Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘Get behind me.’ He shoved her into a doorway.

  Imoshen unsheathed her knife. But it didn’t have the reach of a sword and, if she risked a throw, she would leave herself disarmed.

  A figure lunged, dancing around them ready to deal death. Tulkhan parried and struck. There was no time for finesse. Laughing, mocking masks hid their attackers’ faces revealing only grim mouths.

  Imoshen feinted with the knife at an overeager attacker, then lashed out with the lantern to defend Tulkhan’s unprotected left side. The attacker’s blow tore the lantern from her fingers. The oil spilled, carrying blue flames which clung greedily to the man’s clothes.

  ‘Fire!’ Imoshen screamed. The word was guaranteed to bring the bridge’s inhabitants out. The shops and houses were built of wood. ‘Fire!’

  Tulkhan kicked the nearest attacker in the thigh and darted out into the centre of the bridge.

  ‘Now, Imoshen. Run!’

  Her line of sight free, Imoshen threw her knife at the third attacker. Tulkhan’s assailant rolled to his feet. Imoshen tore off her cloak and flung it in his face before fleeing. The heavy thump of Tulkhan’s boots told her he was at her heels.

  Down the dark length of the bridge she ran, heading for the pool of light beyond. Moonlight illuminated the courtyard. Ahead of her, she saw the narrow passage that led through the gates into old T’Diemn.

  Skidding on the cobbles, she looked back the way they’d come. Their attackers were closing in, and behind them were more figures. She could not tell if they were the other Ghebites or students.

  ‘Quickly!’ Tulkhan dragged her down the dark passage. Running blind, they raced towards the crescent of light at the end.

  Under the street light they hesitated. Before them were two paths, one into the ring-road which ran around inside the walls of the old city, the other into a square where she could see glimpses of jostling bodies and torches.

  ‘This way.’ She made for the square.

  ‘No, Imoshen.’

  She ignored him.

  Frustration and fear surged through Tulkhan. He didn’t want to enter a square full of potential killers, masked enemies who hid behind laughing young men and women. In that crowd someone could get close enough to sink a knife between his ribs or Imoshen’s. But their attackers had almost caught up and his own men were nowhere in sight. Cursing Imoshen’s impulsiveness, he charged after her.

  She entered the square three long strides ahead of him, her silver hair glistening in the torchlight. Without missing a beat she broke into a line of dancers and tore a burning torch from someone’s hand.

  A torch was as good a weapon as any in the circumstances. Tulkhan shouldered a youth aside and darted forward to join her, also grabbing a torch. But the dancers had stopped. They stared and pointed as Imoshen leapt onto the rim of the fountain.

  Tulkhan felt the instinctive awe of a people taught to deify their T’En royalty.

  ‘T’Imoshen!’ The cry went up.

  Joyously the revellers surged forward, dragging Tulkhan with them. Arms reached for Imoshen. As he watched they hoisted her off the fountain and carried her high on their shoulders. Cheering, leaping people surrounded him. He saw Imoshen search the crowd for him and waved. She returned his signal.

  ‘To the palace!’ Imoshen gestured, pointing the torch.

  Relief washed over Tulkhan as the crowd took up her cry. They broke into stirring song and surged through the streets towards the palace.

  Studying the merry faces around him, the General strained to identify the masks of their attackers. Pressed amidst the bodies he could not manoeuvre, could not even use his drawn sword, but at least they were being escorted back to safety.

  The singing, laughing crowd carried Imoshen right across the square and deposited her on the steps of the palace, where they began another song, linking arms and swaying as though this were some kind of ritual.

  Tulkhan forced his way to the steps to join her. He saw surprise register on the unmasked faces of those nearest. Imoshen drew him to her side and kissed his cheek. Several revellers tore off their masks and tossed them in the air.

  Imoshen lifted the burning torch high, her voice meant only for him. ‘Smile, General. Caper Night has saved your life.’

  ‘My life wouldn’t have been at risk if you hadn’t gone off alone.’

  She tossed her head, eyes glittering with anger.

  He wanted to shake her, to make her realise how close they had come to death.

  ‘You should trust me, General.’

  As the doors to the grand entrance opened, light spilled down the steps of the palace and Imoshen slipped away from Tulkhan to speak with the bewildered servants, then returned to his side, taking his hand in hers. ‘Sing, General. They are singing of their love for Fair Isle.’

  He realised what he thought was a rowdy drinking song was really a tribute to their homeland. By the time they were ready to repeat the chorus he was able to join in.

  The last notes drifted away and the crowd looked up at them expectantly. Tulkhan tensed. Crowds were unpredictable animals. Then he heard noises behind him.

  ‘Right on time,’ Imoshen muttered with relief. She dropped his hand to direct the servants. ‘Go out into the crowd and serve them.’

  Tulkhan watched as a long line of servants moved past him, carrying trays laden with food. The revellers cheered and waited with surprising courtesy to be served. The people of Fair Isle would never cease to amaze him.

  ‘We can slip away now,’ Imoshen whispered, retreating up the steps.

  He followed. Their footsteps echoed in the marbled foyer. Drawing her into an antechamber he snatched the torch from her hand and flung it into the unlit fireplace along with his. ‘If those attackers on the bridge weren’t waiting for us, who were they after?’

  ‘Thieves looking for a party of drunken revellers?’ She shrugged. ‘How should I know? What does it matter? We escaped them.’

  The wood in the grate burst into flame. Imoshen stepped closer and extended her hands towards the warmth. A shudder gripped her.

  Of course she was cold. She had thrown her cloak at their attackers to buy him time. She had faced death at his side. Admiration stirred in Tulkhan. He knew of no Ghebite woman who would have stood by him like that, or would have been capable of thinking on her feet as she had. ‘Imoshen?’

  When she looked up at him, her eyes were haunted by the danger she had escaped. Before he could stop himself Tulkhan opened his arms and she went to him. True, she was Dhamfeer, the people’s revered T’En Princess, but she was also Imoshen and not half as sure of herself as she pretended.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  With a half sob she turned her face into his neck, her hot breath and damp tears warming his throat.

  ‘How many times must I walk through death’s shadow?’ she whispered.

  Tulkhan had no answer.

  TULKHAN HAD JOINED the Keldon nobles and his Ghebites troops to watch a T’En display match. It was staged in a hall built specifically for this purpose with tiered seats on two sides.

  The match was yet another example of T’En absurdity. Played with flat paddles and rag balls, it followed obscure rules. There was much explanation of points taken and loud guffaws from his own men who found the niceties of the game beyond them.

  Tulkhan stiffened as Imoshen received a message from a servant. Was she leaving to go to her lover?

  As she slipped away, Tulkhan decided he must discover the truth once and for all. His hand settled on his sword hilt and he stalked down the long gallery to the bedchamber wing. Imoshen was a distant figure ahead of him, sailing noiselessly through the fingers of afternoon sunlight which pierced the narrow windows. Even in this small connecting gallery the T’En had indulged their love of beauty. Lifelike paintings of vistas containing fantastic mythological figures filled each niche.

  Imoshen entered the wing of bedchambers and he waited before following. If she was being unfaithful he wanted to catch h
er in an incriminating situation, something she could not talk her way out of.

  Heart pounding, he marched up the stairwell after her, dreading what he would discover. As a Ghebite, Tulkhan could not live with the dishonour of her betrayal. He would have to kill her, and then himself.

  IMOSHEN ENTERED CARIAH’S bedchamber. Three young men turned to face her.

  ‘I have their recommendations,’ Cariah said.

  Imoshen took the letters, saying, ‘The post of interpreter will not be an easy one. The Ghebites –’

  The door burst open, crashing against the wall. In the reverberating silence General Tulkhan stood in the entrance glowering, naked sword blade raised.

  Imoshen looked up, horrified. Surely he had not imagined her in danger, not in the palace itself? Perhaps there was some heinous plot she knew nothing about. Imoshen’s skin grew cold as she realised the door had been ripped off its hinges. Tulkhan must have feared for her life.

  The General eyed the occupants of the room suspiciously and then sheathed his sword. ‘What are you doing, Imoshen?’

  ‘Interviewing prospective interpreters.’

  ‘In Lady Cariah’s bedchamber?’

  Imoshen turned to the young men. ‘Leave now. I will contact you.’

  One of them plucked his recommendation from her hands. ‘I was mistaken. I could not work with...’ He glanced at Tulkhan then scurried out, followed by the others.

  The General strode across to Imoshen, taking the rest of the letters from her. While he frowned over them she cast Cariah a pleading look.

  But Cariah tilted her head as the Basilica’s bells rang. ‘Is that the time already? I must go. I am late to meet Sahorrd.’

  ‘Sahorrd? I thought it was Jacolm,’ General Tulkhan muttered, but Cariah had already departed.

  ‘I can’t keep track of her lovers,’ Imoshen said.

  He sank onto the chair. ‘What are these letters of recommendation for?’

  ‘I was trying to find tactful interpreters to assist your lord commanders when they take over their estates.’

  ‘Is that what you have been doing these afternoons?’ he pressed.

  She hesitated, surprised by the urgency of his tone. ‘I did try to speak with you the night of their investiture, but –’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  She recognised the pain in his voice. As a healer her instinctive reaction was to offer comfort. She searched his face. ‘Surely you did not think I was in danger here in the palace itself? Have you had word of a plot against my life?’

  ‘A plot?’

  ‘You burst in with your weapon drawn.’

  He stifled a bitter laugh.

  She stepped back unnerved. ‘I... I don’t understand, General.’

  Cursing, he sprang to his feet and marched towards the door.

  Anger overrode Imoshen’s confusion. ‘In the Old Empire we did not reward kindness with boorish behaviour.’

  He turned. ‘Is that how you see us? Barbarians who need nursemaids?’

  ‘No!’ The cry was out before she could stop it. ‘This was for my people as much as yours. Your men are loyal and skilled commanders, but they are not like you.’

  ‘And what am I, Imoshen?’

  Heart hammering, she dragged in a ragged breath. This was her chance. She had wanted to speak with him free of hangers-on and court protocol, but suddenly she found his intense dark gaze frightening.

  ‘What am I to you, Imoshen?’ he asked, striding back to search her face.

  Resolutely she met his eyes. If there was going to be anything between them it had to be built on honesty and, when she spoke, her words sprang from a deep need to believe this was the truth. For if it wasn’t, all her hopes and plans were laid on a foundation of shifting sand. Swallowing her trepidation, she closed the distance between them. ‘You are a fair and good True-man who seeks to do what is right for all of Fair Isle, not just for your own Ghebite soldiers.’

  Something like a groan escaped him as he caught her to him.

  As he enveloped her in his embrace, a rush of warmth filled her. She could feel his great heart hammering under her palm which was pinned against his chest. Once she had thought conceiving his child would bind him to her, yet it was more complex than that. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to be held like this.

  But Imoshen had to have answers. She pulled away. ‘Why have you been so cold to me, General? What aren’t you telling me?

  His lips found hers, drowning her questions, drowning all coherent thought. Desire ignited her. She wanted to forget everything in this moment. Only this was real, this passion and this man.

  She felt tears escape her closed lids and did not care.

  Everything weighed upon her – the resistance of the Keldon nobles and their unspoken condemnation of her, the knowledge that her every action was being watched by foreign ambassadors while they debated whether to support the rebel T’Reothe or the Ghebite general. Rights and wrongs did not bother these pragmatic brokers of power, only results. Yet she could bear all this if only she knew that she had the General’s trust.

  As his lips covered hers Imoshen gave herself up to the hunger of his kiss. She knew they should not be touching like this, not when they were to be bonded soon, but she needed to feel his desire for her. He cradled her head and tenderly brushed her cheeks with his thumbs

  ‘You’re crying?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head and would have pulled away but he caught her arm, making her wince. Her split sleeve parted to reveal livid bruises.

  ‘I hurt you last night?’

  She shrugged, not meeting his eyes.

  ‘Forgive me?’ he asked, voice thick with emotion.

  A laugh escaped Imoshen. ‘For what? How could I be so mean-spirited when you were only thinking of my safety?’

  He shook his head, drawing back a little. ‘I judged you by Ghebite standards. I listened to evil advice.’

  ‘From the Beatific?’ It was out before Imoshen could stop herself. When he pulled away sharply she ground her teeth in frustration.

  ‘I told you to keep out of my head.’

  ‘I wasn’t in your head. I have eyes. I can see and I’m not stupid, although your Ghebite men treat me as if I were!’ She lifted trembling hands to her face, brushing the hated weak tears from her cheeks. ‘Oh General, is there any hope for us?’

  ‘Us?’

  ‘F... Fair Isle.’ Imoshen hurried on. ‘The peace is so fragile. The Keld watch your men like hawks, looking for any slight, imagined or real. Your lord commanders seem to seek ways to flaunt their rise in status. A hundred times a day Cariah and I have to soothe ruffled feathers.’

  He snorted. ‘I have seen the way Cariah soothes ruffled feathers. Which of my commanders hasn’t she bedded?’

  ‘Piers, I think. And Wharrd,’ Imoshen replied automatically, then wondered why Tulkhan glared at her.

  ‘In Gheeaba a woman of good standing would never take a lover!’

  ‘In Gheeaba a woman is the property of her father, husband or son. No wonder she has no love for men!’

  Tulkhan shook his head despairingly, but Imoshen thought she detected a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes.

  ‘Ah, Imoshen, you have no idea,’ he told her.

  Relief warmed her but she stifled it, hardening her resolve. To need his approval weakened her. ‘Then explain what I don’t understand. Perhaps I don’t know a great deal about your culture but I can learn. To keep me in ignorance demeans us both.’

  He sighed. ‘The Cadre would argue to keep a woman in ignorance is the only true kindness, for she does not have the ability to cope with the same mental complexities as a man.’

  Imoshen laughed outright. ‘That Cadre is a prime example of his own argument. Because his mind is closed he cannot see the Beatific for what she is. From the Basilica she weaves a magnificent web of power.’

  Tulkhan gave a snort of laughter then rubbed his chin ruefully, as he studied her.

/>   ‘What?’ Imoshen asked, feeling strangely lighthearted.

  He shook his head, offering his arm in a formal gesture. ‘T’Imoshen?’

  She laid her arm along his and closed her fingers over his hand. Regally, she inclined her head. ‘General Tulkhan?’

  ‘I believe there is an entertainment being performed in the forecourt to welcome the newly arrived nobles and ambassadors from the Amirate,’ he said. ‘Our presence is expected.’

  ‘If we are lucky it will all be over before we get there,’ Imoshen whispered, falling into step with him. She darted a quick look up at him and caught his grin.

  ‘You are terrible, Imoshen.’

  She sighed elaborately. ‘Yes. My mother despaired of me. She said I was too wild for the high court.’

  He squeezed her hand. ‘You will have to prove your mother wrong.’

  A little ball of sorrow formed inside Imoshen. It was true. She would have to succeed in the elaborate game of court life, because the fate of Fair Isle lay amid its seething factions. Yet she longed for her simple life at the stronghold, now irrevocably lost. If the Ghebites had not conquered Fair Isle she would have bonded with Reothe in the spring. The thought made her cheeks grow hot.

  She frowned. Would Reothe dare to move against Tulkhan without her support? Because of the formality of the Old Empire, she had not come to know Reothe as intimately as she now knew the General, yet she had to acknowledge the powerful pull she felt towards him. They shared the same T’En heritage but the affinity went much deeper than that. How much deeper she did not know, and she did not want to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  IRRITATED BY THE scratching on the door, Tulkhan put aside his plans for T’Diemn’s defence. Curse these palace servants with their little metal doorcombs, creeping about in their silent slippers, obsequiously bowing to him while smirking behind his back. ‘Enter.’

  Imoshen strode in and placed a sheaf of papers on his desk. ‘I have selected fifteen interpreters for you to make the final selection from.’

  Tulkhan was not convinced his men would accept the advice of Fair Isle interpreters. He missed Wharrd’s counsel. After their bonding ceremony and the ensuing celebrations, Kalleen and Wharrd had followed custom and left to visit their estates.