Broken Vows Read online

  News of the General’s arrival had preceded them. An army this large could hardly travel without being noted. There were few able-bodied women who weren’t laden down with babes. Mothers stood with their little ones at their sides and the old men and women watched from seamed faces. There were no young men.

  The Ghebites remained mounted, filing out to each side of the small village square. Their horses shifted restlessly, sensing water and feed nearby.

  When they reached the square, the Elite Guard moved apart, clearing a path for the General and Imoshen.

  As she rode up, considering how she should handle this moment, Imoshen sensed that the villagers were wary but reassured by her arrival.

  General Tulkhan met her eyes. Before he could tell her what to do she urged her mount forward. Careful not to appear threatening, she swung lightly from the saddle. Out of courtesy to the farmers she chose to approach them on foot, so that they did not have to crane their heads up to look at her.

  Her confident stride gave no sign of her thudding heart or the sickly fear in her belly—fear that they would spit on her for siding with the invaders, for betraying her people, for surrendering when the Stronghold could have held out for days, maybe even into the winter. She made the sign of deference used when approaching those of great age and greeted the Elders of the village, an ancient bonded couple.

  She could tell the villagers were pleased to see their Elders treated with the proper respect. Then Imoshen began her explanation, slipping quite naturally into the patois of the people. She found its sweet lilting sound soothing because it reminded her of her childhood nurse.

  The old man and woman exchanged glances. Smiles of relief lightened their faces as the purpose of the visit became clear. Imoshen realized her fear of rejection was unfounded. These people were realists. They needed the grain harvested so they would accept help.

  Did they really care who ruled, so long as the rulers were just? Imoshen wondered. It was a sobering thought.

  Acting as interpreter for the General, she learned the number of men the village and surrounding farms would require to bring the grain in then prepare it in time for the Harvest Feast. Several pigs had been slaughtered in their honor and it would have been discourteous to leave. The villagers wanted to entertain them.

  Tulkhan chafed at the delay but understood the political necessity of accepting the villagers’ hospitality. He ordered his men to pitch the tent for Imoshen. He would bed down in the open with his men as he always did. It was a necessary part of his command strategy to forge and strengthen the bonds of brotherhood.

  As soon as Imoshen’s tent was erected, he observed a line of villagers and many others he suspected had been hiding out in the woods or had come in from nearby farms making their way to her. Some who entered were obviously ill and left carrying little bags of herbs. At one point he saw Imoshen’s maidservant open the tent flap to throw out a bowl of bloodied water.

  So the Dhamfeer was carrying out her heathenish healings. No word had been sent out. It appeared to be a custom, almost a service the villagers expected of her.

  He sent for a man he trusted, Wharrd, a commander who was renowned for his ability to set bones and sew flesh on the battlefield. Together they approached the tent. The people watched them warily, but held their ground. Small children clung to their mothers’ legs and a boy lifted his puppy into his arms.

  Tulkhan’s skin prickled unpleasantly as he touched the tent flap and there was a metallic tang on his tongue. It reminded him of the time Imoshen had healed the old woman. He knew enough of unseen powers from his travels to realize that something more than simple healing was going on here.

  Without waiting for a welcome he tossed the flap open and strode in to find Imoshen crouched beside an old woman. They were both peering into a dull mirrored surface which held a thin film of water—scrying. The maidservant moved forward to prevent him from interrupting, but Tulkhan signaled her that he was no threat and she stepped back.

  Silence stretched within the tent. Only the murmur of voices outside, the distant shouts of his men as they relaxed around their camp and the sounds of animals as they settled for the night filled the air.

  When the vision faded, Imoshen lifted her eyes from the water’s surface and a great sadness rushed through her. Even with her poor skills she knew it was hopeless. It had been the same as her own vision when she had searched for her family. The pain cut just as deeply. This sort of task required an effort of will and openness which left her no protection from the emotions of those she served. The old woman looked at her hopefully.

  She was aware of the General and another person watching, but ignored them. Taking the old one’s hand, she said gently, “I am sorry, Grandmother. The one you seek will not be returning.”

  The old woman’s shoulders sagged, then she straightened. She nodded once and rose stiffly, pressing a bag of dried herbs into Imoshen’s hands. It was not the custom to pay for the T’En’s services, but a gift would be welcomed.

  The old woman shuffled out and Imoshen rose to her feet, feeling dizzy. “Yes?”

  Since puberty she had assisted the Aayel at the seasonal cusp festivals, but she had never had to bear the burden of the healings alone. Her gift was small and her skill with it raw. The effort drained her. If only the Aayel were here now! She needed her great-aunt’s keen observations, the wisdom gathered from over a century of life.

  As Imoshen fought the ache in her chest, her throat closed painfully and tears stung her eyes. When she tried to pour a drink of honeyed wine her fingers shook so badly, Kalleen came to her side protectively. The young woman took the jug from Imoshen’s hands and poured it. Imoshen nodded her thanks, glad her back was to the General so he could not see her weakness.

  Greedily she gulped the sweet liquid.

  “My man Wharrd is a bone-setter,” Tulkhan announced without preamble. “He will assist you.”

  It was not a request, it was an order! Imoshen turned, her face flushed with the heat of the wine and a surge of anger. She met Tulkhan’s eyes and saw that he knew she didn’t want help. She looked her unwelcome assistant up and down. He was a grizzled campaigner, a capable man who at the moment appeared very uncomfortable. Her contrary nature made her feel a flash of understanding.

  She put her wine aside. “I need no assistant, only the privacy of—”

  “You are wearing yourself out. We must travel tomorrow. Wharrd will help you.”

  “Very well.” Imoshen knew that now was not the time to argue. The General was determined to outmaneuver her. For now she would tolerate his spy at her side. She straightened and gestured to the flap. “You may leave. Send in the next one.”

  She knew the General hated it when she told him what to do, but as he had achieved his goal of foisting an unwanted observer on her, he carried out her order good-naturedly, which succeeded in annoying her further.

  She eyed the one called Wharrd. Despite her resentment of him she must make the most of it, must somehow turn this to her advantage. General Tulkhan would learn not to cross her.

  A woman entered with a small girl who held her arm at an odd angle. At a glance Imoshen knew it had been dislocated at the shoulder and had not been put back properly. She flinched, imagining the pain the child had already endured. Then she smiled grimly. This was a chance for Tulkhan’s spy to earn his keep. Using her voice to soothe the woman and child, she directed the mother to sit down with the child on her lap and gently removed the little smock to reveal the child’s deformed shoulder joint.

  As she talked, Imoshen crushed and burned a pungent herb. Inhaling the herb would help them to relax. She knelt to wave the smoke toward the mother and child with a small fan, speaking all the while, weaving a spell of enchantment with her words. The Aayel had told her it did not matter what you said, only that you built up a feeling of trust with the one you sought to help.

  When this was done, Imoshen put the bowl of cinders aside and took the child’s hand, holding her gaze. Ca
lling on her gift, she impressed her will on the child, eventually inducing a state of waking-sleep. Over and over she repeated that the child would feel no pain. The mind was a powerful thing. She had seen people undergo excruciating procedures and not feel the pain as long as they believed they wouldn’t.

  Rising swiftly, Imoshen placed a hand on the mother’s shoulder and nodded to Wharrd. “This is where your superior strength is useful.”

  He nodded grimly.

  Doubtless he had sawed off wounded soldiers’ legs as they screamed in agony. He was a hardened veteran, but he seemed reluctant to touch the trusting child. She stared drowsily at him, her wispy golden head tucked into her mother’s chest as Imoshen’s soothing chant continued to weave its spell. Imoshen understood his reluctance, but it had to be done.

  He wiped his palms and grasped the child’s arm, pulling it out sharply. There was an audible click as the joint landed back in place but no scream from the child, only a look of mild surprise.

  The mother gave a soft gasp.

  Imoshen waved Tulkhan’s spy aside and knelt to strap the little arm against the child’s torso. She gave the mother some advice, sending her away with herbs which would help the child sleep that night.

  It pleased her to know the little girl would now live a normal, useful life. This was the joy of her gift. Imoshen closed tired eyes, thinking how lucky she was. She could hear Kalleen thanking the woman for some eggs and escorting her out.

  Weariness overcame her, bringing with it a faint nausea. She knew she was taking on too much with these healings, but the people expected it of her and she could not let them down, not when they had been let down so badly by the Emperor and Empress.

  Imoshen felt a tentative touch on her upper arm. Startled, she opened her eyes to see Whaard, his eyes wide with awe.

  “The child didn’t scream. She didn’t even wake,” he whispered.

  “No.”

  He went pale. “Magic?”

  “No.” Imoshen shook her head. “It is a skill I was taught. With the herbs to aid concentration I coax the patient into a sleep-like state. While they are suggestible they can be told they won’t feel pain, or even that they will not lose too much blood. It saves much suffering.”

  His eyes widened and he licked his lips eagerly. “What must I give you to teach me?”

  “Nothing,” Imoshen answered, then smiled at his surprise. His urgency did not stem from greed. Instinct told her it came from his nature. This man was a true healer, serving his general as best he could.

  She repressed a shudder.

  How could a healer choose soldiering as his vocation? How could he inflict pain and loss of life when in his soul he wanted to ease suffering? She touched his hand, feeling the conflict in him. With joy she realized she could ease it. “Simply watch and learn.”

  He dipped his grizzled head to kiss her hand. A rush of embarrassment flooded Imoshen. She didn’t want to become involved with this Ghebite warrior yet already she could feel a bond forming. Her fingers brushed his gray hair.

  “Please don’t. There must be things you can teach me.” With a tug she urged him to straighten and held his eyes. “I am only the Aayel’s student in herb lore. I am sure we can learn from each other.”

  There was no chance for Tulkhan to speak with the Dhamfeer. He had wanted to discuss their plans and begin his language lessons, but she was occupied until the food was prepared, then courtesy meant he had to join her at the long plank tables set up in the square to partake of the feast.

  His supply wagon had provided part of the food but his men mingled freely with the villagers. He only hoped as the music began and the dancing that his men remembered his rule and did not force the women. Diplomacy was not a foot soldier’s strong point.

  Some of his men were to be billeted in the simple houses, others would go out to the farms on the morrow. Many had been traveling since their early teens fighting on behalf of their homeland so this would be a change. How would they react to simple farm life?

  All around him the villagers celebrated and so far his men had not offended anyone. He began to relax.

  This was not his home but strangely enough Tulkhan felt a tug of recognition. Though the music was unfamiliar the feeling around the fires was oddly seductive. It spoke of a day’s honest, hard work and the reward of home and hearth. It was so long since he had been back to his homeland it took him a few moments to pinpoint the sensation. Then he acknowledged what he felt was a rush of homecoming.

  What surprised him was Wharrd’s reaction to the heathen healer. He had expected skepticism, at least resistance. But the Dhamfeer seemed to have won over one his most trusted men in a single afternoon. Tulkhan encouraged his sense of irritation to fester. He did not want to feel at home here. This was not Gheeaba. It was a deceptively peaceful island which would turn on him the moment he faltered. He could not afford to reveal weakness.

  Music lilted on the chilly night air and flickering firelight lit the people’s happy faces. The same firelight danced over Imoshen’s narrow features, warming her pale skin, making her wine-dark eyes pools of mystery. He caught her watching him several times and each time he felt a sense of unease, as if he was being sized up.

  Once she raised her farmhouse cup to him in silent salute, and sipped as though it were fine crystal. He returned the salute, amused and intrigued. Was she acknowledging the success of their plan, or mocking him because she had won over his bone-setter?

  He did not know what to think and her mystery both annoyed and fascinated him.

  The farmers called forth their storyteller who regaled them with a long and involved tale. Tulkhan had time to study the people. They wore their best clothes. No rags here, but ornately embroidered vests and bodices. He saw fine examples of carved wood and pottery so elegantly turned and painted it could have graced a Ghebite lord’s table.

  This was a prosperous island where even the simple farmers enjoyed good food and wine, and took the time to create things of beauty. There was much he could learn from this culture.

  Long before the festivities showed signs of dying down Tulkhan noted that Imoshen made her excuses and slipped away. She seemed tired, paler than usual. Tulkhan observed the way the people touched her shyly, stroking her sixth finger for luck.

  What must it be like to live in a land where legends walked among men? Tulkhan shuddered. The mainland stories of Dhamfeer powers varied from place to place but some of the rumors had to be based on truth. He had already experienced Imoshen’s insidious mind-touch. Logic told him he should keep well away from her.

  After Imoshen was gone he felt restless. The scene seemed less intense and much less interesting once she was no longer there to explain a song or translate a question.

  Tulkhan rose and stretched. With no real destination in mind he left the table and found himself wandering away from the noise into the darkness and toward the welcome glow of the tent, illuminated against the trees by the light of a single candle.

  He paused. Through the thin walls of the canvas tent he heard her singing softly. She was alone, her maidservant having joined in the fun.

  He watched the Dhamfeer’s silhouette on the tent’s wall as she stripped, unaware of the effect she was having. Her hair fell like a curtain, obscuring the line of her pert little breasts and the curve of her hips and buttocks.

  True, she was tall and scrawny for a woman, but somehow it didn’t matter. He liked the length of her legs, her slender waist. It made it more tantalizing to know that her perfect pale flesh was considered sacred, too precious to be desecrated by the sweaty touch of a lustful male.

  Tulkhan shifted, aware of a sudden tension in his body.

  Innocent of any guile, Imoshen turned with natural grace to pour a drink and drained it before dousing the single candle.

  Tulkhan stood in the quiet of the night as the sound of music drifted to him, laced with shouts and laughter.

  He suddenly ached to go to her. Imoshen was his by right of captur
e. Yet he knew she had never surrendered, and would never surrender in any sense of the word.

  Every conversation she’d ever had with him reinforced her resistance. It was a tangible wall between them. The hardheaded realist in Tulkhan sneered at his traitorous body’s demands. Did the Dhamfeer tempt him because she was unattainable?

  He knew by all that his Ghebite priest had taught him that he should not feel this physical pull. Yet, it made his mouth go dry and his body burn. The soldier in him said she was all woman, whatever her race, and her body called to his.

  Tulkhan ground his teeth. He despised himself for his weakness. He would not let his flesh rule his mind. Frustration boiled in him. How he despised her for bringing him to this!

  Desperately he turned and stalked off, determined to burn off his desire—only to find himself back at her tent a short while later. Equal parts rage and fear filled him. Had the Dhamfeer bewitched him? Was his soul no longer his own?

  Chapter Three

  With an effort of will Tulkhan held firm. One small, sane part of him did not believe Imoshen, who after all was only a female and a mere girl at that, had cast a spell on him. This tug was simply too physical.

  It disturbed him to find the demands of his flesh threatening to outweigh his rational mind. All his adult life he had prided himself on his control. He had simply gone too long without a woman. It was affecting his judgment.

  Eventually he won a hollow victory.

  The hard ground was cold comfort, especially near dawn when a chill mist stole over the land. Perversely, Tulkhan rejoiced in the discomfort. He had to purge his body of its unruly desires. At the first hint of dawn he stripped and bathed in the village pond, much to the amazement of the few villagers out doing their early chores.

  There was a frost on the ground and the water was bitterly cold, forcibly reminding Tulkhan that this was not his northern homeland. For a moment he felt nostalgic, recalling the thick-walled houses and a sun so bright that the light hurt your eyes.