Not much longer he told himself, not bothering to specify what he meant.
Imoshen clasped the simple white robe around her shoulders and tied the plaited belt around her waist. She wore her hair loose. It had been brushed until it had a life of its own, lifting and clinging to objects.
She went barefoot because she was supposed to feel the earth beneath her feet. Her first task was in the fields with the refugees where the stones had been raked back from the fire pits. There she blessed the feast as the Aayel would have done, barefoot, bareheaded, at one with the primitive people who surged around her, muttering eagerly. Their earthy excitement was strangely contagious. It made her stomach flutter with expectation.
Then she accompanied her own people into the Stronghold and a more complex ceremony borrowed from the ancient T’En culture followed. Blood was spilled to ensure new life. She tried to focus all her attention on the tasks at hand, to channel her meager gifts, but all the while she was aware of General Tulkhan watching her.
When she lifted her arms to signal for silence, she felt her nipples press against the material of her gown and flushed, knowing that he must have seen her traitorous body’s involuntary signals. Deep inside her there was a slow burn which threatened to consume her.
The bitter aftertaste of the last portion of the Aayel’s potion still lingered on her tongue. In a daze of heat from the open fireplace and the expectant press of the hushed crowd she repeated the words her mother would have said and slit the pig’s throat as her father would have done. A little of the blood was mixed with red wine and presented to her in the ceremonial chalice.
When she sipped it, the tangy fluid went straight to her empty stomach, triggering a soporific feeling which spread through her limbs. The chalice felt heavy, significant in her hands. It made her think of the way the General had taken the drink from her and turned it so that his lips touched where hers had. The memory warmed her. Before she meant to, her eyes sought his face and she read the same need there.
His gaze burned with unspoken promise, threatening to banish all else from her mind. For a moment she faltered with the chant, then recalled it and went on.
The initial ceremony over and the food blessed, the revelers moved to the tables. Great platters of food were brought out, voices rose, wine flowed freely. Soon the long tables were groaning with the Harvest Feast. A heady rush of music and excitement filled the long hall.
Imoshen knew she could eat now, but she felt so tense she couldn’t swallow a morsel. Instead, she looked around, marveling at the strange assortment of people gathered in the great hall for this Harvest Feast. Minor nobles who had fled the invading forces with their entourages were scattered around the hall, vastly outnumbered by the Stronghold Guard and Ghebite soldiers. There was much laughter and crude commentary from the Elite Guard.
To a casual observer the inhabitants of the Stronghold might be mistaken for convivial company as the food was shared around, and toasts drunk. Imoshen watched, feeling strangely detached. Who would have thought that only yesterday the Aayel had averted mass slaughter by ritual suicide? Violence seethed below the surface, valid anxieties warred with petty rivalries.
Imoshen’s fingers tightened on her crystal goblet. In her heightened state of awareness, she felt the raging emotions, sensed how this apparently peaceful scene could change in a heartbeat to one of bloodshed. The Aayel had averted one crisis but there would be others. She needed a bargaining tool to hold over the General.
It was time to make her move.
Imoshen winced. Suddenly she felt awkward, unsure of herself. To delay the moment she lifted her wine goblet and sipped, silently vowing that she would not fail the Aayel, would not fail herself. The warmed wine slipped down her tight throat and into her belly, adding fire to the furnace below. She eyed General Tulkhan’s profile. Somehow she would seduce him. After all, he was only a man.
But now that the moment was upon her she didn’t know what to do. Soon the village elders would come forward to present her with the symbols of fertility. Already she could see the old couple waiting in the shadows. Once this part of the ceremony was over the refugees would retreat to the fields to mimic the rituals of the bower.
As for the Stronghold inhabitants, they would conduct a slightly more circumspect celebration of their own. Anything was condoned on the night of the harvest moons—it was a night for madness. She had always been sent to her room at this time. The untouched, untouchable T’En.
Imoshen’s heart lurched as she saw the old man and woman approach. The corn sheaf and the bull’s horn lay proudly displayed on the platter.
She started to rise. Her head spun. Had she drunk too much on an empty stomach, one goblet of warmed wine?
A hush fell over the hall. All eyes were on the Elders. It was clear to Imoshen that even the Ghebite barbarians understood the significance of the platter.
After licking her strangely numb lips, she said the blessing over the symbols. As the Elders waited patiently for her next move, Imoshen felt the weight of their expectation. She must not falter. Resolve strengthened her as she silently vowed she would not fail her people.
Tulkhan watched Imoshen, tension crawling through his body. She looked ethereal standing there in the simple white shift, her hair a glowing nimbus over her shoulders. She also looked slightly unfocused, as if she was having trouble concentrating. If he hadn’t known better he would have said she was tipsy. The thought made him smile to himself. The Dhamfeer was young and inexperienced, despite what she might think.
He’d been watching her all day and knew she had been on her feet since dawn. It had been a day full of responsibilities for the last T’En. He also knew she’d taken no food since the Aayel died by her own hand the afternoon before. Imoshen must be close to collapse. An oddly protective urge surprised Tulkhan.
As he watched her intone an arcane T’En chant over the two objects, a premonition gripped him. Anticipation made his heart race.
When Imoshen presented the Elders with the platter the old man turned and lifted the bull’s horn.
Tulkhan sensed more than heard a whisper pass through the ranks of his men. It was his own name. Then it grew to a deep repetitive chant. The chant captured his drumming heart’s beat, urging it on.
This wasn’t how the ceremony went. According to Wharrd, the Elder was supposed to present the horn to the most virile young man of the village, some fellow out there in the makeshift town was probably waiting right now, hard and ready.
The Elder’s dark eyes set deep in his seamed face fixed on the General. Suddenly Tulkhan’s mind cleared of every extraneous thought and he understood the forces at play with utter clarity. It came to him much like a decision made in the heat of battle. He knew he could seize the prize if he seized the moment. He was on his feet before he knew it.
The chanting fell away. The silence stretched, broken only by the scuff of his leather boots on the stone as he strode through the gap in the long table and out into the center of the hall. He looked down into the Elder’s wise old face. Behind the man his woman made a slight movement which drew Tulkhan’s gaze to her face. Devilment twinkled in the depths of her hazel eyes. They knew what they were about, this old pair. They were playing politics for the sake of their people.
Instinctively, Tulkhan dropped to one knee. There was a hushed murmur of approval. The Elder held the horn out to Tulkhan. His hands closed possessively around the cool, grainy surface. It was his and for tonight he was their symbol.
The old man placed the leather thong over Tulkhan’s neck. The horn rested on his jerkin, heavy with significance.
He came to his feet and caught the old woman’s eye. With an almost imperceptible flicker of his eyes he indicated Imoshen. The old woman nodded and walked across the stones. A buzz of excitement rose from the tables.
Imoshen was still standing. Two bright spots of color flamed in her cheeks, but she didn’t look down. Instead her eyes flew to meet his, glittering with something Tulkhan
couldn’t read. They held a knowing intelligence which both frightened and excited him.
A smile almost touched her lips. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn her expression held triumph, then the old woman’s silver head came between them, blocking his vision.
He saw the old woman’s shoulders move as she lifted the corn sheaf. The excited whispers dropped away. The moment stretched. For a heartbeat it seemed the Dhamfeer would refuse to accept the symbol.
Whatever she might feel, Tulkhan knew Imoshen had to accept. His men would take it as a personal insult if she refused him. The fragile illusion of peace would be shattered.
Then the hall’s inhabitants let out a collective sigh of relief. Their sibilant whispers grew progressively louder as the old woman stepped back and bowed before rejoining her mate. Tulkhan was left alone in the center of the hall, his heart beating wildly in his chest.
He could not take his eyes from Imoshen.
She held the corn sheaf stiffly in both hands. He knew she was pinned, helpless as a butterfly, trapped by events beyond her control and the expectations of those present. But he wanted her. He’d wanted her since the first moment he saw her bloodied and defiant, restrained by his men.
Only last night she had refused him at risk to her own life—now she must accept him, or destroy the brittle peace. Already she had given much for her people’s safety. Would she give herself?
Did he want her on those terms? He almost laughed.
Knowing Imoshen as he did, there were no other terms, and he vowed to have her any way he could!
Tulkhan beckoned Wharrd and quietly ordered his horse brought forth, bridled but unsaddled. He knew the next step—they would be escorted to the bower. To the people their joining was a symbol, a sign to the gods to ensure a good crop come spring. This Harvest Moon the joining would be more than symbolic. It held significance for the whole island, the joining of the conquered and the conqueror.
Intent on claiming his prize before she could escape him, Tulkhan stepped forward and extended his hand to Imoshen across the feast table. He could see the rapid racing of the pulse in her throat and for an instant he thought he caught a glint of fear in her eyes.
If she had been a Ghebite woman of comparable social position, she would have been a shy virgin, terrified by the events forced on her. A sudden pang of pity prompted him to turn his hand over in a gesture of entreaty. His action caused a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.
A buzz of speculation spread through the hall.
He watched Imoshen lift her chin. Her nostrils flared as she took a deep breath. Her free hand rose to settle in his palm. The physical contact triggered a tug of recognition deep inside him. His fingers closed possessively over hers.
Her flesh was so pale against his coppery, scarred skin. He felt as if he were holding a rare prize just within his grasp, one wrong move and he might crush her. Yet he knew her air of vulnerability was deceptive. Imoshen had an innate, immutable strength. He’d clashed with her and experienced the force of her will on more than one occasion.
But at this moment she felt fragile to him. He had won this round and, perversely, he wanted to make her path easier. Tulkhan gestured to the left, intending to escort her the length of the table and around into the open center of the hall.
A half smile flitted across Imoshen’s face. Before he could guess what she was thinking, she stepped lithely onto her chair and up onto the table. Stunned, he stared down at her slender foot and narrow ankle. Her bare toes looked incongruous nestled amid the platters of food. As she stepped forward her white gown parted to reveal the long, shapely length of her pale thigh.
His mouth went dry. He looked up into her face and saw her smile. It was a hungry, feral smile. Imperiously, she dropped his fingers and placed both her hands on his shoulders. Instinctively his arms lifted. His hands encompassed her slender waist. He felt the flare of her hips, the tight muscles of her abdomen as he took her weight, bringing her forward to him.
He held her there, her hips pressed to his chest, her feet far from the ground. Then very slowly and with great deliberation he lowered her, letting her slide down the length of his body. He cursed the thick jerkin which prevented him from feeling her soft curves against his flesh.
When her toes touched the ground she smiled a small satisfied smile and lifted her arm regally. He offered his and she laid her forearm along his arm, her fingers over his hand. As her eyes met his, he realized that never for a moment did she acknowledge him as her conqueror. She considered herself his equal.
A surge of raw desire clawed at him.
His head rang with his men’s ragged cheers. He knew they had been laying bets on how long before he claimed her for his bedmate.
He had neither admitted nor denied seducing her that day in the forest. In that instant Tulkhan recalled the odd sense of menace which had pervaded the clearing and Imoshen’s terror. She had seen more than he, things a True-man could not see. She was Dhamfeer, privy to other gifts.
What was he thinking? He could not deny what he had experienced. More than once he had felt her words inside his head. When it had happened he had hated her intrusion because she had breached his defenses. His mind was the private bastion of his thoughts. Insidious fear curled through him.
Tulkhan hesitated. If he were to lie with Imoshen, would it give her even greater power over him? Would the joining of their bodies allow her access to his inner thoughts?
He searched her face for duplicity but saw only the flush of desire mingled with embarrassment in her cheeks and the uncertainty in her eyes. She was wanton one moment, pure innocence the next, and he wanted her.
Tulkhan banished his misgivings—right now Imoshen was all woman and his by right. He had waited long enough.
Wordlessly he indicated that they should leave and she nodded. They stepped forward in unison, escorted by an enthusiastic rabble of Elite Guard and minor aristocracy into the courtyard where Tulkhan’s magnificent black destrier waited, shifting nervously.
He caught the bridle firmly in his hand and leapt across the beast’s back. It took a moment for him to regain control as the horse sidled away and the crowd scurried back, then he extended his hand to Imoshen.
Tulkhan flexed his booted foot. She used it like a stirrup, stepping up and taking his extended hand. With a graceful leap she sprang up onto the horse and settled into place before him.
The scent of her freshly washed hair rose around him, its silver tendrils tickling his nose. She swayed with the movement of the horse, rubbing against him, tantalizing him with her nearness, with the knowledge of what was to come.
They were through the passage and outer gates, down onto the plain before he knew it. Torchlights danced on the still air, the refugees cheered and sang as they formed a living sea around them. A primal, almost wordless chant rose from the masses as if from one great communal throat. The air was rich with the scent of roasted meat.
The bower was nothing more than a primitive hut, fashioned from thatched straw, yet it looked like a haven to him. The black horse stopped before it and Tulkhan tossed the reins to Wharrd. Swinging his weight over his mount’s back he leapt to the ground then lifted his arms to Imoshen. An inner urgency seemed to animate her. The dancing torchlights reflected in her dark eyes, filling them with restless points of fire.
She swung her leg across the horse’s back. When she slid forward into his arms her dress rode up so that he caught a flash of her firm white thighs. Then she was in his embrace, real flesh and blood.
This time he pressed her hips to his chest and buried his face between her breasts, eager to inhale her distinctive feminine scent. He felt her fingers lace through his hair, pressing him to her breast in an oddly protective, intimate gesture. When was the last time a woman had held him with such gentleness?
Tulkhan raised his face and looked up into hers. Wisps of her hair floated on the air as if alive, her eyes glittered and her lips parted in a gasp. Imoshen looked into his eyes,
her soul naked. He felt a tug of recognition as if he had always known her and suddenly he understood she was as vital to him as the very breath he drew, or could be, if he let down his guard.
Stunned by this revelation, he let her weight slide down against his body, bringing her face closer to his. Cupping his face in her hands, she traced his eyebrows with the soft pads of her thumbs, pressing gently on his closed eyelids. Momentarily blinded, all his senses focused on touch, smell and sound, he felt her lean forward and her lips brush his closed lids, first one, then the other, in a benediction of tender desire.
Again, he was disturbed by the intimacy of her touch. He had meant to claim her body, not to lay his soul bare to her.
When he opened his eyes to look into her face she seemed to glow with an inner radiance. He wondered if when she touched her lips to his closed eyes she had laid some sort of magical charm on him in order to make herself appear even more beautiful than nature had made her.
He was mad to want her, mad to lay himself open to her tricks. Yet he had no choice. He was mad for her. He had to have her.
A sudden rush of desire blazed through his body, obliterating all need for thought. Caution played no part in what he felt. The primitive chant drummed on the air, seeming to vibrate on his flesh, making it throb in time to the sound. Suddenly impatient, he released her waist to take her by the hand. Without preamble he strode toward the bower’s open flap, urgency driving his steps.
At the entrance Imoshen planted her feet and caught his arm, indicating he should wait. She hung her corn sheaf on a hook above the opening and looked at him expectantly. He had no idea what she wanted.
Her gaze fell from his eyes to the bull’s horn which hung around his neck and he realized he was meant to remove it, to place it with her corn sheaf.
Broken Vows Page 15
