Imoshen braced her shoulders, centring the target which barely covered her chest. One mistake and she would be dead, a spear through her head or belly. One calculated mistake and Tulkhan would be free of her.
Imoshen gritted her teeth.
Tulkhan rose in the saddle, slewing the horse sideways. Even as the first spear left his hands he plucked the second and threw, then the third, moving so fast that all three were in the air at once.
Thud, the first spear struck home. Two more followed in rapid succession. The impact rocked Imoshen and she had to fight to retain her balance. The cheering of the General’s men drowned out the rushing in her head.
Suddenly Tulkhan was beside her, hand extended. His eyes blazed with triumph, reminding Imoshen that the savage in him was very close to the surface.
Accepting his hand she leapt up behind him. Aware that the Ghebites loved display, she took her cue from Tulkhan’s earlier horsemanship exhibition. Planting her feet on the horse’s broad rump, she steadied herself with one hand on Tulkhan’s shoulder and held the spear-impaled target above her head. The crowd’s loud acclamations made her heart race and she experienced the heady rush of battle fever.
When they reached the dais Imoshen tossed the target aside and jumped to the platform, where she signalled that the display was over. The court heralds sounded the closing notes while the General’s black destrier pawed the ground restlessly.
Imoshen collected her cloak and caught Tulkhan’s eye. ‘Night comes early this close to midwinter, General. I will ride back to T’Diemn with you.’
As Tulkhan extended his hand, he wondered why Imoshen had chosen not to ride her own horse. She leapt up before him, settling across his thighs. When he wound one arm around her waist, strands of her silver hair tickled his face and he inhaled her scent like rare perfume. She might be pure Dhamfeer, but she was all woman in his arms. The blood sang in his veins and he threw back his head and laughed.
Imoshen twisted round to look up at him, searching his face. In Gheeaba an unmarried woman would not dare look a man in the eye. But then no Ghebite woman would have done what Imoshen had done today, turning what could have degenerated into a vicious fight into a celebration of martial skill.
‘You did not doubt my spear’s aim?’ he prodded, full of admiration for her bravery.
Her lips quirked as she gave him a knowing look. ‘You are a great tactician, General. If you had wanted me dead, you would have chosen a less public way of doing it.’
Anger replaced admiration and made his body tighten. The horse responded to the pressure of his knees, increasing its pace, and the General turned his mount towards T’Diemn.
Weary shopkeepers packed up their stalls and children cried sleepily for their dinner. In the clear winter twilight a long line of carts snaked down the road to the capital, making way for the General Tulkhan’s black destrier and their escort, the elite guard.
Silhouetted against the setting sun’s glow, the palace towers and Basilica’s dome dominated the old city. But T’Diemn had long ago outgrown its defences, and the city sprawled outside the old walls, prosperous and exposed.
‘I must design new defences and repair the old,’ Tulkhan said.
‘And I must oversee the restoration of the palace.’
The General grimaced. The capital had suffered when it had surrendered to his half-brother. King Gharavan had slaughtered the town officials and executed the guildmasters. The King’s soldiers had camped in the palace, looting and destroying what they did not understand.
Imoshen had been quick to point out that Gharavan’s cruelty threatened to destroy any trust Tulkhan might establish with her people. Conquering was one thing, holding was another. A conqueror had to win the people over or constantly fight rebellion.
‘General...’ Imoshen interrupted his train of thought. ‘What do you think of combining your elite guard with my stronghold guard and giving them an official name like... oh, the T’Diemn Palace Guard?’
‘You ask the impossible. My men would never accept women in their ranks.’
‘But you saw Crawen’s skill with the sword. Though the people of T’Diemn cheered you today, they are still uneasy. To restore their confidence we must be united.’
‘You push too hard, too fast, Imoshen. I have signed an agreement to honour the laws of the church; that is enough for now.’ It was more than enough. He needed the support of the church, but he dreaded his men’s reaction when they realised he meant to acknowledge Imoshen as his equal. It was a delicate balance. Somehow he had to appease the people of Fair Isle, yet retain the respect of his men.
Imoshen radiated impatience but she held her tongue for once. A small mercy. Their escort was pressed close about them and it would not help matters for his men to hear her debating with him.
She brooded in silence as they entered the outskirts of T’Diemn. Mullioned windows glowed with welcome and the rich smell of roast meat hung on the winter air, making Tulkhan’s mouth water.
Imoshen stiffened in his arms. ‘Stop.’
A plump woman thrust through Tulkhan’s elite guard to clutch Imoshen’s hand.
‘You must come, Empress. This way.’ She ran off as though Imoshen’s agreement was a foregone conclusion.
Tulkhan halted the horse. ‘What is it?’
‘Down the lane, General,’ Imoshen said, face tight with foreboding.
Tulkhan turned his mount.
Wringing her hands, the woman waited outside a modest two-storey house which bore the Cooper Guild’s symbol of two half-barrels.
Imoshen pointed. ‘The new-life garland hangs on the door. The woman of the house must have given birth within the last small moon.’
A man threw the door open and staggered out, his face a mask of grief, a hat clutched in his hands.
‘His hat bears the new-father’s badge,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘I dread...’ She dropped to the cobbles. ‘You, cooper, what’s wrong?’
He cast aside his hat as he made a deep obeisance, lifting both hands to his forehead. By this Tulkhan knew he accorded Imoshen the honour of Empress, just as the woman had. Old habits died hard.
‘T’Imoshen?’ The cooper used the royal prefix. ‘You must help me.’
‘Of course.’ Imoshen threw Tulkhan one swift glance as she disappeared inside.
Responding to her unspoken plea, he swung down from his horse.
‘Wait here,’ he told his men, tossing the reins to Wharrd. He paused long enough to retrieve the man’s hat. Only in Fair Isle would a man don a badge of fatherhood and decorate his house with a garland so that his neighbours could celebrate the birth of his child.
The plump woman watched Tulkhan anxiously as he ducked his head to cross the threshold. The man’s voice carried down the stairwell to him.
‘Larassa gave birth to our daughter this time yesterday. I offered to stay with her, but she urged me to go to the tourney.’ A groan escaped him. ‘Why did I listen?’
Tulkhan hung the hat on the hall peg and took the steps two at a time, but slowed as he came level with the landing. A young woman lay in a pool of blood.
‘No one stayed with her?’ Imoshen asked, incredulous. ‘Right after birthing, a woman is –’
‘I know. But all our relatives died in the war and we know few people in T’Diemn. I should not have left her!’
Imoshen knelt to touch the woman’s neck. When her eyes met Tulkhan’s he knew there was no hope.
‘A woman walks death’s shadow to bring forth new life,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘Sometimes...’
The cooper dropped to his knees, rocking back and forth. ‘I failed her. I must not fail her soul. You must say the words over my Larassa. Send for your T’Enchiridion and say the words for the dead.’
‘I know the passage off by heart,’ Imoshen said. ‘But you should send for the priests to do this.’
As she rose Tulkhan noted her strained face. Imoshen carried his son. Was she thinking that soon she would be facing the trials of chi
ldbirth? The thought of Imoshen lying dead in a pool of blood was too much to bear.
‘My daughter.’ The cooper sprang to his feet, darting through a door. He returned with a babe so tightly wrapped in swaddling clothes that only her face was visible. ‘Does she live? I cannot tell.’
Imoshen took the baby from him, pressing her fingers to the infant’s temples. ‘Alive, yes... but her life force flickers like a candle drowning in its own wax.’ She frowned at the father. ‘Didn’t the midwife deal with the afterbirth?’
‘She did, but... You must call on the Parakletos to escort Larassa’s soul through death’s shadow. I have heard how mothers who die in childbirth refuse to be parted –’
Imoshen hissed, pressing the baby closer.
‘T’Imoshen. I beg you.’ The cooper fell on one knee. Taking her left hand, he kissed her sixth finger. ‘You are pure T’En. The Parakletos will listen to your voice above all others. You must do this. Please.’
Imoshen closed her eyes. For an instant Tulkhan thought she would refuse. Then she took a deep breath and looked down at the man. ‘Prepare Larassa. Place her on your bonding bed while I watch over your daughter.’
Tulkhan would have helped the man, but Imoshen drew him aside.
‘None but a blood relative or bond-partner must touch the dead one’s body. Come.’ She studied the baby. ‘We are lucky the babe still lives. The mother has been dead long enough for her skin to go cold.’ She sniffed the air, her eyes narrowing. ‘But her soul still lingers.’
Tulkhan shuddered. ‘I don’t understand. How could the dead mother take the baby? Who are the Parakletos?’
‘Guides between this world and death’s realm. When the priest says the words for the dead, the Parakletos answer her summons, escorting the soul through death’s shadow. I have never sensed the Parakletos myself, but the danger to this baby is very real. New life is always fragile.’ She frowned on the silent infant. ‘Considering how the mother died, this little one would be vulnerable even with the proper words over the afterbirth.’
‘I still don’t understand.’
‘How could you? As a trained midwife I learned how the soul of the baby is formed in the afterbirth, just as the babe’s life force is housed in the growing body. At birth the soul transfers to the baby’s body, animating the life force. The proper words must be said and the afterbirth disposed of safely to ensure the baby’s soul is securely bound.’
‘But my people don’t...’ Tulkhan hesitated. A Ghebite man avoided his wives when they were due to give birth.
‘How often are Ghebite babies born dead or die unexpectedly? The new soul can drift, leaving the baby alive but its mind unformed. Sometimes this does not happen until the person is grown. Have you seen people whose minds wander, people who kill and have no memory of it? This is what happens if the soul is not properly fixed in the body. This little girl is barely one day old. The bond is fragile and the mother –’
‘I am ready. Come quickly.’ The cooper beckoned.
They ducked their heads to avoid the lintel. Wrapped in a rich cloth, the woman was laid out on the bed. Candles glimmered in the four corners of the room. The single mirror had been covered and the window was opened so as not to impede her soul’s passage.
‘My daughter?’ The cooper peered anxiously at the pale little face.
‘We must move quickly.’ Imoshen put the baby in his arms. ‘Hold tight to your daughter, fasten her soul and life force with your will. I’m sure Larassa would not wish to kill her baby, but the time immediately after death is very confusing. A soul that has been parted from its body by violent death often lingers for a day or more before beginning its journey through death’s shadow, and this is a tragic death. Larassa will not want to leave you and the child.’ Imoshen gave him a compassionate smile. ‘Remember there is an honoured place in death’s realm for women and babies who die in childbirth, a place alongside warriors who die defending their loved ones.’
Tulkhan frowned. In Gheeaba fallen warriors had the honour of riding with the great Akha Khan. Priests taught that women did not possess true souls. Once dead, their life force dissipated. They were mourned just as one might mourn the death of a favourite dog.
When told of his mother’s death Tulkhan had told himself he felt nothing, but the knowledge that she had died alone and untended troubled him.
Imoshen’s voice came to him speaking High T’En, then alternating with the language of the people. She called on the Parakletos by name, begging them to hear her plea, binding them to their task.
As she spoke, Tulkhan heard the people in the street outside singing a dirge.
Imoshen’s voice faltered. Tulkhan’s gaze flew to her face. The whites showed all around her garnet eyes as she fixed on something he could not see. A metallic taste settled on his tongue. He grimaced, recognising the sensation. How he despised the taste of T’En power.
Tendrils of Imoshen’s long silver hair rose as if they had a life of their own. The room grew oppressively cold, filled with palpable tension.
The cooper held his daughter to his chest with fierce determination. He repeated Imoshen’s last words and she recovered, continuing the passage.
Had it been possible, Tulkhan would have left the room to escape witnessing this mysterious T’En ritual, but his body was not his to command.
Although he could see Imoshen’s lips as the words flowed from her tongue, he couldn’t hear a sound for the pressure in his ears.
Without warning, the cooper’s legs gave way. He sank onto the chest under the window. Burying his face in the baby’s blanket, he wept softly with relief.
Imoshen gasped, dropping to her knees.
Tulkhan caught her as she pitched forward. He expected his skin to crawl with the physical contact, but she felt as warm and yielding as a True-woman. ‘Imoshen?’
She moaned, her open eyes unseeing. ‘This time I felt the words. The Parakletos came at my call. I never...’ She shuddered and pushed him away, then pulled herself upright using the bedpost. She looked from the dead woman on the bed to the grieving father with his baby daughter. ‘I have done what I can.’
Shouts came from the street below, a combination of Ghebite soldier cant and the common trading tongue delivered imperiously. Tulkhan strode to the window.
Imoshen rolled her eyes. ‘What now?’
He had to smile. ‘We are honoured. The Beatific herself is here.’
Imoshen’s heart sank. Since entering this home she had been labouring under the dead mother’s despairing heartbreak, which hung thick as a blanket, on the air. The effort of calling the Parakletos, then controlling them, had drained all her reserves. She did not have the strength for a confrontation with the Beatific.
Several pairs of boots sounded on the stairs. The door swung open and a priest announced the leader of the T’En church. The Beatific swept into the room, still dressed in the rich fur mantle she had worn to the tourney. Her elaborate headdress brushed the doorjambs.
Taking in the body on the bed and the four candles, she turned on Imoshen. ‘What have you done?’
‘I have done nothing but serve my people.’ Imoshen chose her words with care.
The Beatific’s eyes narrowed. ‘You overreach yourself.’
‘It was necessary. I could not refuse –’
‘No? You have not given your Vow of Expiation. By what right do you perform this holy office?’
‘By right of birth.’ Imoshen lifted both hands, fingers splayed like fans before her face. Looking over the twelve fingertips, she held the Beatific’s eyes until the woman’s gaze wavered, then lowered her hands. ‘I trained at the Aayel’s side. Many times I have said the words to bind a baby’s soul.’
‘That may be so,’ the Beatific conceded. ‘But the words for the dead are powerful tools. You should have sent to the Basilica for –’
‘T’Imoshen saved my daughter’s life.’ The cooper lurched to his feet. ‘I begged her to say the words.’
The Bea
tific ignored him. ‘You said the words without your T’Enchiridion, Imoshen? Or do you have it with you?’ She looked pointedly at Imoshen’s empty hands. ‘What were you thinking? The Parakletos are not to be called lightly. One wrong word and they could take the soul of the caller!’
Tulkhan cursed. ‘You risked yourself?’
Imoshen stiffened, meeting his eyes. ‘I am a healer. I could not let the infant die. And I did not need the book because the Aayel made me memorise the verses.’ She faced the Beatific. ‘If we had sent for help, it would have been too late. The baby’s life force was ebbing, its soul lured by the mother’s restless –’
‘You are not qualified to speak of such matters!’
There was a fraught silence.
Then the Beatific massaged her temples, sighing heavily. ‘You thought you were acting for the best, this I understand, but the sooner you take your Vow of Expiation the better.’
Imoshen dropped to one knee, both hands extended palm up, offering the obeisance of a supplicant. ‘Wise Beatific, hear me. I was ready to take the vow on the seventeenth anniversary of my birthing day, but Fair Isle was at war and I could not travel to the Basilica. I am prepared to take the vow –’
‘Of chastity? Are you ready to follow the true path for a pure T’En woman, the one dictated by your namesake, T’Imoshen the First?’
Imoshen looked up startled. The Beatific knew she was supposed to bond with the General. Did this True-woman favour tradition over political expediency? No... Imoshen understood in a flash of insight. The Beatific feared Imoshen’s throwback blood.
Tulkhan strode forward. ‘I have claimed Imoshen. She cannot –’
‘I cannot take the vow of chastity,’ Imoshen spoke quickly before Tulkhan could reveal that she carried his child. According to the records, no T’En woman had given birth in six hundred years. Cloaking her pregnancy was instinctive. She came to her feet. ‘Once I would have taken that path willingly. But the Empress granted me dispensation even before the Ghebites invaded Fair Isle. Now I must serve my people in another way.’ She felt for Tulkhan, who took her arm, linking it through his. He was reassuringly solid.
Dark Dreams Page 4
