Imoshen had to know how the gifts worked. She wanted it so badly she could taste it. Well, her parents were dead so their strictures no longer counted. In the changed future she would have to rely on herself and whatever skills she had, which meant she had to learn all she could about her T’En gifts. Grimly determined, Imoshen chose to disobey her great-aunt.
Rather than waiting for the maid to return from fussing over the other women, Imoshen dressed quickly. Choosing one of the fine skull caps made of wired metal and inlaid with pearls, she brushed her hair then set this circlet in place so that the large pearl drop hung centered on her forehead. It was the sort of headdress she would normally have worn on a special occasion. The Aayel was right, it did help give her confidence.
Then she slipped her feet into the soft-soled boots and scurried back to the connecting door, making no sound on the polished floor.
A screen of scented wood stood to one side, blocking her line of sight, but it offered the perfect cover to prevent the room’s inhabitants from seeing her open the door a crack. The General was already there, speaking with the Aayel. Imoshen caught her breath.
His low voice with its faint Ghebite accent rumbled to a stop as the Aayel interrupted.
“. . . be best if you interfered as little as possible with the running of the Stronghold.”
He muttered something short and sharp. “My men have been campaigning since spring. They expect their rights of plunder. You are in no position to lay down—”
Suddenly the Aayel gave a cry. Heart thudding with concern, Imoshen pushed the door open and stepped forward to peer over the screen. She was in time to see her great-aunt gasp and clutch the wall for support, but her fingers slipped. The old woman fell headlong into the barbarian’s arms.
Tulkhan cursed as he caught the old woman. She was so light, nothing but a bag of bones. What should he do with her?
“Barbarian! What have you done to her?”
He whirled around to see the Dhamfeer girl running across the room toward him. She was no longer the untidy feral wench who had confronted him in the library, but a graceful princess dressed in rich brocade and pearls. Yet she was no less dangerous, he reminded himself.
“Nothing. She collapsed—”
“Browbeating her, no doubt!” the Dhamfeer snapped, placing a hand gently on the old woman’s forehead. She gave a soft grimace as if stung and pulled back, rubbing her hand thoughtfully. “Bring her through here.” Gesturing imperiously, she led the way through a door to what he surmised was her own bedchamber. “Sit here, before the fire. No. Don’t put her down, you must hold her upright.”
He resented her tone. “Why?”
“I am the healer. Do you want her life on your conscience?”
Tulkhan sank onto the seat before the empty fireplace. He didn’t want the old woman dying in his arms. Even if he had done nothing to cause the old one’s death, rumor would have him blamed for it and this would make his task more difficult.
The old hag was held in high esteem by the people of the Stronghold. The least he could do was cooperate with the Dhamfeer healer, but he would not let his guard down.
Imoshen was only a female and apparently a mere girl at that, since she was not married. But was she truly girl or woman? By Ghebite standards she could not be given the title of woman until she was of marriageable age. Surely she was more than fifteen summers?
Then why wasn’t she married like a Ghebite girl? Of course, she was pure Dhamfeer—untouchable. Perversely, he felt a surge of defiant lust for what he knew he could not have.
He put the thought aside and concentrated on the situation. Foreign customs never ceased to amaze him. The men of Fair Isle treated their women with a strange mixture of license and contempt. Revering them one instant, then sacrificing them in battle the next.
If the Dhamfeer had been a Ghebite girl he would have considered her harmless but he had learned not to make snap judgments. His every instinct warned him to be on guard against this heathen healer.
He studied Imoshen’s concerned face as she examined the old woman. Strange, the Dhamfeer were not beautiful by Ghebite standards. Their faces were too narrow, their cheekbones too high and features too pointy. Yet there was something about the girl’s face that fascinated him. Was it the contrast of her pale skin and wine-dark eyes?
Abruptly she glanced up, meeting his gaze.
He swallowed, his heart thudding uneasily. Tulkhan saw the knowledge in Imoshen’s eyes. She had felt it too. It was hard to define the sensation—a metallic taste on his tongue, a tingling which made his skin crawl, his teeth ache and his temples throb.
A seed of panic stirred in his belly. “What’s happening?”
Imoshen licked her lips. “It is the T’En gift you feel. I ... I am seeking the source of my great-aunt’s weakness.”
He nodded, gritting his teeth. The sensation was unpleasant. It felt like a ruffling of his senses, much the way a cat might feel if someone rubbed its fur against the grain. He swallowed, forcing his tense throat muscles to work.
Imoshen poured water into a bowl, sprinkled herbs on the surface and dampened a cloth, using this to sponge the old woman’s temples and wrists.
It didn’t appear to do much good, but the sensation of discomfort persisted so Tulkhan thought she must be working on two levels.
“What is wrong with Aayel, girl?”
“Not Aayel, the Aayel. It is a title, not a name,” Imoshen corrected. “And I have a name. You know it. I give you leave to use it. As for what ails the Aayel, it is old age. She had her hundredth birthday the year before I was born.”
It was on Tulkhan’s lips to deny this, but the simple way the Dhamfeer girl spoke told him she believed it, so it was probably true. In Gheeaba fifty was considered old.
He concentrated on the healer, Imoshen—she gave him leave to use her name. How condescending of her! In any case, he did not trust her. Who knew what trick she might try? But she seemed focused on the Aayel.
Tulkhan shifted to ease the muscles of his shoulders. The Aayel was light, but he was tense.
Interesting, if they weren’t stoned to death by their own people the Dhamfeer could live for a century! His own father had been considered an old man when he had died at fifty-three. He left behind him only two sons, but his seven daughters by his first wife and two lemans had married well, extending the royal family’s network of support throughout the Ghebite aristocracy.
Tulkhan grimaced. For there, too, he had failed to win his father’s approval. He had not been able to cement the alliance of his only arranged marriage. It had been annulled by custom, three years from the date it began when his wife produced no children. He had refused another marriage fearing ...
The old woman stiffened in his arms. Immediately the unpleasant pressure behind his head eased.
“She recovers?”
Imoshen nodded, letting the cloth fall into the bowl.
Gently, Tulkhan eased the old woman off his lap, propping her against the back of the deep chair. He crouched at her side to observe her. The Aayel was awake and aware, even if she seemed a little bewildered.
“How did I get in here?” she demanded feebly.
He patted her thin shoulder. “You passed out, old one. I carried you in.”
The Dhamfeer healer came to her feet. “You may leave now. Whatever you were discussing can be put off until tomorrow. I will escort the Aayel down to the great hall. It will ease the fears of the Stronghold if you join us at the table and break bread with us.”
Tulkhan also rose. He was growing used to the way this Dhamfeer girl simply assumed command but it still annoyed him.
“No. I will be back to escort you both down to the great hall.”
She inclined her head, as though this wasn’t important. He left having had the last word but it didn’t give him any satisfaction.
Imoshen walked the General to the door then shut it after him. She turned back to her great-aunt, hardly able to contain her excitem
ent.
“I thought he would never leave! What did you learn?”
The Aayel smiled, her eyes as bright as a bird’s.
“Well?” Imoshen prompted, secretly amazed by the old woman’s ability to assume a misleading cloak of feebleness while being as sharp as a finely honed blade.
The Aayel frowned at her with mock severity. “You deliberately disobeyed me, Shenna!”
“Yes. And just as well I did. Not only could I feel it, but he felt it when you used your gift. I had to pretend it was me seeking to heal you.”
The Aayel waved this aside and rose, but she wavered for a moment. Instinctively, Imoshen offered to support her.
“What is it, grandmother?” she asked, using the term of endearment.
The Aayel laughed. “Foolish child. I am old. I overextended myself. But you were right, you did distract him for me. He was so busy watching you, making sure you weren’t playing some trick on him, that he wasn’t worried about a frail old crone. He dismisses me as an old bag of bones.”
Imoshen had to smile.
The Aayel patted her arm. “He is a clever man but he is trapped by his own culture. He is hardly able to believe you are a threat to him. And since I am not only female but old as well, he disregards me altogether.”
“Foolish man,” Imoshen purred, delighted with her great-aunt. “So, what did you learn?”
The Aayel straightened, stepping away from her. “I must dress for dinner.”
“Why won’t you tell me?” Imoshen called to her retreating back.
“You will know soon enough.”
“When will you teach me how to do that trick?”
The Aayel spun around to face her, dark eyes snapping fire. “It is not a trick. The gift is never to be taken lightly. I have seen what can happen when a pure T’En oversteps the mark. I was twelve the last time one of us was stoned. And the Beatific of that time ordered that I witness it. I shall never forget!
“The rogue T’En male stood in the courtyard and held my eyes, held me captive. I had no defense from him. He sifted my mind freely, seeking something. I ... I never understood what he wanted but I felt every stone that hit him. I felt his agony, his fury and despair. I died with him that morning, stoned to death, and I have never trusted a male T’En since. I—.”
“Is that why you refused to meet with Reothe?”
The Aayel looked away. “I can tell you now that he is dead. T’Reothe was . . . dangerous. Your betrothal to him was a mistake.”
“If you believed this, why didn’t you tell my parents?” Imoshen demanded, unable to stop herself. “Why didn’t you warn me? Why didn’t you teach me the ways of the T’En, even if my parents forbade it?”
The Aayel took several paces forward, her dark eyes flooded with anger and grief. Her fierce expression made Imoshen fall silent.
“I can see it in you, all restless fire. You wonder why I never rebelled? Why I followed the edicts of the church?” She gestured sharply. “How can you stand there and judge me? You cannot know what I have witnessed. I grew up living in fear for my life. Nothing, not royal birth, not the Empress’s favor, could have saved me from the power of the church, had the Beatific declared me a rogue!”
Imoshen bit her lip. “I am sorry. But that was almost a hundred years ago. It is not like that anymore. Besides, everything has changed now. The church is as much a victim of the Ghebites as we are.”
The Aayel nodded slowly. “True, the rules have changed. But we must make our own.” She paused to study Imoshen critically. “Try not to look too ‘Other.’ The General finds your differences disturbing.”
Imoshen snorted but nodded.
Once her great-aunt had left to dress, she used the bowl of useless, sweet-smelling herbs to bathe her flushed face and neck. For some reason the Ghebite General made her feel gauche. When confronted by his calculating gaze, her instinct was to attack, and she could tell he didn’t like it. So he found her unnerving? Good.
If the truth be told she found the General equally unnerving. But considering that he held the Stronghold and all of Fair Isle in the palm of his hand, the less she irritated him the better.
Imoshen vowed to be on her best behavior—her life depended on it. But the thought of pandering to the whims of a barbarian Ghebite filled her with rebellion.
Chapter Two
Imoshen was intrigued. Why had the Aayel woken her so stealthily? The night candles had been doused long ago and she had fallen asleep after enduring a painfully tense meal at the General’s table.
The household servants who waited on the Aayel and herself were asleep in the antechamber. Imoshen’s great-aunt drew her aside to the window seat where they sat in a patch of moonlight.
The Aayel’s voice was low, intense. “He believes he must have you killed.”
“You did a scrying without me?”
“No—”
“You read it when he touched you? I saw how you pretended to stumble when you rose from the table. What secrets did you discover when you touched him?” Imoshen gave a disgruntled sigh. “I took his arm when he escorted us down to the great hall with the intention of trying to touch his mind but I felt nothing!”
The Aayel patted her shoulder. “It is not easy to Read a person. Don’t be discouraged. I’ve had years to hone my skills. I did get an insight into the Ghebite General when I touched him, but no, I did not Read him.
“This time I used logic, Shenna. I am old and in his eyes useless. You are young and even though ‘only’ a female”— her voice grew rich with laughter—“you could be used to unite those loyal to the old empire.”
“But I—”
The old hand clasped hers, willing her to silence.
Heart hammering with the injustice of it, Imoshen held her tongue.
“Don’t despair, there is hope. He came to see me again after you retired tonight. He came on an excuse, but he was looking for you. He’s drawn to you ...”
“I despise him!” Imoshen leapt to her feet and silently prowled the length of the room. What could she do? She felt trapped.
She could feel the Aayel watching her thoughtfully. It irritated her.
“A strong emotion moves you,” her great-aunt acknowledged. “But listen, time is short. If we are to survive you must think with a clear head and make difficult decisions which will require great fortitude to fulfill—”
“I will do whatever I must!” Imoshen strode back to the window eagerly. Her hands clenched and unclenched. How she wanted to take action! “Show me the way and I will follow it without fail—”
“No matter how hard it may be?”
She grasped the old woman’s hands. “I will not fail you. I will not fail the T’En blood that runs strong in me.”
The old woman nodded and walked stiffly to the recessed cabinet. She used her personal key to unlock it. Imoshen felt a stirring of hope as she watched the Aayel remove different medicaments.
Her great-aunt knew them by touch and by smell so she did not need to light a lamp, which might have given them away. Imoshen had learned her herbal-lore from the Aayel who, though she did not have the gift to hasten healing, was a veritable fount of practical knowledge.
Imoshen darted eagerly across the room to join her. Already she felt optimistic. “A slow, debilitating poison? I will find a way to slip it to him.”
“No.”
“Much better,” Imoshen nodded. “A quick-acting poison which mimics a natural illness.”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Hush and listen. You know your medicaments. What’s this?”
Imoshen sniffed and concentrated. She wanted to please the Aayel and show that she had learned her lessons well. “A ... woman’s herb, it has something to do with the bleeding cycle. It’s not for inhibiting fertility—”
“No. It brings on fertility.”
Imoshen’s lips formed a question but she held it back, fearing the answer.
As if her silence was expected, th
e old woman continued speaking in a voice that was no louder than the rustle of leaves in an autumn breeze. “This must be taken each night for fourteen days to bring the body into cycle. Remember this whatever happens—”
“What do you mean?” Imoshen’s skin went cold, her voice rose.
“Hush. The General leads through the loyalty of his men. He must show himself to be all-powerful and without doubt, but he is a True-man with all the human frailty that a man possesses. He must cloak his weakness, just as you must hide your thoughts when you have to take a path you may despise to achieve your ends.”
“I don’t understand you!” Agitated, Imoshen turned and walked to the window. “I wish the General had never come to invade Fair Isle! Oh, why did our armies fail? We had the numbers, we had—”
“We had grown arrogant in our complacency. Hubris is fatal. Humility is a painful lesson.”
“Hubris, humility—what have these to do with it all?” Imoshen muttered, resentfully. Was the Aayel mocking her?
“If you live long enough you will understand.”
Imoshen grimaced. That was a cheerful thought!
She sank onto the padded window seat with a sigh. Her fingers clasped the casements as she turned to look up to the twin moons.
The smaller represented woman; the larger, man. They performed a dance around each other, sometimes one was in the ascendant, sometimes the other. Then four times a year on the cusp of the seasons both moons would fill the sky with a blaze of light so bright that night was almost as clear as day, bathed in silver.
Soon it would be that time, the time of the Harvest Feast, of ancient rites the people still performed after six hundred years of foreign lords, a time when the T’En performed ancient ceremonies dating back to the customs of their homeland.
Imoshen flinched, recalling her history lessons.
The first T’Imoshen had ordered their ship burned to the waterline so that none could desert her and flee back to their distant homeland. That took courage. It was a hard decision which had forced them to succeed or die trying.
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