“It’s healed!”
“It will never heal until you lie with me and complete the vows. I still bleed, but you can’t see it, Imoshen.”
This time when he lifted her face she knew he was going to kiss her and she found a strange reluctance grip her. His mouth was firm, his tongue tasted of blood and she knew he must be able to taste his blood on her tongue. She felt a surge of fear. Suddenly, he was a feral creature, implacable and alien.
She was afraid of him. What else could he do? Did he know what his body did to hers? Obviously he had recognized it long before she did. She didn’t like being at a disadvantage. It was frightening not knowing the extent of another’s ability, not knowing if they were manipulating you.
In a flash the thought came to her—no wonder Tulkhan feared her.
Reothe pulled away from her. His eyes narrowed and she knew he had sensed her thoughts.
She opened her mouth but hesitated as his lips set in a hard, implacable line.
“What double game are you playing, Imoshen?”
“I ... nothing.” She felt at a loss, a child caught in an adult’s game. “I seek only the best for my people.”
Noises in the hall alerted them. There was so much left unsaid. The door creaked on its hinges.
Reothe gave her an intense look which promised this was unfinished. Then he darted through the narrow panel, ducking his head to pass into the passage. The wood slid shut.
Imoshen pulled up her gown and kept her back to the fire to hide the bloodstains from his bonding-wound. She could still smell his scent on the air, on her skin, but her maidservant wasn’t so sensitive. Imoshen could tell Kalleen was weary as she gave her pithy opinion of the Abbey, of Wharrd.
She offered her services to Imoshen who refused, saying she wanted to sit up a little longer. Kalleen curled up on the low bed at the foot of Imoshen’s bed. Within minutes she was fast asleep.
Thoughtfully, Imoshen dropped her gown to the floor and studied the bloodstains on the small of her back where Reothe had held her. She lifted the material to her face and inhaled his scent.
He was her other self. Her loyalty should be to him and to her family, to regaining the kingdom, yet she could not abandon the people of Fair Isle. She was torn—she’d given her word to General Tulkhan.
Her word? She had also given Reothe her word and all but made the vow of bonding. What was wrong with her? Opposing loyalties clawed at her. She felt as if she would tear in two. What could she do? She tossed the gown into the fire and watched it burn, the flames casting shadows across her naked, pearly white flesh.
It seemed symbolic—the burning of her innocence. She knew whatever path she took one of the two men would grow to hate her, and one of them would die.
Chapter Four
Imoshen lifted her hand and looked at the wound on her wrist. Reothe had been right. She had healed him after he had done the same for her. She would not have thought it possible. Perhaps that type of healing would not work on True-men and women, perhaps it was only effective because of their racial affinity?
Frustration gripped Imoshen. Because her parents had kept her birthright from her, forbidding the Aayel to instruct her in T’En ways, there was so much she did not know and Reothe did. He’d had longer to hone his natural skills, but healing had always been her gift. His skill surprised her.
Was he more gifted than she? The Aayel’s fearful voice returned to Imoshen as she described how she had witnessed the stoning of the rogue male T’En. He had captured the Aayel, invaded her mind and forced her to experience his pain. His death had nearly been hers. How cruel he had been. Imoshen felt anger on behalf of the twelve-year-old child her great-aunt had been. She might sneer at the Ghebites but she must not forget it wasn’t so long ago that her own people had practiced barbarism.
Her great-aunt had had good cause to fear that rogue T’En male. Now Imoshen understood why the Aayel had chosen to absent herself during Reothe’s visit.
Did the Aayel have a good reason to fear Reothe? Surely not.
Imoshen shivered. She would not rest until she knew the extent of Reothe’s gifts and how to defend herself from him. He had all but read her mind! She hated knowing her thoughts were open to him.
Was that how the General felt?
Her hair was almost dry. Feeling strangely distant, she separated the long strands and began to plait them together. As she did, a flicker of firelight reflected on the knife blade, attracting her eye.
Imoshen flushed.
Reothe had challenged her to use it, knowing she wouldn’t. He had risked his life to come back for her. She owed him something. Yet his intensity frightened her. When he held her, she couldn’t think clearly.
Was he trying to force his will on hers by subtle use of his powers? Her skin went cold at the thought.
Had her confusion been caused by the strength of his gifts and not by her natural response to him? Had he chosen her from the first because she was susceptible to him?
Being a Throwback she had searched the Stronghold library for works which predated the first T’Imoshen’s invasion of Fair Isle. But there was very little information on the T’En. What she did find was too obscure to be useful.
It appeared that there had been great workers of the T’En gifts in their ancient homeland, but the histories were strangely silent on exactly what these gifts had been.
Yet the Aayel had said the T’En gifts were poor, unreliable things, that those who used them unwisely faced the wrath of the church—their church—which was supposed to revere the T’En.
Imoshen shuddered, recalling the Aayel’s eyes as she spoke of the stoning. The horror of that event had stayed with her for over a century, coloring her actions for the rest of her life.
Anger flashed through Imoshen and she directed it toward the long dead Beatific who had ordered the Aayel to witness the stoning. She understood that it had been a precautionary measure to ensure the young Aayel’s cooperation, but the consequences were far more damaging to a young child. If its purpose was to ensure that the T’En would remain repressed, then it had succeeded.
Was the church protecting the people of Fair Isle from the T’En? Imoshen shivered. Suddenly, she felt very alone.
All her life she had been an object of curiosity. The people were both fearful and fascinated by her. It had been a burden she bore with growing resentment. But perhaps the True-men and women had good reason to fear the T’En? She did not know. So few Throwbacks had been born, only two in the last one hundred years . . .
No, it was all a fabrication of her overtired mind. She was no monster and neither was Reothe. They might have small useful gifts, but these benefited True-man and T-En alike. Her priority was to ensure her own survival under a barbarian invader.
Imoshen kept her own counsel while at Landsend Abbey. She performed her duties, but remained aloof from Tulkhan and the abbey seniors because she knew for Reothe to have access to the abbey’s secret passages one or more of the abbey leaders must know of his presence, the Seculate herself might have sided with her betrothed.
Did they despise her, consider her a traitor?
Was she a traitor?
The return journey was made swiftly. Already, loaded wagons of grain were wending their way to the Stronghold to be stored and cataloged. Imoshen knew there was work ahead of her.
The easy companionship which had developed on their ride out was gone. Tulkhan’s Elite Guard watched her closely. Had they heard a rumor of Reothe’s visit? Was she condemned without trial? Imoshen didn’t know what to think.
Should she have run away with Reothe when she had the chance to save her own life, even though it meant deserting the people who trusted her? Again, Imoshen had no answer.
They entered the Stronghold late one afternoon on a cool, autumn day which held a foretaste of the winter to come. When the Aayel came out to greet her, Imoshen tried to mask her disquiet but her great-aunt sensed it. General Tulkhan did not exchange one word with her as he rode
off to the stables with his men.
“You’re chilled to the bone. Come inside, Shenna.” The Aayel led Imoshen to her chambers where the servants waited.
It was all so normal, so soothing—an illusion. But Imoshen let them fuss over her, glad to relinquish all responsibility this once.
The Aayel dismissed the women then sprinkled healing herbs in the hot water. While Imoshen bathed, she sat and watched.
“It did not go well?”
“It did at first. I learned a great deal. He is not a stupid man.”
The Aayel gave a snort. “So, you discovered that!”
“But he’s stubborn and he hates ... no, fears me.”
“So he should. You could be the death of him and the downfall of his hold on Fair Isle.”
Imoshen gnawed her bottom lip. Should she tell the Aayel about Reothe and the dual tug of the familiar against the unknown? She desperately wanted the Aayel to confirm that she had made the right decision. Imoshen stole a look at the wizened old woman. Would she look like that in a hundred years from now?
She almost laughed—she should live that long!
The Aayel watched her, silent, weighing but uncritical. It was reassuring.
“I’ve been taking the potion,” Imoshen said.
“I know. I can see it in you. You’re blooming with health, with fertility. Perhaps that is why the General is distancing himself from you. He fights his instincts.”
Imoshen grimaced. She was not so hopeful. Her instincts were totally confused. Duty and the General, or duty and Reothe?
As she stood and took the drying cloth from her great-aunt, the old woman’s hands brushed hers.
“What has Reothe to do with this?” the Aayel demanded suddenly.
Imoshen opened her mouth to lie but she couldn’t. Instead, she lowered her voice. “Reothe entered the Abbey. I believe he has a supporter or two there. He came to my room. He . . .” She felt suddenly vulnerable because she did not understand her confusion. Why was she drawn to him? To hide this she dried herself vigorously. “He wanted to bond with me. He tried to perform the ceremony, but I wouldn’t give him my vow, wouldn’t flee with him.
“I told him I had to stay for the people. He said I was betraying them by not leaving with him to help raise an army to retake Fair Isle. But I had to refuse. It tore me in two!” She tossed the cloth aside, lifting her hands to the Aayel in supplication. “I’ve been going over and over it. One moment I think I have failed the memory of my family, yet I feel I cannot fail the people. Please, tell me—did I do right to refuse him?”
The Aayel ran her paper-dry fingers down Imoshen’s cheek. “He is very gifted, that Reothe.” Her sharp eyes held Imoshen’s. “What do you feel?”
“I don’t know!” She turned and walked away from the Aayel toward the fire. The warmth attracted her, but she also used the movement to cloak her intimate feelings. She hardly dared admit to herself this secret yearning for Reothe. It seemed a weakness because it made her vulnerable to him and she could not afford to let anything but cool, rational thought guide her decisions, not if she was to survive this crucial time. “He calls to something in me, but he frightens me.”
“Your instincts are good. I knew his parents, their parents and their parents. There is bad blood in his family, a brilliance, but also an unsteadiness. It sometimes surfaces in the pure T’En. His mother and father were first cousins. They were scholars of history. I know despite the concerns of their family they bonded to keep the blood pure. They risked social stigma to bring Reothe into the world. I suspect that is why he wants you, you’re so obviously of the pure race.”
Was it true? Was that the only reason Reothe wanted her? Would his body call to hers with such ferocity of purpose if it was only a logical choice? Instinct told Imoshen his need for her went deeper than logic.
She dropped her nightgown over her head and pulled the drawstrings. “You didn’t answer me. Who should have my loyalty, my betrothed who wants to rekindle a war, or the people who want only a chance to live out their lives free from war? And what of General Tulkhan? He is the invader, yet I have given him my word. Reothe said a vow given under duress is no vow at all, that my betrothal promise to him is of an older making. I want to do the right thing but . . . Tell me, what should I do?”
Imoshen turned hopefully to the Aayel. Surely her great-aunt would vindicate the decisions she had made?
“There are no easy answers, child.” The old woman poured the potion. “You must survive, concentrate on that. You are blooming. Drink.”
Imoshen downed the fluid. Was there a visible physical difference in her? Her breasts had grown more sensitive. She felt impatient with those around her and during their tour of the villages she had caught herself watching General Tulkhan when he moved through the ranks, when he prowled around the fire circle. She liked the way his body moved and she couldn’t help recalling how he had pinned her to the ground, his arms around her thighs, his weight on her.
Imoshen gave an impatient snort.
She had one desperate gamble, one throw of the dice in another three days. Maybe her heightened sensitivity, the slight change in her scent, the slight ache in her core were all her imagination, and the potion wouldn’t work. Then what would she do?
Imoshen returned the empty vial to the Aayel. “I want you to try a scrying. I must know if I am doing the right thing!”
The old woman sighed. “It doesn’t work like that. It’s never that simple—”
“I must know. This is tearing me apart.”
Imoshen stiffened as the Aayel signaled her to lower her voice. The old woman sighed. “Very well. Bring me my scrying platter.”
She hurried to obey.
When she returned Imoshen knelt at the old woman’s knee, her heart pounding. What would she learn? Would she see herself with Tulkhan or with Reothe? Should she lead her country into war, or keep the peace with the Invader at a price almost too steep to bear?
The Aayel scooped up a handful of the scented bath water.
“Bath water?” Imoshen wrinkled her nose.
“It’s your future,” her great-aunt muttered dryly.
Imoshen lifted the knife she had selected for this purpose and pricked her finger, adding two drops of her own blood. She had noticed any working of the gifts was stronger if blood was spilled, and the more you gave of yourself the more you got back in return.
The Aayel stiffened.
“I have to know,” she defended her actions. “I don’t care what the price is.”
“Don’t be too quick to make that claim, Shenna,” the Aayel muttered, swirling the water around on the plate to mix the blood. “You don’t know the price the gifts may demand.”
Imoshen tensed. Did she read some hidden knowledge there? Was the Aayel hinting that the gifts had more potential than she had previously claimed? An unwelcome thought came to Imoshen.
Had the Aayel deliberately kept a deeper, more potent form of knowledge from her in an attempt to control her?
“Take it.”
The Aayel interrupted her brooding. Automatically, Imoshen accepted the scrying plate. “Me?”
“It’s your scrying, your future. Take responsibility for it.”
Controlling her instinctive resentment of the implied criticism, Imoshen concentrated as she tilted the scrying platter this way and that, observing the thin film of water which covered its surface.
Nothing! She was useless.
No. She had to know. Gritting her teeth, Imoshen peered through the film to the platter’s reflective surface, searching for a form, a hint. Nothing.
“What do you see?” she asked the Aayel.
“What do you see?”
“Me? I am no good at scrying—”
“And never will be, if that’s the attitude you take!”
Stung by her great-aunt’s tone, Imoshen focused. At first she only saw the glint of candle flames distorted by the thin film of water in the shining metal of the platter.
&nb
sp; “Bring to mind what concerns you. Guide it,” the Aayel whispered.
Imoshen nodded. She had to know if her decision was the right one.
Her heart lurched as the General’s broad features appeared. His coppery skin darkened, flushing with anger and exertion. He grimaced and dodged as someone struck at him. In rapid succession more and more figures attacked.
“They’ll kill him!”
“What do you see?” the Aayel pressed.
“The General. He’s being attacked in a narrow hall. They look like our people.” Imoshen gasped as one of the assassins leapt forward shouting a name. “Reothe!”
“Is Reothe there?”
“No, they attack in his name.”
“Assassins?”
Imoshen shuddered, water slopping onto her nightgown.
The Aayel took the platter and tipped the remaining water into the tub. She used her apron to dry the surface. “So.”
Imoshen felt cheated. “But I don’t know any more than I did before!”
Her great-aunt shrugged. “Now do you believe me? Scrying is not an exact science. Concentrate on what you do know. The General desires you—”
Imoshen made a noise in her throat. “He hates me—”
“He wants you. I can see it in him. True?”
She nodded reluctantly. “But he also hates and fears me.”
“ ‘Twould be worse if he were indifferent.” The old woman seemed pleased. “You must seduce him three days from now when we host the Harvest Feast. You know what the people will want that evening, a formal consummation.”
“No!” Imoshen was shocked.
The Aayel shrugged philosophically. “It is an old custom and most cultures have something like it to ensure the fertility of their fields the following spring.”
“But we’ve never taken part in that side of the festivities. We left it to the people to choose the male and female to consecrate the—”
“So?”
Imoshen folded her arms. “I won’t do it. I ... I’ve never even lain with a man!” She flushed. “I wouldn’t know what to do!”
Broken Vows Page 11
