The Keeper of Knowledge gave a shrill laugh, which spurred the other three to attack Imoshen again. She knew the odds were against her. The floor was littered with broken pots and glass, and covered by a thin film of oil. She had little opportunity to maneuver.
Experience told her the only way to fight superior odds was to place her enemies so that they impeded each other and were reduced to attacking her one at a time. With this in mind she stepped back toward the shelves and kicked the first in the knee. He went down cursing.
Her aim was to disable. It felt good to take action after the idleness forced on her since spring.
One of the men yelled something and the other two tried to encircle her. She saw their intention and charged the man between her and the door, but her foot slipped on the oil-slick floor and he caught her. She’d only just broken away from him when the other two were upon her.
Furious, she twisted and writhed in their grasp—all silent rage. Twice she drew blood with her sharp teeth. One cursed and a fist caught her in the mouth. She tasted her own sweet, salty blood.
Two of the men succeeded in pinioning her arms and the others, all nursing various injuries by now surrounded her, keeping beyond range of her kicks. Their expressions told her they were intent on exacting revenge. Imoshen knew her situation was desperate.
One tore the neckline of her gown, baring her breasts. She felt her nipples tighten on contact with the cold air and heated looks.
They laughed. Outrage roiled in her belly—and cold dismay. It had been an eager, throaty laughter which made her skin crawl. So it was true, these Ghebites raped captive females. Such an act was an abomination to her people.
“Barbarians!” she hissed.
The nearest balled his fist.
That was when the General himself had entered. She writhed under his calculating gaze, caught at a disadvantage. She wanted to rage defiantly at him, but already her impetuous actions had cost her her dignity. Imoshen knew she must not anger this barbarian. If he chose, he could order everyone in the Stronghold put to the sword and nothing or no one could stop him.
Channeling her fear, she tried to think clearly. She could not afford to allow her anger to take over. This was war—she had to use every weapon she had. The Aayel claimed everyone had a weakness. She had to find the General’s.
Meeting his eyes, Imoshen made her stand.
“According to the terms of surrender ...” she swallowed—how it galled her to use that word—“there was to be no wanton destruction. I found these fools smashing the pots which preserve our most ancient parchments. I call on you to honor the Terms and preserve this knowledge. Our people have a saying, ‘Knowledge knows no loyalty. It is the tool of the wise.’ ”
She let the words flow, but her mind was concentrating on what lay behind his penetrating gaze. Focusing on the man, she tried to read any nuance in his expression, any unguarded thought that might reveal his weakness.
It was said that sometimes in moments of great stress, the pure T’En could call on their gifts to see into another’s heart, but she could discern nothing from this Ghebite. His face was guarded, like the too-black eyes which hid his thoughts from her. He was physically different from any of the men she had known, but something in her recognized his type. He was a soldier, a man of action used to command, physically and mentally disciplined.
The Elite Guard waited to hear their General’s response.
Tulkhan shifted, irritation eating at him. He didn’t need this girl-woman to tell him his duty, to lecture him on the Terms of Surrender. What rankled him most was the knowledge that she was right. His men had been in the wrong. He would have to discipline them.
Already he had confronted an aged crone—the Aayel they called her—who seemed to think she would be representing her people to negotiate terms. Once he would have laughed outright, but many years in foreign countries taught him to hold his tongue and watch.
His own men had snickered, for in Gheeaba an old woman past childbearing age was good for nothing but minding the babes or feeding the dogs.
Tulkhan experienced a painful flash, a memory of his old mother hobbling around the royal courtyards, dodging blows. How proud she had been of him. Yet he had never acknowledged her, even when he had felt her glowing eyes on him. And she in turn had not expected so much as a kind word from him in passing. Then, during one of his numerous summer campaigns she had died, unmourned, buried in a communal grave for the fever victims.
After all this time he thought he’d forgotten, yet the sight of the proud old Aayel had reminded him of his mother. Though he did not know why when his mother’s demeanor had been that of a servile dog waiting to be kicked, as was appropriate for an old woman who had no value to society.
Yet when the Aayel spoke, these odd people had blanched and watched with fear in their eyes as though she might strike him down with her withered arm. Did they know something he didn’t? A quiver of disquiet moved through him. The Aayel was a Throwback, pure Dhamfeer.
Now he faced another of these Dhamfeer women, one who had taken on five of his Elite Guard in defense of an old bag of bones and a library of knowledge.
It amused him, though he was not about to show it.
“Who are you to lecture your captor?”
“Release me.”
He stiffened, irritated by her demand. To give ground was to show weakness, but his men had been in the wrong, so now was the moment for compromise. He nodded to the members of his guard. “Release the Dhamfeer and no more destruction—”
“They can help the Keeper of Knowledge restore the manuscripts,” his captive interrupted, in the tone of one used to giving orders.
He knew she had to be one of the royal line, yet he’d been eliminating them as he did battle, first the Empress and Emperor, then their heirs. Who was this Dhamfeer? Even the Emperor and his kin had looked more like True-people than she did.
The guard stepped away from her. She tossed her head and shrugged her shoulders as if to rid herself of the imprint of their hands, but she made no move to cover her breasts, making him wonder if what they said was true—Dhamfeer women did not know modesty because they considered themselves above True-men, allowing none to sully their perfect, pale flesh.
Heat suffused him. It was also said if the Dhamfeer chose to take a lover they were insatiable, that a True-man could die trying to satisfy one. Again his soldier training surfaced. Superstition and nonsense. He wanted answers.
“Very well,” he demanded. “Who are you?”
A prickle of excitement moved over his skin as he noted fury flaming in her wine-dark eyes.
“I am T’Imoshen,” she said, giving herself the T’En title which translated roughly as princess in his own language.
Lifting her chin, she held his eyes defiantly. A well-bred woman of his race would have looked down out of deference, especially an unmarried female.
Tulkhan stiffened. She had claimed the prefix T‘. It was a sign of the royal house which meant this vixen was directly related to the Emperor—by rights he should have her killed.
A member of the royal household would foster insurgence, and provide a figurehead for the rabble to congregate around in the event of rebellion, even a female.
“Imoshen,” he acknowledged, intentionally ignoring her title. She was too sure of herself, he needed her more malleable. If he was to use her, he had to frighten her. Deliberately rude, he nodded to the man at her side. “Lock her in with the old crone, the one they call Aayel.”
He caught a flicker of triumph in her carefully schooled features. Was she pleased because he had ordered her locked away with the old woman or was she pretending to be pleased? He didn’t know. He didn’t understand any of these people, least of all a Dhamfeer Throwback.
Tulkhan felt his mouth tighten in a grim line of annoyance. Privately he might find her unsettling, but he must not show a moment’s indecision before her, or his men. To maintain command he must always appear to be in command.
> He would have to decide what to do with her. Killing a female did not bother him. He had seen what these females were trained to do in battle and he would order her execution without compunction.
But after nearly eleven years with the army he was beginning to feel that he had seen too many deaths. He was sick of the stench of destruction. More importantly, he could make use of this Dhamfeer. She was his direct link to the cultural treasure of this island. But he wanted to see fear crawl across her features, he needed to see it. With a flick he indicated her cape on the floor. “Cover yourself, woman.”
She bent down and lifted the cape, a little smile playing around her swollen lips. As though it made no difference to her, she swung the cape over her shoulders and pulled it closed. Then she stepped forward before his men expected it so that her face was near his, her eyes level with his mouth.
She was much bigger than a woman of his race, as tall as a tall man.
Her six-fingered hand closed on his bare forearm. He had a flash of cool white fingers pressed around his coppery skin.
Her strange eyes fixed on his, searching intimately. He felt . . . naked.
Again, he caught that foreign scent on her skin, not unpleasant but carnal. It sliced through his civilized exterior, through his educated mind to the primal male in him, eliciting a rapid response from his body, a response so immediate it unnerved him.
His physical vulnerability was a revelation and he hated it. Tulkhan had not been unnerved since his first campaign. Irritation flashed through him so that he had trouble distinguishing her words.
“I see an old woman.” She grimaced as if in pain and Tulkhan went cold to the core. “The fever troubles her—”
Before she could finish the soldiers jerked her away from him, cursing her and apologizing profusely to him.
“Fools! If she’d wanted to kill me I’d be dead by now!” he snarled, aware that her other hand had been only a finger’s breadth from his ceremonial knife.
Her comments had to be a trick, a lucky guess. Yet, honesty forced Tulkhan to admit she had dipped into his mind and plucked an image of his mother—not as he had ever seen her, since he had been leading the army in another country when she died—but as he imagined the old woman had lain, alone, unloved, dying, with no one to mourn her passing.
Guilt surged through him. He hated the Dhamfeer woman for stealing the image from his mind, for using it to pierce his defenses. All his life he had prided himself on his control; even in the heat of battle he assessed the odds, the enemy’s capabilities and his own men. Next to the king his word was absolute.
Now, looking into her pale face, he faltered, but he could not afford to reveal his trepidation. She must never know he feared her, and his men must never suspect this chink in his armor.
The Dhamfeer frowned, her eyes widened and she asked as if genuinely confused, “Why did they refuse the old woman medicine to ease her passing?”
General Tulkhan’s mouth went dry—it was his private torment. If he had been there, if he had shown one shred of feeling, he would have insisted they treat his mother, but it was the custom not to physic the old women. Only a girl or a woman of childbearing age would be treated. The old females must live or die depending on their strength.
“Take her away!” he snarled.
The Dhamfeer stepped back, surprised by his tone. Even his men flinched.
Furious, he gestured. “Out!”
Head held high, she walked past him as though the men who stood to each side of her were there to serve her, not to imprison her.
Defiant Dhamfeer!
Tulkhan fought an urge to grab her slender throat and crush her defiance. He longed to see her at his feet pleading, as he had crushed the defending armies. He had dealt with kings and noblemen. He had seen honorable defeat and cowardly defeat but he had never feared his captive before, and he felt a sudden loathing that went bone deep.
She defied him on every level, made him question his very concept of himself. Only once before had he been forced to question his place in the world. When his half-brother was born and his position as the king’s heir was supplanted, General Tulkhan had seen his erstwhile mentors withdraw their support. Human nature was fickle, he discovered. As leman-son any chance of inheritance had died with the birth of his half-brother. He had no rights, only those which he took and held.
Swallowing this bitter knowledge, he had chosen to walk alone, to make his own future.
As a matter of political necessity he gave lip service to the Ghebite religion. He had sworn fealty to his father, the king, and striven to prove himself. He had fought with great honor in his father’s name, but still the old man had died without saying those words Tulkhan longed to hear.
Every time he returned triumphant to present his father with the news of another victory he had looked for that particular expression in the old man’s eyes. But the king had died without acknowledging him as anything more than the son of his concubine.
When this campaign was over he would swear an oath of fealty to the new king, his half-brother, but he silently raged against a system that acknowledged a man’s birth and not his worth.
In his heart Tulkhan called no man master.
In the deepest recess of his being he recognized that same defiant quality in the Dhamfeer woman, and he had to admit a certain reluctant admiration.
It could not be easy to find oneself a captive, confronted by the victor.
The Dhamfeer were an ancient race. They had come out of the rising sun six centuries ago and taken this land of the True-people by force. They’d made use of written language and created art and music when his ancestors were still eating their enemies’ hearts to bolster their courage.
Much was whispered of Dhamfeer powers, their ability to read minds and to see the future. How much of it was true Tulkhan did not know. A good tactician did not reveal the extent of his power and he had assumed it was all bluff, until now. After all, their armies had not outwitted him on the field of battle.
Yet she had plucked a long-buried image from his mind!
“Give the Keeper of Knowledge the aid he needs,” the General ordered, as though he wasn’t dizzy with the implications of what he’d just learned.
He stepped into the long hall and went to a narrow window. He could not deny the evidence—his skin crawled with the knowledge. She had touched him and with that contact, delved into his thoughts and pulled out an image. He felt violated, more frightened than the first time he had faced death on the battlefield. Because his mind was private, his only sanctuary.
His tutors had filled him with the lore of his homeland and the strategies of great battles. In the years he had traveled with the army he had kept an open mind, learned all he could about his enemies. Knowledge knew no allegiance, knowledge was power. Damn her, she was right!
His Dhamfeer captive had invaded his mind and laid open his vulnerable self—he should kill her.
A strange shudder passed over his body at the thought. In his mind’s eye he saw his old mother lying on the mat, suffering in silence.
The image came more clearly to him than ever before. Was it a true Seeing? He tried to bury it as he had done repeatedly in the last few years, but the Dhamfeer had exposed it and in doing so she had laid open his hidden grief.
Tulkhan gripped the window frame till his shoulders ached with tension. Moisture gathered in his eyes. Eyes that had witnessed countless deaths on the battlefield burned with unshed tears for a mother he had loved but had never acknowledged.
In Gheeaba a man had no time for tears—they were a female weakness. The Dhamfeer had defied him. She had emasculated him!
He had to kill her!
The Aayel’s surprisingly strong hands closed on Imoshen’s arm, stopping her when she would have risen to leave with the other women.
They had the use of a wing of chambers but effectively they were prisoners in their own Stronghold. The other women retreated to dress for the evening meal. The Aayel had said they
were to be very formal, to carry on as if they were not living on a knife’s edge.
When the connecting door closed on the last woman Imoshen prepared for the worst. She felt her cheeks grow hot. Had the Aayel heard about her meeting with the Ghebite General?
She had no excuse. Her impulsiveness had led her into trouble, again. Imoshen opened her mouth to apologize but the Aayel spoke.
“We haven’t much time.” Her voice rustled like dry leaves on paving stones. “We need to find this General Tulkhan’s key.”
Imoshen felt a rush of excitement. The Aayel was talking about using her gift. And it wasn’t a simple scrying either!
Imoshen knew that despite the Terms they faced execution. It would only take a small shift in some factor, perhaps something they could not predict, for the General to justify their deaths.
“What will you do? Can I help you?”
The Aayel’s garnet eyes fixed on Imoshen’s face. “No, better not. I want you out of the way. If I’m worried about you, it will break my concentration. Contrary to what is rumored the T’En gifts aren’t very powerful. You can heal a little and I can scry imperfectly.
“If I maintain body contact and concentrate very hard I can sift a True-person’s mind to find their deepest fear, their secret wish—the key to controlling them. It is not easy and the General might resist. He strikes me as a man who is used to keeping to himself. He is no fool, Imoshen.”
“I know that.” She eyed the Aayel resentfully.
The old woman squeezed her arm. “Go, get dressed. I want you looking very regal tonight. We are the last of the T’En and must look the part. Appearance is everything to the susceptible.”
Imoshen nodded and touched her lips briefly to the old woman’s forehead. But in her heart she raged against the unfairness of it. She wanted to be there to see how the Aayel used her T’En powers.
Resentment burned in her. Her parents had forbidden the Aayel to teach her about her T’En heritage, condemning her to suffer all the subtle slights and indignities of her accidental birth and none of the advantages.
Broken Vows Page 3
