharp he was, it would not be lost on the General either.

  Imoshen dealt with the gardeners, assuring them repairs would be carried out in time for the seedlings to reestablish. But her mind was on the General. Tonight, the two of them must sit side by side at the feasting table without revealing their differences.

  Chapter Four

  Tulkhan watched Imoshen step lightly through the patterns of a complicated dance. Three pretty noblewomen made up the corners of the intricate pattern as they partnered four town dignitaries. His commanders watched, waiting for a Ghebite tune so they could break in and claim the women.

  Imoshen moved with a casual grace which could not be taught. She wore a deep plum velvet gown. It was the same vivid color as her eyes were when she was thoughtful and it made her pale skin look even paler. Her hair was loose, confined only by a small circlet of electrum, inset with purple amethysts. When she turned, her hair fanned out over her shoulders like a rippling sheet of white satin. She came to the end of the dance, her hair and skirt settling around her long limbs. Tulkhan swallowed. He wanted to run his fingers through those long pale tresses, to lean close and inhale her heady scent. Just watching her made him ache with need.

  “T’Imoshen dances well,” observed his table companion.

  He turned to the Beatific. In Gheeaba, she would not dare to speak to him. An unmarried woman, or a married woman past childbearing age, was thought fit only to mind the small children or feed the animals.

  “You seem distracted, Prince Tulkhan.”

  “I am not
a prince.” He balked at explaining the complicated family structure of his people. “As first son of the King’s concubine, I was not given a title. I earned my position through merit and years of service in my father’s army. I prefer to be called by the title I have earned.”

  He caught her clever, hazel eyes on him. Pinpoints of golden candlelight danced in her pupils. He reminded himself that he must not underestimate her simply because she was a woman. Imoshen had taught him that.

  “And soon to be King of Fair Isle,” she agreed smoothly. “I must congratulate you on your forthcoming bonding, General.”

  The words were innocuous enough, but there was something in her tone which warned him to be on his guard. Did he detect a trace of mockery? Did these people think him presumptuous to crown himself king? Of course they did. He was a mere three generations removed from his nomadic herdsman grandfather who, through his great strength and stature, had united the Ghebite tribes.

  “Thank you,” Tulkhan said, turning to watch Imoshen, who was making the robust Ghebite dance a thing of precision and grace. How could he wait another six weeks?

  “T’Imoshen is very . . . beautiful isn’t the right word. The T’En are too dangerous to be merely beautiful. They have a kind of terrible beauty. You never met the rebel leader, T’Reothe?” The Beatific paused, making it a question.

  Tulkhan shifted in his seat, trying to appear only mildly interested. He neither denied nor admitted meeting Reothe. Deep in the Keldon Highlands, Tulkhan had inadvertently called on the Ancients by spilling blood on one of their sacred sites. Attracted by this surge in power, Reothe had appeared before him. The rebel leader had laughed when he had realized who Tulkhan was, then he had cursed him. Quoting a line from an ancient T’En poem, Reothe called him a dead man who walked and talked, and had claimed he was destined to kill him. Reothe’s words had often returned to haunt Tulkhan’s darkest hours.

  The Beatifies words recalled Tulkhan. “... surprised when the Emperor and Empress approved Reothe’s betrothal to Imoshen. By custom she would have taken the vows of chastity at seventeen when she made her Vow of Expiation. Instead, the Empress informed me I was to witness the historic bonding of the last two pure T’En. They were to be joined this spring, did you know that?” But she did not pause for him to reply. “Reothe could have looked to almost any woman for his partner, any woman but a Throwback. He went to the Emperor and Empress for special dispensation. By the time I learned of it, they had already agreed, and I had to witness the decree. It was so unexpected. The custom has always been to marry out, T’En male to True-woman. Imoshen the First made it mandatory. Do you know much of the T’En history?”