Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

While he strained to see her, he registered that familiar metallic sensation. Fear closed a cold hand around his heart. ‘Imoshen?’

  ‘Tulkhan?’

  He identified her tall dark shape amid the shadows where a moment before he could not see her. His skin prickled unpleasantly.

  Silence hung between them. He felt vulnerable, exposed by the beauty of the music and the intimacy of the scene he had witnessed. When he made no move to speak she took a step closer.

  ‘Why are you here, General?’

  He closed the distance between them and lifted his hand to cup her cheek as he had seen Cariah do. He wanted to claim her with a kiss of slow, lingering intensity, to taste her lips and savour her response.

  Her hand closed over his, and she used gentle pressure to break the contact. ‘Don’t. I cannot think when you touch me.’

  The admission made his blood race. ‘Nor I.’

  The rawness of his tone surprised him. He heard Imoshen’s quick intake of breath. He wanted to pursue that breath, to feel her gasp at his touch. Driven, he sought her lips. Just one kiss, he told himself.

  But he knew it would never be enough when she opened at his touch, sweetly giving. She was the elixir of life, intoxicating and vital.

  With a little moan, Imoshen broke contact. ‘Why did you follow me, General?’

  He knew he should warn her about Jacolm, but he didn’t want to destroy the intimacy of this moment. Yet questions begged to be answered. ‘What is there between you and the Lady Cariah?’

  She turned her face from him.

  ‘Imoshen?’

  She sighed. ‘Nothing that I can share with you.’

  ‘But you share something with her? What unnatural creatures you are!’

  She gave a snort of disbelief. ‘And the love your men share as sword-brothers is somehow more natural?’

  When he gave no answer she went to walk past him. He caught her arm, fighting the urge to pull her to him and bend her will with the force of his need for her. ‘What do you plot with Cariah? Answer me.’

  Her eyes were dark pools in her pale face. She gave no answer, no denial.

  He tightened his hold on her. ‘Imoshen, you tell me to trust you. How can I?’

  Sadly she mimicked his earlier action, cupping his jaw in her hand. Her lids lowered as she leant close enough to brush her lips across his. ‘Trust must be given.’ Her breath dusted his face.

  He returned the kiss. ‘Earned, not given. I will not have secrets between us.’

  She pulled back. ‘So you say. But it is not my secret to share with you. Let me go, General.’

  It was on his lips to deny her. As if sensing this she twisted her arm, breaking his hold.

  ‘We of the T’En value our word,’ she told him.

  ‘You speak in riddles. You cannot expect me to trust blindly. I was ready to support you against my own man tonight.’

  ‘That Jacolm is trouble. My honour is my own to –’

  ‘Anything you do or say reflects on me,’ he told her.

  ‘I could say the same. How would you feel if I fought your battles for you?’

  He tensed. ‘You do. You did not even consult me before interviewing those interpreters.’

  Her startled look amused him.

  For a moment she said nothing. Then she lifted her chin as if facing something unpleasant. ‘I see. If I have offended you, I am sorry, General Tulkhan. But I am used to making decisions and acting on them. What I did, I did for your own good.’

  ‘I could say the same. You do not know what honour means to a Ghebite man.’

  ‘And it means nothing to a Ghebite woman, to any woman?’

  He lifted his hands helplessly.

  Imoshen moved to the door. As she opened it the candlelight cloaked her with its golden glow. When she looked back he wanted to kiss the furrow from her brow.

  ‘The day after tomorrow we will take our vows, General. Bonding is no dry legal transaction. It is not an exchange of property where a man acquires a wife to act as brood mare.’ Emotion choked her voice. He could see tears glittering in her dark eyes. ‘Bonding is a joining of the souls. I only pray we will not live to regret this.’

  With that, she was gone.

  He wanted to confront her, insist that what he felt for her had nothing to do with political necessity. But how could he reassure her when he had already promised himself to take his pleasure from her body yet keep his inner self private, shielded from her powers?

  A Ghebite soldier reserved his closest friendship for his equal, his sword-brother. They faced death together on the battlefield. He trusted his sword-brother with his life. A Ghebite soldier shared something less with the wife he hardly saw. After all, she was only a woman.

  Tulkhan’s head reeled. Imoshen expected him to regard her as his equal. But could he share his soul with her? Would she settle for less?

  Chapter Nine

  IMOSHEN HID HER surprise as Tulkhan linked his arm through hers and drew her away from the others.

  ‘In Gheeaba it is customary for the husband to give his wife a gift the day before their wedding,’ he said.

  It was on the tip of Imoshen’s tongue to correct him – she would never be his wife – but she did not want to destroy such a rare moment of accord.

  She was aware of the disapproving stares of Woodvine and Athlyn as Tulkhan led her out of the salon. According to the old customs, bond-partners fasted and purified themselves, abstaining from all contact from dawn the day before their bonding. But even before the Ghebite invasion, only old-fashioned people like Imoshen’s family and the Keld had adhered to such customs. In the high court this observance had been reduced to fasting from midnight the night before the bonding, and this was what Imoshen planned to do.

  Tulkhan opened the door to the map-room and strode to the table which, for once, was not littered with maps. Four mysterious objects were laid out there.

  ‘First’ – he picked up Reothe the Builder’s tome – ‘I wanted to thank you for supplying a translation of the passages on T’Diemn’s defences. What a mind, and to think he lived four hundred years ago!’

  Imoshen couldn’t help smiling.

  Tulkhan put the book aside and unrolled a rich velvet cloak to reveal the longest sword she had ever seen. ‘I wanted you to see this. I know you think my people barbarians because we don’t have written records dating back hundreds of years. But we are not ignorant. This is my grandfather’s sword, which was gifted to me. As you see, the scabbard is not decorated for display, but the hilt is another matter.’ He unwrapped the hand grip. It was decorated in niello with a surprisingly graceful design of a stylised rearing horse. ‘This is my size, a hand-and-a-half grip. I take after my grandfather, Seerkhan the Giant, or Great. In our language, giant and great are the same word. In my grandfather’s time a man’s life depended on his sword and his horse. I was taught never to unsheathe this sword without drawing blood. The great Akha Khan demands his tribute. Come closer. I want you to see this.’

  Drawn despite herself, Imoshen stepped towards him. He took her into the circle of his arms, her back to his chest. His deep voice enveloped her. She felt warm to the core.

  ‘This sword should not be unsheathed in direct sunlight.’ Silently he withdrew it from the fur-lined scabbard and held it before them so that Imoshen looked along the blade. ‘Breathe on the blade and see Akha Khan’s Serpent come to life.’

  Imoshen took a deep breath and exhaled. As her breath moved up the blade, a pattern like the variations of a serpent’s skin travelled up the blade and back. She gasped in wonder and reached out to touch it.

  ‘No,’ Tulkhan warned. ‘It is dedicated to Akha Khan.’

  Imoshen’s fingers itched to stroke the gleaming blade to see if she could identify the power which animated it. ‘How?’

  ‘This weapon is a work of art. Its blade was made in three parts, entwined cold, forged, then twisted and reforged. Then it was filed and burnished with infinite care. This is not the work
of an unsophisticated people.’

  He released her to step away. His eyes met hers. She watched as he ran his finger down the blade’s edge, leaving a smear of blood.

  Holding Tulkhan’s eyes Imoshen placed the tip of her sixth finger above the blade’s edge. She knew she could seal a wound with her healing gift. Exerting herself, she concentrated on creating a wound. A drop of blood pooled on the pad of her finger, fell then trickled down the gleaming metal.

  The General’s black eyes widened. No word passed between them, but they understood each other. It thrilled Imoshen.

  Tulkhan cleaned the blade before replacing it in its scabbard.

  ‘I thank you for sharing this with me,’ she said. ‘It is a gift I will treasure always.’

  He laughed. ‘Your gift is more tangible than that.’ With a flourish he opened the last object, a shallow chest. ‘This is your gift. A torque of pure gold to match my ceremonial belt.’

  Imoshen stared at the neck circle. Its line was elegant enough, a crescent moon. That was not what offended her. It was the subject of the filigree and niello design.

  ‘See.’ Tulkhan unwrapped his ceremonial belt, which was made of rectangular hinged squares of gold embossed with the same design. ‘Let me see the torque on you.’

  Imoshen opened her mouth to protest, but held her tongue. Tulkhan placed the heavy gold torque around her throat, then stood back to admire the effect.

  Imoshen lifted her hand to the neck circle. It felt like a yoke of servitude, binding her to Tulkhan’s perceptions of a wife. She undid the clasp and removed the torque slowly, replacing it in its bed of velvet.

  ‘What is it, Imoshen?’

  ‘Your men deck themselves in golden jewellery.’

  ‘It is our way. We wear our wealth on our backs. It is not so long since we were a nomadic people, and old customs die hard.’

  Imoshen sighed. He was defensive now. ‘What is on the torque, General?’

  Tulkhan grimaced but contained his annoyance. The design was obvious. ‘The great Akha Khan in the form of a black stallion.’

  ‘And what is he doing?’

  ‘Crushing the enemies of his people.’ Even as he said it, he understood. ‘It is taken from a myth where he transforms into the stallion and tramples his opponents.’

  ‘Death and bloodshed.’ She lifted the heavy torque from its resting place and held it before him, anger making her voice tight. ‘My island has been trampled by Akha Khan’s stallion and my family are all dead. How can you expect me to wear this?’ Tears stung her eyes. ‘True, this is exquisite workmanship, but it deals with blood and death. Is the Ghebite mind so steeped in violence that it cannot create peace and beauty for its own sake?’

  ‘You refuse my gift?’

  ‘I will wear your gift with honour. But I will never be your wife and wear a yoke of servitude.’ Imoshen replaced the torque, searching his face despairingly. She scooped up the great sword on its bed of velvet. ‘I value the sharing of this more than anything else.’

  Her declaration warmed Tulkhan. He took the sword from her and slowly rewrapped it. ‘Every morning when I wake I wonder, what will Imoshen confound me with today?’

  Silence hung between them, heavy with so many words left unsaid.

  Imoshen touched his arm. ‘Neither of us treads an easy path, General. We will be bonded and crowned on the last day of the old year. When the sun rises the day after tomorrow it will be dawning on a new age for Fair Isle.’

  His hand covered hers. ‘I did not mean to insult you with my gift.’

  ‘It is the gifts you cannot see that I treasure most.’

  He shook his head. ‘You are a rare woman, Imoshen.’

  She smiled. ‘I will see you at the festivities this evening.’

  Only when the door closed behind her did Tulkhan realise that she had forgotten to take the torque. He would send it to her room.

  Crossing to the hearth he stirred up the coals then sat before the fire, resting Seerkhan’s sword across his knees. His heart beat faster as he recalled Imoshen’s words. The day after tomorrow the sun would rise on a new age for Fair Isle, one fraught with danger and challenge.

  An age he would stamp as his own.

  IMOSHEN SHIFTED IMPATIENTLY, causing her new maid to drop the comb. ‘I’m sorry, Merkah.’

  The girl flushed. Imoshen suspected she wasn’t used to members of the royal family apologising.

  ‘It will be a grand feast tonight,’ Merkah ventured.

  Imoshen nodded. This was her last evening unbonded. Tomorrow promised to be a full day with the bonding ceremony in the morning and the joint coronation after the midday meal. She longed to know whether her bonding with Tulkhan would bring peace to Fair Isle, and feared what would become of Reothe. The temptation to do a scrying was intense but she lacked control.

  And she was still no closer in her quest for knowledge of her gifts. Though the Keeper of Knowledge had provided her with a raft of ancient documents, she could find no histories of her people and no treatises on the T’En gifts. If only Imoshen the First’s journal had not been destroyed!

  ‘There, T’Imoshen.’ Merkah stepped back with a pleased expression and waited expectantly.

  Imoshen studied her reflection. She looked quite unlike herself. The maid had created a hairstyle worthy of the high court. Imoshen’s hair had been smoothed over padding on the crown of her head to create a fan of silver satin. A single deep blue sapphire hung in the centre of her forehead. She had argued against a diadem of zircons, preferring the simplicity of a single sapphire echoing the deep blue of her underdress.

  ‘I look so... grand,’ Imoshen said. ‘Thank you.’ But she could see it wasn’t the response Merkah had hoped for.

  Recommended by Kalleen, the girl was a capable maid, but Imoshen couldn’t let her guard down with her. She longed for her old friend’s company.

  ‘You may have the rest of the evening to yourself.’ Imoshen rose.

  ‘Very well, T’Imoshen.’ Clearly disappointed, Merkah knelt to adjust Imoshen’s brocade tabard, which had been embroidered with the finest thread of spun silver. It hung to Imoshen’s knees over the velvet undergown.

  As Merkah rose she tripped. Imoshen caught the girl’s arm but she pulled away sharply.

  Just as quickly she offered an abrupt obeisance of apology. ‘Forgive me, my lady.’

  ‘It does not matter,’ Imoshen whispered. But it did. It hurt when people pulled away from her touch.

  She pretended to adjust her neckline in the full-length mirror. The truth of her position was not pleasant. In desperation the people might reach to her for reassurance, but in everyday life she was a pariah. In the Age of Discernment, enlightenment in Fair Isle did not extend to the T’En. ‘You may go, Merkah. Join in the festivities.’

  The maid gave Imoshen the traditional deep obeisance without meeting her eyes and silently withdrew.

  Imoshen paced the room. She was ready before time because she had chosen not to attend the afternoon’s formal entertainment. She had thought she needed time to compose herself for this evening and tomorrow, but now she was restless.

  Surely it would not hurt to walk the corridors of the palace? She could pretend she was making a last-minute review of the arrangements for the festivities. Sweeping out into the long gallery, she strode off.

  The palace of a thousand rooms was full. The Keldon nobles had all brought their own retinues, and entertainers of every kind were housed in the servants’ quarters. Mainland ambassadors and nobles had been arriving steadily for the past ten days. This in itself was a good sign. It meant their rulers were willing to acknowledge General Tulkhan’s sovereignty of Fair Isle. From conversations with various parties Imoshen had learned that the General was well known and respected. Even the ambassadors whose countries had been annexed to Gheeaba spoke well of him.

  She’d had to exercise diplomacy while greeting the ambassadors from the mainland triad. When the Empress had called on the southern kingdoms to
honour the old alliance, they had claimed they could not mobilise their armies against the Ghebite invasion in time. Yet now they boldly presented themselves as though their excuse was not paper thin.

  Imoshen suspected Tulkhan had received news of his half-brother from the copper-skinned men of the mainland’s north. As far as she knew Gharavan had retreated to lick his wounds, though unsurprisingly no one had been sent from Gheeaba to bring them news. If the lack of an ambassador from his homeland troubled Tulkhan, he did not reveal it, least of all to her.

  A familiar arrogant voice echoed up the grand staircase from the marbled foyer below. Imoshen’s skin went cold. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered around a column.

  Kinraid the Vaygharian! The sly manipulative traitor himself.

  This was the snake who had convinced Gharavan to turn on Tulkhan. Unbidden, the memories swamped her. When she had not been in her stronghold to greet the Ghebite king and his Vaygharian adviser, they had declared her a rebel. In reality she had been abducted by one of Reothe’s men, Drake. She had escaped and returned to her stronghold only to find the King and his Ghebites feasting in her great hall.

  Within a day Tulkhan had returned from the Keldon Highlands after failing to capture Reothe. Seeing his chance, Kinraid had claimed that if the General were truly loyal to King Gharavan he would return at once to hunt the rebels.

  When Tulkhan refused to leave until spring melted the snow in the high passes, Kinraid had marched into Tulkhan’s bedchamber where Imoshen and the General lay entwined. Kinraid had laughed as his men beat Tulkhan senseless in front of her.

  But, when Kinraid’s bare flesh had touched hers, she had seen his death. The Vaygharian would meet his end in flames of agony.

  Kinraid’s voice jolted her and she looked down to see him dressed in the formal robes of the Vayghar, complete with sculpted beard and beaded hair. He was accompanied by several men in the same ornate costumes of Vayghar merchant princes. They carried themselves with assurance, full of their own self-importance. Imoshen had seen the same stance in other ambassadorial groups.

  She flushed. How dare Kinraid presume on the immunity of ambassadorial status to invade her palace? The General must be warned. Swiftly, Imoshen left the upper gallery and sped to the salon.