DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 7

  A sound made her turn.

  “T’Reothe asks for you,” Dyta said.

  “I spoke with him this very day.” But Imoshen had not been back to answer Reothe’s unspoken plea. “How does he fare?”

  “The left side of his body is weak, but he forces his fingers to work a little more each day.”

  This news only gave Imoshen more concern. If Reothe’s body was healing, how long before his powers returned? Frustration flooded her. She needed to read the T’Elegos. Reothe might lie in the bed, weak as a kitten, but he still held the cards she needed to play a winning hand.

  “Is there some message you would have me carry to him?” the old woman asked. Imoshen studied her closely. Was Reothe already exercising his gift to win people over? All she read in Dyta’s face was concern for an injured fellow.

  That this person was Reothe, the last T’En warrior, and that he was both beautiful and crippled was only chance.

  Or was it? Did True-people find the T’En beautiful? Imoshen did not know. General Tulkhan had looked on her with reluctant lust so many times that she could not trust her own judgment. “Tell T’Reothe I will see him soon.”

  The old woman left.

  Imoshen imagined Reothe, lying in bed, listening to the sounds of the sea. Vulnerable and alone. Having been under the watchful eyes of the Seculate all day, she was sure the man was her enemy. By the T’En heritage they both shared, she owed Reothe her loyalty. It was loyalty of a different kind from that which she had vowed to share with Tulkhan, but she doubted if the General would understand the distinction. She had to go to Reothe.

  Chapter Five

  Her mind made up, Imoshen padded down the stairs. Two Ghebite soldiers sat outside Reothe’s room, playing cards.

  “Has anyone been to see Reothe?” Imoshen asked.

  “Only the old woman.” They did not meet her eyes, not because they lied but because they distrusted what they did not know.

  Opening the door, Imoshen slipped into the room. Moonlight silvered the floor and the edge of the bed. She smelled the sea and Reothe’s familiar scent. Her heart rate lifted a notch.

  Not bothering to light a candle, she went to the foot of the bed. When Reothe did not move, she stood with one hand on the bed’s upright, unsure if she should go.

  “Come to mock me, Imoshen?”

  “They fear us.”

  “This surprises you?”

  “How did you bear it, growing up in the Empress’s court?”

  “At least then I could protect myself. Now I am a husk.”

  “The General failed to take Port Sumair. His ships blockade it. Wharrd is missing. The mercenaries sit outside the gates of Northpoint and grow fat while they sharpen their weapons. Their leader betrayed the General to Gharavan. Tulkhan ordered their execution, but they’ve agreed to fight on Tulkhan’s side.”

  “What did you offer them?”

  “Their lives and revenge.”

  His laughter plucked at something deep within her. Imoshen swallowed, senses strained to interpret his sudden silence, but the crippling of his gift acted as a barrier between them. “Your rebels eat at the tables of the townsfolk and plot to rescue you. My every move is watched.”

  He pulled himself upright with his good arm, using a rope slung from the bed frame. The speed of his movement startled her. “What do you want of me, Imoshen?”

  The moonlight sculpted his fine features. With a jolt she recognized him on an intrinsic level. Like a sleepwalker, she stepped closer. Wordlessly, he swung his arms around her waist. She sensed the strength in his good arm and the weakness in the other. Cradling his head, she felt the warmth of his breath.

  Tears stung her eyes and she longed to unburden herself. She ran her fingers through the fine strands of his gossamer-soft hair, and long, insubstantial threads clung to her. When she lifted her hand to the twin moons’ light, she saw his hair, glistening like spiderwebs on her fingers. The healer in her understood. She had dealt his body such a severe blow that his hair came away in her hands. Would he ever truly recover? The urge to ask his forgiveness was almost overwhelming. Again, she ached to reach out with her T’En senses and greet his familiar essence.

  The force of her longing to initiate the mind-touch triggered a flash of insight. When Reothe had come to her in Tulkhan’s form, he had revealed himself at the last moment. With her barriers down, his mind had melded with hers, and now she missed him as she would miss a severed limb. Perhaps he had established some sort of link at that moment and she would never feel whole without him. The revelation rocked her.

  Dry-mouthed, Imoshen backed away.

  “You must beware Seculate Donyx,” Reothe warned.

  “He claims to be true to the old ways, but he is a churchman first and foremost. Crippled like this, I cannot help you. I need to be whole again.”

  “I don’t know how to heal you.” She had begun to think how it might be done.

  “Try.” Reothe’s eyes blazed a challenge.

  “No.”

  “Why? Because it suits you to have me at your mercy? Does it amuse you to keep me as your gelding?”

  “No!” Imoshen dragged in a quick breath. She suspected she would have no defenses against Reothe if he was healed. “Even my healing gift can kill. You saw what happened to Drake.”

  “It was self-defense.”

  “That would not protect me from the Tractarians.”

  “I will not accuse you, Imoshen.” He studied her intensely. “You were raised to be a True-woman, and you think like one. You don’t realize your full potential. Fair Isle could be yours and yours alone. This is my honest advice. Act swiftly. Execute Drake and me, hire the mercenaries to consolidate your power, rout out the remaining Ghebites, and slay everyone who resists.”

  “No, I will not!”

  “I know,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. “What will you do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He sighed and sank onto the pillows. “Then I don’t know how I can help you, Imoshen. Or even why I should.”

  “You mock me.”

  “Then stop pretending to be what you aren’t—a True-woman, a Mere-woman—when I know you could be so much more!”

  “I see we cannot agree.”

  “What did you expect?” He caught the rope, pulling himself up to confront her. Moonlight illuminated his face, austere and beautiful. “Heal me and I will guide you to the T’Elegos. With the Keldon nobles at our back, we can unite the island and take the capital before the General can capture Port Sumair. Seize the day, Imoshen!”

  Silently, she backed away, and his soft, mocking laughter followed her from the room.

  The day of the Harvest Feast dawned fine and cool. Imoshen wrinkled her nose as she held up a pair of velvet breeches and tried to judge the size. Reothe was taller and more slender than the late Lord of Northpoint. But the silk shirt was broad enough for his shoulders and the brocade tabard suitably ornate.

  As for herself, she would spend most of the day barefoot with her hair down, dressed in nothing but a thin white shift. She was supposed to feel the earth beneath her feet when she gave the blessing for next year’s harvest and catch.

  Shivering, she dropped the shift over her shoulders. It made her feel vulnerable. At least Reothe had the dignity of his ornate clothing. Imoshen turned to Dyta. “Take these clothes to Reothe.”

  The carry-chair would support him during the day’s ceremonies and Seculate Donyx would be at his side, giving them the perfect opportunity to plot against her. She was gambling Reothe had not ordered his rebels to attack today. Her people had reported the influx of strangers in the port’s taverns. This was to be expected at festival time. As for the mercenaries, they had no reason to complain. They were being treated like royalty.

  “The Ghebites are talking of an execution for today’s entertainment,” Dyta said when she returned. “It won’t do to kill the rebel lad on Harvest Feast Day. No crops will grow, no cows will calve if b
lood is shed.”

  “I’ve ordered no execution!” Imoshen snapped.

  The old woman shrugged. “You hear things.”

  “Hear this. I have not ordered Drake’s death.” Imoshen’s bare toes gripped the thick carpet as she stepped closer.

  “I just repeat what is being said, T’Imoshen.”

  “Then repeat what I say to those who would spread false rumor. And send for the custodian of the Citadel.”

  Dyta hurried to obey.

  Imoshen brushed her hair until it crackled, lifting with a life of its own. She must quash these rumors. With a start, she felt the T’En gift stirring within her, empowered by her anger. She thrust the brush aside and took a long deep breath, concentrating until the sensation passed.

  Barefoot, Imoshen prowled into the crowded square before the Citadel. Looking resplendent in a purple tabard embroidered with fine gold thread, Reothe sat on the carry-chair with his four porters behind him. But she noticed he raised only his right hand when he was called upon to give his blessing. Every household had brought a portion of their Harvest Feast for Reothe to bless. This far north, the festival’s details varied from those of her own Stronghold.

  Because Reothe represented the Church’s kingdom and she the worldly kingdom, she had to present the Citadel’s portion for his blessing. Did it amuse Reothe to see her kneel before him?

  Against custom she met his eyes, brilliant as garnets. He looked composed, his face thin but unmarked by his recent illness. Without his gifts, he could not know how vulnerable she had become to him. His advice had been brutal: Kill him, or kill Tulkhan. But Imoshen refused to believe it was weakness to show compassion.

  She accepted Reothe’s blessing and rose, passing the tray to a servant. Then, instead of stepping away, she placed her hand over Reothe’s weak left hand where it lay on the arm of the chair.

  “Bring the prisoner.” She pitched her voice to carry.

  The crowd muttered uneasily and she felt the tension in Reothe. Several Citadel guards appeared, escorting Drake between them. A hush fell. The air grew thick with expectation.

  Drake squinted in the sunlight. She saw him flinch and knew the picture she and Reothe must present. Safe, pampered, secure in their power. How wrong.

  Drake stood shivering on the flagstones.

  Imoshen had to raise her voice to be heard over the crowd’s murmur. “Everyone here knows how this man nearly killed Lady Kalleen of Windhaven and how he attempted to free T’Reothe. But my kinsman is here by my side. It is his honor to host the Harvest Feast.” She felt Reothe’s hand tense under hers. Imoshen focused on one dark golden head whose features revealed fear, quickly masked. “Lady Kalleen, step forward.”

  Kalleen picked up her skirts and moved through the small children who jostled for position at the front of the crowd. Crisp sunlight bathed Kalleen’s face, gilding her hair and her skin.

  Her beauty made Imoshen catch her breath. “The wrong was done to you, Kalleen. You must decide Drake’s fate. Death or freedom?”

  “Freedom,” Kalleen replied without hesitation, just as Imoshen expected.

  “So be it.” Imoshen turned from Kalleen to the rebel youth. “You are free to go, Drake. You are pardoned of all association with the rebels. Return to your family.”

  He stared at her in disbelief.

  “For the second time in less than two years, Fair Isle faces the threat of invasion from the mainland.” Imoshen paused to give the crowd a chance to quiet. “The people of Fair Isle need to be united against the common enemy. We can learn from the Lady of Windhaven. Let it be known that all rebels are pardoned, free to go to their homes, their farms and families.”

  Her last few words were lost in the happy cries. Imoshen smiled at Kalleen’s surprised face. She beckoned the bewildered Drake, who approached, the force of his emotion making his body tremble. He dropped to his knees, hands raised in the obeisance of deep supplication. “I thank you, T’En Empress.”

  “T’Reothe wants you to have this, in acknowledgment of your faithful service.” Imoshen dropped a drawstring purse into Drake’s upturned palms. “Go to your family with peace in your heart. Go with the blessing of the last T’En.”

  Drake snatched Reothe’s free hand, kissing it. “My service cannot be bought. It comes from the heart.”

  “I know.” Reothe’s reply was thick.

  Heat filled Imoshen. It was the first time she had seen Reothe vulnerable before others.

  Reothe slipped his weak hand from hers, briefly touching the tip of his sixth finger to Drake’s forehead in the T’En blessing. “Ride swiftly, ride safely.”

  Drake stepped back a pace. He turned to Kalleen, who had been watching their interaction. She glanced over her shoulder as if she might run, but before she could, he knelt at her feet. Clasping her hands in his, he begged her forgiveness.

  Kalleen’s expression made Imoshen smile, and she glanced down at Reothe. He was furious because she had dismissed his rebel army. Soon she may have to call on the people to defend Fair Isle, and the rebels would stand behind her, believing she and Reothe were united in purpose. She could be as ruthless in her “compassion” as he was in his willingness to kill.

  As Seculate Donyx approached, Imoshen tried to slip away, but Reothe caught her arm and tugged so that she lost her balance. With a twist she avoided falling into his lap and found herself on one knee before him. His good hand clasped her chin and he leaned forward, their eyes almost level. She could feel his tension as he inhaled her scent.

  “This garment is indecent.” His eyes went deep and dark.

  Imoshen felt a rush of desire. This time she could not blame it on his T’En tricks. Hanging her head, she let the fall of her long hair hide her face. She felt more than heard Reothe’s sharp intake of breath.

  “I don’t need my gifts to feel your response. Why do you deny me?”

  She could give no answer, none that he would want to hear.

  “Curse that Ghebite general!” Reothe hissed, then studied her. “It was a master stroke to pardon my rebels, Imoshen. Truly, if you had stood at my side we would have ruled Fair Isle. We still can!”

  A buzz of speculation rose from the crowd. To them it must appear that she bowed before Reothe. “You play a dangerous game.”

  “I play to win!”

  “As do I.” She came to her feet. “I am expected down at the wharves.”

  Under Reothe’s mocking eyes she strode away, her escort of priests scurrying to keep up. The townspeople lined the road, waiting to shower her with late-blooming flowers and golden leaves, while on the wharves the fisherfolk awaited her blessing in the hope of a plentiful catch. She could not falter, not for a moment.

  As the sun set on Harvest Feast Day, impatience consumed Tulkhan. His army needed to be in position to attack the port at dawn; however, they could not start their forced march until dark. March all night, fight all day. He had asked the impossible of his men before, but he asked nothing of them that he did not ask of himself and they knew it.

  He knelt behind the Marsh-wall and adjusted the farseer to study the Low-lands toward the coast. Prosperous farmlets dotted the plain. He checked the position of the rising moons. Time to move.

  As the moons rose above the T’Ronynn Straits, the Harvest Feast culminated in the selection of the young woman and man who received the corn sheaf and bull’s horn. The town’s populace followed them outside the gates to celebrate their joining in the Harvest Bower, and the Citadel’s public hall became even noisier. Imoshen tried not to recall this moment in last year’s festival. She missed Tulkhan fiercely.

  Reothe glared at her and she noticed his white knuckles. She did not want him passing out, though the way the others were behaving it would not have been remarkable. Rising, she gave the Seculate a formal bow. “T’Reothe has overextended himself. I will see that he is carried to his room.”

  It took a while to locate four servants sober enough to be entrusted to carry the chair. Silently, she f
ollowed them to T’Ronynn’s Tower. When the servants placed the chair in the hall outside Reothe’s door, Imoshen dismissed them.

  “Ashmyr?” Reothe asked.

  “Asleep.” Imoshen found Reothe’s interest in the child unnerving, considering who the baby’s father was. “Can you walk as far as your bed?”

  “What would you do if I said no?” he asked sweetly.

  “I would help you.”

  “Ah, Imoshen. Then I fear I am too weak to walk that far.”

  She felt a smile tug at her lips as she guided his hand to her shoulder. His fingers bit into her flesh but she did not complain, matching him step for step.

  When Reothe swung the door shut after them, Imoshen’s heart thudded uncomfortably. Within two breaths her eyes had adjusted and she could see the room. The moons’ light was so bright that the furniture cast shadows. “Not far to the bed.”

  “I go to the windows. I want to bathe naked in the moonlight.”

  Imoshen refused to imagine Reothe’s pale, glistening form. “Do you expect me to undress you?”

  “Would you deny me the solace of the twin moons’ light? It is beneficial to the T’En. I will feast in my own way tonight.”

  “Really?” She felt more than heard Reothe chuckle, and resentment stung her as once again she was reminded of the knowledge he kept from her.

  In the silver light that angled through the open windows, Reothe stood unaided. He raised his good arm to the ornate tabard. “Remove this.”

  Anticipating his needs, Imoshen helped him. He wore soft indoor slippers, which he eased off while steadying himself on her shoulder, then he let his breeches drop, stepping unconcernedly out of them.

  She would not let herself look on his nakedness. Her gaze stayed firmly on his chest. His good hand lifted between them to cup the moonlight as if it were a physical thing.

  Imoshen’s breath caught in her throat.

  “You feel it?” His voice was a forceful caress. “You must. This is our night. Every double full moon belongs to the T’En. It is an ancient custom from the land beyond the dawn sun.”