She drew on his certainty. ‘In other circumstances I would have called on the church to say the words for the dead, and I concede it is wisest to speak those words from the T’Enchiridion.’ Her mouth went dry as she recalled her discovery that the Parakletos were not merely an abstract concept. Even worse, they were not the benevolent beings of the church’s teachings. She shuddered, forcing herself to go on. ‘This is no longer the Old Empire, Beatific. We must bend before the winds of change or be uprooted.’
The True-woman’s mouth tightened in an angry line.
Imoshen had not meant it as a threat. They were all vulnerable, none more so than she.
‘What is this Vow of Expiation, Imoshen?’ Tulkhan asked.
The Beatific replied for her. ‘Before they can be accepted into society, all pure T’En must give the Vow of Expiation to the church, offering themselves in its service.’
Imoshen noted the Beatific omitted to mention that the only other pure T’En throwback, Reothe, had also given his Vow of Expiation, and now served only himself. Perhaps he regarded regaining Fair Isle as serving the people?
‘Imoshen can give this vow when we make our marriage vows on Midwinter’s Day, that is less than one small moon away,’ Tulkhan announced, sweeping the problem aside.
Imoshen caught the Beatific’s eye. Bonding was nothing like a Ghebite marriage.
‘No harm has been done here today,’ Tulkhan announced. ‘And a life has been saved. My men wait outside in the cold, grumbling for their dinner. Come, Imoshen.’ He gave the Beatific a nod, insulting in its brevity.
‘Beatific.’ Imoshen offered the leader of the T’En church the proper obeisance and waited for her to leave. Imoshen knew if General Tulkhan had had his way, he would have simply marched out, leaving them to trail after him. Every day was filled with a thousand small insults, salt in the wound of Fair Isle’s surrender.
Chapter Three
THE RIDE BACK to the palace was swift but not swift enough. Their meal had spoiled. Imoshen had to soothe the cook’s feelings. She had just left the royal kitchen behind, with its lingering smell of burned sauce, when a young boy ran into her.
‘What’s so important that you cannot walk the palace corridors in a civilised fashion?’ Imoshen asked, hauling him to his feet.
He rolled his eyes. ‘The Ghebites –’
What now? Distantly she heard their raised voices. ‘Take me to them.’
The boy led her through a connecting passage to an old wing dating from the Age of Tribulation. Curious servants clustered in doorways, pointing and giggling.
A dozen of Tulkhan’s commanders and elite guard marched past Imoshen. Some held braces of candles and wine flagons, others carried massive oak chairs between them, all sang at the tops of their voices. There was much laughter and they stopped every few paces to share the wine.
Imoshen experienced a strong sense of dislocation. In the Old Empire, ritual and protocol guided every moment of the day. This bizarre Ghebite parade was so out of place it left her disoriented and bemused.
As the song ended Tulkhan’s voice echoed down the passage, ordering them to take care. Imoshen edged past the men, brushing against wainscoting and ancient weaponry. She entered a disused hall, where she found fourteen men staggering under the weight of a feasting table. Leaping candle flames cast frantic shadows on distant walls but could not illuminate the high ceiling.
‘What are you doing?’ Imoshen demanded of the nearest man.
He blinked owlishly, realised who she was and made the Ghebite sign to ward off evil, fist before his eyes.
‘Imoshen?’ Tulkhan located her. ‘Is our meal ready?’
‘Not yet. The cook is trying to muster up enough cold meat and cheese to feed forty people. Our spoiled food will be fed to the pigs.’
‘Then we have time to get these tables and chairs upstairs. Come on, men!’
They launched into a rousing drinking song while manhandling the solid oak table out of the room. Imoshen winced as one corner chipped the doorway.
‘Take care!’ Tulkhan bellowed, then tilted a flagon across his forearm and drank deep. ‘Take it up the marble staircase. Should be wide enough.’
Imoshen caught Tulkhan’s arm. ‘But why? What’s wrong with the tables and chairs that we’ve been using?’
‘Too small. I’m tired of sitting on chairs that protest every time I move. This furniture’s more to my liking. A man can get his knees under that table!’
‘That table was built at T’Ashmyr’s command nearly five hundred years ago. He was the first throwback Emperor of Fair Isle.’
Tulkhan stared at her.
Imoshen realised the General was not drunk at all. ‘You can get your knees under that table because it was designed and built for a pure T’En leader who could have looked you in the eye. In the parts of the palace built during the Age of Tribulation, all the furniture is T’En size. You might be a giant amongst your own kind, but you would have fitted right in with my people.’
Wax from Tulkhan’s brace of candles fell on his wrist. He grimaced, then shrugged. ‘Well, at least I’ll be comfortable.’
And he strode after his men.
Imoshen lengthened her stride to keep up with him. They entered the royal wing, where upper-echelon servants clustered in statue niches, pointing and whispering. Tomorrow the tale would be all over T’Diemn, how the barbarians marched roughshod over palace treasures.
In the long gallery they found the elegant gilt-legged, red-velvet chairs piled carelessly on their matching table. Anger and dismay flooded Imoshen, but she did not reveal it. Turning to the servants, she directed them to clear the furniture away and store it. ‘We will have our meal now.’
Tulkhan offered Imoshen his arm. When they walked into the formal dining room, the Ghebites gave a cheer. Raising their drinks, they indicated the new table and chairs. Well pleased, Tulkhan took his place at the head of the table and Imoshen joined him. None of them seemed aware how incongruous the heavy dark furniture looked set against the pale splendour of the room’s mirrors and gilt-edged plaster work.
‘Wine?’ Tulkhan offered to pour Imoshen a glass. She declined. He took another mouthful from the flagon, then appeared to recollect that he was not on the battlefield and poured a generous glass. The fine T’En crystal looked fragile in his hands. ‘A toast to the greatest army in the known world!’
The men echoed his sentiment, downing their drinks lustily. Crystal goblets slammed emphatically on the tabletop as soon as they were emptied.
A memory of the Empress graciously finger-clicking her approval for a pair of duelling poets struck Imoshen with renewed pain – the Old Empire was truly dead, supplanted by these barbarians. How would the remnants of the T’En nobles react when they saw this kind of behaviour?
Imoshen caught Tulkhan’s arm, dropping her voice so that only he could hear. ‘General, the nobles from the Keldon Highlands will be here soon. They have not formally surrendered and you have every right to expect an oath of loyalty. But...’
Servants entered with trays of cold meat and cheeses, presented in patterns which were works of art. The Ghebites fell upon them with gusto, grabbing chicken legs and tearing into the white flesh.
‘Don’t wrinkle your nose like that, Imoshen. The men are hungry. They’ve been out in the cold all day doing a man’s work.’
‘I suppose I am lucky they will even eat with me. Men don’t share the table with women in Gheeaba, do they?’
He put his glass down. ‘Business and battle plans are discussed at the table. These are not for women’s ears. In the privacy of his own home a man might invite his favourite wife to eat with him. But this is not Gheeaba and my men have not been home for eleven years.’ He gave her a shrewd look. ‘We’ve seen all sorts of customs in mainland palaces. Eating with women is the least of it. Why, I remember one banquet which was served on the naked bodies of nubile virgins.’ His dark eyes challenged her. ‘They were dessert!’
Imoshen re
fused to rise to his bait. ‘The southern nobles are a proud lot. They traced their blood lines back to the dawn people, children of the Ancients. They were the last to adopt T’En rule and there were sporadic uprisings for two hundred years. It was only at the beginning of the Age of Consolidation that the locals truly accepted their T’En nobles, and by then the highland T’En had grown away from their cousins in the north.
‘The Keldon ravines might be rich in precious metals, but they don’t provide an easy living. Scrawny sheep and stiff-necked Keld, as the saying goes.’ She smiled at his expression. ‘I’m asking you to go slowly with the Keldon nobles. Soon they will come to the capital to give you their oath of fealty, because they must. But they –’
‘They shielded the rebel leader while they smiled and gave me false welcome,’ Tulkhan growled. ‘I hunted Reothe in those ranges. I know how wild and unforgiving they are.’
Imoshen nodded. ‘The land shapes the people. The Keld are few and fiercely loyal. They cannot hope to stand against your army, but they are quick to take offence and slow to forgive. Unless you want to split Fair Isle with civil war, you need to win them over.’ She felt General Tulkhan watching her curiously. ‘Yes?’
‘You advise me against your own people?’
‘I advise you for the sake of my people. The fields lie blackened from T’Diemn to the north of Fair Isle. This is a fertile island. Once her towns had great stores of grain, but your men raided them.’
‘An army on the move needs to eat.’
Imoshen sighed. ‘We’ve had this conversation before and I argued for cooperation then. I don’t want to see this spring’s planting ruined because of more fighting. I will not watch my people starve.’
‘What do you care? They are True-men and women, not even of the same race as you.’
Even though she knew Tulkhan was baiting her, Imoshen could not hide the heat in her cheeks. ‘I belong to Fair Isle. In the centuries since the T’En took this island, my race has interbred with the locals. The blood of T’En, True-man and woman alike has enriched the soil. Only the land endures.’
Tulkhan grimaced. He could not argue with Imoshen’s logic but he knew what she was saying. How long before his Ghebite army was absorbed into the larger population of Fair Isle? Would they one day cease to be Ghebites? Would his grandson don the badge of fatherhood and invite everyone to celebrate the birth of a daughter? In Gheeaba the father did not even bother to name a daughter.
‘What is wrong with Jacolm?’ Imoshen asked, changing the subject.
Before Tulkhan could stop her she hurried down the long table and ordered Jacolm to his feet. The man stood resentfully, favouring his right side. His thick eyebrows pulled together as Imoshen told him to open his shirt.
The room fell silent. Tulkhan tensed. Jacolm’s hasty temper was renowned in the ranks. Yet he stood at this woman’s command and bared his flesh to her eyes.
Imoshen ran her hands over the man’s torso as he gaped, too stunned by her temerity to react. ‘Just as I thought, a cracked rib. Let me –’
Jacolm stepped back. ‘I will not be tainted by the touch of a Dhamfeer.’
Tulkhan saw Imoshen’s face grow pale with the pain of rejection, but he also understood his man’s reaction.
Imoshen was too much the diplomat to respond with anger.
‘Let me heal your rib,’ she offered. ‘It must be painful. At least let me strap it.’
But Jacolm’s answer was to lace up his shirt. His sword-brother came to his feet in a gesture of solidarity.
Imoshen glanced at Tulkhan, who could only shrug.
She lifted her hands and turned them over for all to see. ‘I see no taint on these fingers.’ She met Jacolm’s eyes. ‘True, these are T’En hands with six fingers, but they have healed many a True-man and woman, and it mattered not whether they came from Fair Isle or Gheeaba.’ Gracefully she took three steps back and gave them the T’En obeisance among equals. ‘I bid you sleep well.’
As Imoshen glided out of the room Tulkhan considered following her, but his men would not be impressed if he ran after the Dhamfeer bitch, as they called her none too quietly behind her back.
When the door closed on Imoshen, there was a long moment of silence, then Harholfe made a jest about what would help him get to sleep and the men laughed. But they spoke too loudly and laughed too long, anxious to ignore the issues Imoshen had raised.
Tulkhan could not. He poured himself another wine and drained it grimly.
AS IMOSHEN WALKED the long gallery she seethed. Jacolm’s rejection stung, particularly when she had offered nothing but help. It was two steps forward and one step back with Tulkhan and his Ghebites.
She made her way to her bedchamber, where one of her stronghold guard stood at the door. The young woman straightened at Imoshen’s approached. All twenty of Imoshen’s stronghold guard could not hope to save her if Tulkhan’s elite guard turned on her, but it was the symbol which carried weight. These people were as loyal to her as the General’s guard were to him and they had done her proud today.
Imoshen congratulated the young woman, then entered her room, where she found the fire set and candles laid out. She lit the candles and carried them to the bathing chamber beyond. Wearily, she checked that the burner was working, then let the water flow.
Alone at last, Imoshen dropped her guard. As she sank onto a low stool she shuddered, recalling the death ceremony. The Parakletos were things half-glimpsed in nightmares... From now on, she would leave such things to the T’En church priests trained for the task.
Many times she had stood at the Aayel’s side while her great-aunt said the words for the dead, and not once had she sensed the Parakletos. Was it because her T’En senses had been less mature? Her gift had always been healing and it came more easily now.
Instinctively she knew she must hide her growing powers from the True-people, particularly the Ghebites. One wrong move and she would be dead, assassinated by enemies or even executed at the General’s command.
Though she suspected Tulkhan would regret ordering her death, she knew he would do so if he thought it necessary. She’d heard how he had conquered the defiant mainland kingdoms in the early days of his career. He had been utterly ruthless. Yet, when Tulkhan met her eyes, she sometimes thought she read...
Anger fired Imoshen. She rose and prowled the chamber. A metallic taste settled on her tongue. With a start she recognised the first signs of the T’En gifts moving unbidden, and unwanted. Dismay flooded her. If only she knew how to harness her gifts. If only her great-aunt had lived long enough to instruct her.
Before the Aayel died, she had revealed that Imoshen’s parents had forbidden her to instruct Imoshen in the art of using her powers. All those years she had walked at the Aayel’s side, learning herb lore, memorising the T’Enchiridion, watching her great-aunt serve the people, she might have been learning about her heritage.
Instead she was ignorant.
Imoshen grew utterly still. The Aayel hadn’t lived, but the palace library was even more extensive than her stronghold’s. The palace library was sure to contain learned discourses on the T’En gifts. It might take all winter, but she would sift every ancient document.
If only she didn’t have to organise the feast to celebrate Tulkhan’s signing of the church agreement.
Resentment flooded her. She hated palace protocol and had never wanted to play a role in court life. Yet now she had the responsibility of running the palace. How her sister would have envied her!
Imoshen’s eyes filled with tears. Her sister would never mix in the Empress’s inner circle. Her brother would never compete at the Midsummer Feast for the duelling poet’s crown of fresh flowers. All her kinsfolk had died in a futile attempt to halt the General’s advance. How could she discard them so easily to plot for her own future?
Imoshen hardened her heart. To survive she had to look forward. She would not let the General relegate her to the position of a Ghebite woman – a piece of comfortable
furniture to be used when needed then put away in a gilded room. She would be the architect of her future and the future of Fair Isle.
Imoshen tested the water and turned off the spigot. She sank into the bath, feeling her muscles relax.
Today she had saved the life of the cooper’s child, but she had offended the Beatific, who was so ready to distrust her.
Yet the Beatific should have been her ally. After all, the church retained its position as arbiter of law only because Imoshen had convinced Tulkhan to sign the document.
Between the church, the proud Keldon nobles, the conniving mainland ambassadors and the arrogant Ghebites, she must somehow keep the peace while consolidating her position with General Tulkhan and his position with the people of Fair Isle.
So much was at stake, her head spun.
SATISFIED WITH THE menu for this evening’s feast, Imoshen left the kitchen wing. She had only just entered the main gallery when she heard raised voices echoing through the great marble foyer.
Built during the Age of Consolidation, the palace entrance had been designed to impress, with huge marble columns, a grand divided staircase and an intricately painted ceiling which appeared to open up to the heavens.
Imoshen peered around a marble column and cursed softly. A party of Keldon nobles had arrived sooner than expected. Lord Fairban and his three daughters were welcomed by the flustered palace footman. Behind the old lord an entourage of servants waited, wary but curious.
This meant more places to set at the feast tonight, more volatile tempers to soothe. The Keld had not yet formally surrendered or offered fealty to General Tulkhan, and the situation was extremely delicate.
What must her southern cousins think of her, aiding and abetting the invader? Surely they realised she had to choose the path of least resistance to ensure her survival, just as they must give lip-service to General Tulkhan to avoid having their lands and titles forfeited?
What good was honour if you were dead?
Below her the master of the bedchambers arrived and hastened to greet Lord Fairban. Imoshen smiled. Let the palace dignitary earn his keep. He could escort the new arrivals to their chambers while she spoke with the master of ceremonies and adjusted the seating.
Dark Dreams Page 5
