‘That was a death blow,’ he told her. ‘Had enough?’
Each breath seared. She gritted her teeth. ‘Teach me that trick.’
‘It isn’t trickery. It takes years of practice.’ He punctuated his phrases with strikes, the blows coming faster and faster. ‘Maybe one day I will show you the battle sword I inherited from my grandfather. Now there’s a beautiful weapon!’
The force of his blows jarred her sword arm, numbing her fingers. It was all she could do to block his attacks.
Imoshen knew she did not have the strength in her upper body to counter his. She barely had the skill to defend herself. Backing across the slippery stones she realised it was only a matter of time before her boots sank into the heaped snow and she lost the ability to manoeuvre.
Each screech of the blades echoed around the courtyard, pounding in her head until she could hear nothing but the reverberating ring of steel on steel.
‘I don’t expect to become an expert overnight, General.’ She grunted with the effort it took to hold him off. ‘You said yourself I am light on my feet and willing to learn.’
‘Why bother? By spring you’ll be heavy with child!’ He was barely sweating. ‘That is why men fight and women don’t. Only in Fair Isle is the natural balance disrupted.’
Anger flooded Imoshen. ‘I won’t be heavy with child forever!’
A familiar taste settled on her tongue, warning her that her T’En gift threatened to surface, but she refused to call on her powers to cloud his mind or distract his aim. To use her abilities against the General now would negate everything she had achieved.
Absorbed in her inner battle, Imoshen gave ground, and her heel sank into the snow. Her guard wavered. The General struck. She blocked.
The force of his blow tore the hilt from her useless fingers, sending her weapon spinning across the courtyard to clatter against the stone wall and drop blade-first into a snowdrift.
Silence filled the palace’s inner courtyard.
Tulkhan smiled.
It pleased him to have Imoshen at his mercy. Two spots of colour flamed on her pale cheeks. Damp with sweat, her thin undershirt clung to her breasts as she struggled to regain her breath. He was reminded of the first time he’d seen her, restrained by five of his elite guard but far from beaten. She had been injured defending the treasures of a library of knowledge, crimson blood trickling down her white throat over her high breasts.
He had wanted her then and he wanted her now.
She glared at him. Her distinctive T’En scent, at once so familiar yet alien, drew him. It tempted him to forget all reason.
He needed to make her admit that she wanted him too. At the same time he despised himself and despised his hunger for her. How could he desire her, when she was the antithesis of Ghebite womanhood? There she stood, defiantly tall and strong-limbed, refusing to admit his mastery.
Unlike Ghebite women, Imoshen used no feminine wiles to arouse and entice him. Instead of diminutive womanly curves, delicate coppery skin and deferential dark eyes, he faced those accursed T’En eyes. Rich as ruby wine held to a candle flame, they blazed with keen intelligence. According to legend, the T’En could look into a man’s soul.
He had grown up hearing tales of this legendary race and their ability to enslave True-people. But in Imoshen he had found a much more dangerous enemy – a living, breathing woman whose fierce pride and passion called to him against his better judgment.
His body urged him to ignore the stricture that forbade physical contact before their formal union. His blood was up. He saw the comprehension in her eyes. A flush of anticipation raced across the pearly skin of her throat, and he felt his own body respond. By the gods, he was but a breath away from taking her here in the snow. And who would know? Who would dare raise voice against him if he did?
Imoshen straightened. Dropping the defensive stance, she inclined her head, acknowledging him the victor. A ragged cheer echoed across the courtyard, startling Tulkhan. He spun to see a dozen of his men standing under the arch on the far balcony.
He grinned reluctantly and marvelled that they did not demand Imoshen be punished for daring to raise a weapon against him. Then he returned his attention to her. She had fought as well as any untrained man, and she had fought in the knowledge that she was outclassed.
He raised the sword point to her throat and she lifted her chin to avoid the blade.
‘The Ghebite sword is not meant for a woman’s hand. Kneel and concede me the victor,’ he ordered in a voice meant to carry, then added more softly, ‘Kneel, Imoshen. Do not insult me before my men.’
‘And you do not insult me?’ Her voice was breathy with anguish and exertion.
He frowned, surprised that she would see it this way.
As he watched, the feral light of battle faded from her eyes. She swallowed. He saw her wince and recalled the blow he had delivered to her ribs. He knew her every breath must hurt, yet she did not complain. Unlike Ghebite noblewomen she made light of being pregnant and did not hesitate to ride or work as hard as any man.
‘You fight well,’ he said, recalling another time when she had stood at his side and faced death. Curse his weak-willed half-brother, Gharavan. Curse the Vaygharian’s poisoned tongue for planting the seeds of betrayal in Gharavan’s mind. The youth had been King only one summer when he let his adviser’s words of treachery override Tulkhan’s years of service.
Tulkhan would have served his half-brother as loyally as he had served their father, but he had not been given the chance. Gharavan had had Tulkhan and Imoshen arrested on false charges of treason and thrown into her own stronghold’s dungeon. Only her handmaid’s bravery and Imoshen’s T’En trickery had saved them. ‘You were not outclassed when you faced the Vaygharian’s sword.’
‘That night I fought for my life against an enemy I despised. Besides, the Vaygharian did not seek to kill me; his aim was to escape.’ Imoshen’s gaze flickered past Tulkhan to their audience on the balcony. When she spoke, her voice was low and intense. ‘General, why won’t you trust me?’
A bitter laugh escaped him. Trust a T’En, one of the dreaded Dhamfeer, as they were known in his own language? It went against everything he had ever been taught. ‘Kneel and acknowledge me the victor.’
She hesitated.
Shouting down from the balcony, one of the Ghebites advised the General what to do with this recalcitrant female. Even though he spoke Gheeaban, his meaning was clear enough to make Imoshen’s nostrils flare with fury.
Tulkhan smiled ruefully. He had been a heartbeat away from acting on just that advice.
Imoshen’s eyes darkened to mulberry black, glittering dangerously as she dropped to one knee and slowly bent her head. The men cheered loudly. But when she raised her head, her eyes held defiance and a jolt of understanding hit Tulkhan. She might be on her knee to him, but in her heart she would never yield.
His mouth went dry. Her attitude goaded him. He wanted to lose himself in a battle for mastery. Only when she was in his arms, under him, could he appease his passion for her. But, if he guessed correctly, every touch, every look weakened his resolve against her, laying his mind open to her T’En powers.
Bed her? Yes. Trust her? Never!
‘I yield to you, General,’ she said, but her expression made a mockery of her words.
Tulkhan grimaced. Just as Imoshen had been forced to surrender her stronghold to him, he vowed she would ultimately admit him the master. Then Fair Isle and all it contained would be his.
It was imperative he hold Fair Isle, for he could not return to his homeland. Imoshen had advised him to kill his half-brother, but he had not been able to execute the boy who had been more like a son to him. Gharavan’s betrayal still stung, for Tulkhan had loved him even though his half-brother’s birth had meant his disinheritance.
Years of devoted service had earned Tulkhan the respect of his men and the command of the Ghebite army, but they could not make him the son of the King’s first wife.
But the invasion had gone sour. His father had fallen on the battlefield leading a secondary attack on the island. Tulkhan had sent Gharavan his fealty and continued the campaign, ultimately winning Fair Isle for the new Ghebite King.
And how had he been rewarded for his loyalty? Tulkhan skirted Gharavan’s treachery like an open wound, returning to practical, tactical matters. After his half-brother’s betrayal, Tulkhan had banished the young King and claimed this island, effectively exiling himself and his warriors from Gheeaba forever. He and his men were outcasts, Fair Isle their only home. And he could not hope to hold the island without Imoshen’s support.
Tulkhan stepped back, sheathed his sword and offered Imoshen his hand. With a tug he pulled her lightly to her feet. In that instant, before she could mask it, he saw the hunger she felt for him. An answering need moved him. It was there between them, this primal pull, body to body.
He’d been a fool to think casual bedding would be enough. He licked his lips. Their bonding day could not come soon enough.
Unaware of these undercurrents, his men signalled their approval with the Ghebite battle cry.
Imoshen glanced at them, then back to Tulkhan. ‘Thank you for the lesson in swordplay, General.’ Once more the T’En royal, she gave him the obeisance between equals, inclining her head and raising one hand to her forehead.
When she met his eyes, he thought she seemed pleased. Why?
‘Now I must issue invitations for the celebration tomorrow night. The townspeople have heard that you signed the document acknowledging church law, but when they see you sitting down with the head of the T’En church, they will really believe it.’ She turned away from him.
Bemused, Tulkhan watched her leave the courtyard. Imoshen had deliberately humbled herself before his men, yet she had done it on her own terms. The old wives’ tales were right, truly the Dhamfeer were a devious race.
IMOSHEN RETURNED TO her chambers, where she discarded her soiled shirt, wincing as she peeled down her trousers. Confronting Tulkhan was worth the pain.
Her mother had been right, she was a wilful creature.
Imoshen faltered, but there was no time to mourn her family, all lost on the battlefield. If they had agreed to take her with them, she would have died fighting by their side. But no, they had said she was too young at seventeen. Yet they had left her to run the family stronghold, responsible for the lives of a thousand people, her great-aunt her only support.
Hot tears of anger stung Imoshen’s eyes. Even in death, her parents had not wanted to acknowledge their daughter was a throwback, a descendent of the legendary T’En. She brushed the tears away and glared at the marble bathing chamber. A bitter laugh escaped her. Soon she would be bonded with the General, a co-ruler of Fair Isle. Her parents could never have foreseen that.
But her great-aunt had. The only other member of their family to be born pure T’En, her great-aunt had devoted her life to the service of the church and on her hundredth birthday had been rewarded with the title of ‘Aayel.’
It had been her great aunt who advised Imoshen to surrender Umasreach Stronghold and accept terms. Even so, their lives had hung by a thread. As the last remnants of the old royal line, their very existence would have fostered insurgence. To ensure their survival, they’d needed a lever on their captor. The Aayel had used her mind-reading gift to discover the General’s secret fear and most fervent desire. In Gheeaba, a man’s virility was judged by how many sons he produced. Tulkhan’s only marriage had been annulled when his wife did not produce a child within three years. The Aayel had directed Imoshen to seduce Tulkhan and ensure she conceived a boy.
It had seemed an impossible task, yet, when it came to consummating the Harvest Feast, the General had played into Imoshen’s hands. Every year the fertility of the land was ensured with a ritual consummation. Usually a young man and woman from one of the local villages were chosen, but the General had claimed Imoshen and she had told him the moment she felt his son’s life flare into being.
However, she would not have lived to conceive this child if the Aayel had not saved her life by sacrificing her own.
When the rebels’ assassination attempt on Tulkhan had failed, he had ordered the execution of the last of the old royal line. The Aayel had chosen to assume blame, absolving Imoshen, and had then taken her own life in an abbreviated form of the T’En ritual suicide.
Grimly Imoshen stared at herself in the silver-backed mirror. She hoped that if she was ever faced with such a choice, she would be as brave.
Tentatively she touched her flat belly, shaking her head in wonder. Her child broke with six hundred years of tradition. Pure T’En women were supposed to be chaste, devoting themselves to the church. Yet she should not feel as if she was committing a crime, for before the invasion the Empress of Fair Isle had granted dispensation for her to break with custom and bond with the only other full blood T’En, Reothe.
Imoshen swayed, sinking to her knees. She must not think of her betrothed and what might have been. When she had surrendered her stronghold to the General, she had believed Reothe dead and that, as last surviving member of the royal family, her duty was to help her people survive the Ghebite invasion. However, she had soon discovered that Reothe was very much alive. He had slipped into her chamber one night at Landsend Abbey, intending to complete their bonding vows, escape with her and retake the island.
Imoshen’s left wrist tingled and she lifted it to her mouth. Licking the bonding scar, she urged it to fade. To remember was to feel, and she did not want to recall Reothe’s arms around her, or his determination as he cut his wrist, then hers, to mingle their blood. She had not wanted to refuse him, but she had been unable to sanction more bloodshed. Reothe represented her lost dreams. Her loyalty must be to the people of Fair Isle and the General.
She looked down at her left wrist where the scar was all but invisible. So much rested on her. She had to believe she had made the right choice.
‘How can I be your maid if you won’t let me serve you?’ Kalleen demanded, running into the room.
With a relieved laugh, Imoshen came to her feet. ‘Soon you will be the Lady of Windhaven and have servants of your own.’
The girl used a choice farmyard word. ‘I’m not the Lady of Windhaven yet.’
‘It is only right that your loyalty and bravery be rewarded,’ Imoshen said. She suspected there would be many who resented seeing a farm girl elevated to the nobility. But it was thanks to Kalleen that she and Tulkhan had ended Gharavan’s brief reign.
Kalleen gasped as Imoshen turned. ‘That bruise on your ribs... Did the General do that because you dared lift a sword to him?
Imoshen sighed. ‘Does everyone know already?’
‘The Ghebites are saying that if you had been properly disciplined you would know your place. They say the General should beat you every day until he breaks your spirit.’
Imoshen cursed softly under her breath.
‘Should I unpack the Empress’s formal gowns for tomorrow night?’ Kalleen asked, practical as always. Imoshen thought of the fearful town dignitaries, of the General’s wary eyes; of the Beatific, the enigmatic leader of the T’En church.
Imoshen sighed. Her only experience of the Empress’s court had been a short visit the summer before Tulkhan attacked. At the time she had not been aware of the subtle power interplay between the church and the Empress. She had simply accepted that the church venerated the T’En as sacred vessels and in return the T’En served the church. But since entering the capital as Tulkhan’s captive, she had sensed a wariness in the woman who should have been her closest ally.
Imos
hen turned to Kalleen. ‘For the celebration I must remind them of the Old Empire. I must be T’Imoshen, the last T’En Princess. So yes, unpack the formal gowns and jewellery.’
‘It is lucky the Empress was nearly as tall as you,’ Kalleen said as she left.
Imoshen sank into the warm bath with a sigh of relief. The General might scorn Fair Isle’s aristocracy and their complacency after six hundred years of uninterrupted rule, but he could not fail to be impressed by hot running water.
‘MY LADY’S IN the bath, General Tulkhan,’ Kalleen protested, darting forward as if she intended to restrain him. ‘You can’t go in.’
‘Then you’d better tell Imoshen to come out, because I want to speak with her.’
Radiating disdain, the maid bundled up Imoshen’s clothing and retreated to the bathing chamber.
When Tulkhan heard their voices, he imagined Imoshen, her pale flesh glowing from the hot bath as she dressed indignantly. He smiled to himself. Confronting Imoshen was always invigorating, any excuse would do.
Already once today she had stood before him, disarmed but not beaten. He should have refused to let her touch the Ghebite sword, yet he could not resist her challenge, and because of this he’d just broken up a fight between the palace stable workers and his own horse handlers.
‘General Tulkhan?’ Imoshen greeted him, weaving the ends of her long silver hair into one thick plait.
He turned, aware of her frank gaze. Clearly it did not trouble Imoshen that the damp robe clung to her body. The knowledge that it would soon be his right to join her in the bathing chamber made Tulkhan short with the maid. ‘You are dismissed, Kalleen.’
Instead of obeying him, she looked to Imoshen, who nodded. This irritated Tulkhan intensely. The palace’s army of servants were always deferring to Imoshen.
‘You wanted to speak with me?’ she asked.
‘I will assign several of my elite guard as your private escort when you leave the palace.’
Dark Dreams Page 2
