If General Tulkhan was not strong enough to stand against his half-brother and win him over, her position was dangerous.
“I have come to ask something of you,” the General said. She could tell he did not like to ask. “I must take most of my men to confront my half-brother. A small force will remain here—”
“You have my word we will not rise against you,” Imoshen cut him short. She stepped forward, covering the distance between them. She wanted to feel his hands on her, feel his reality once more before she was left to deal with her fears alone. “You will not be fighting a war on two fronts.”
She heard his ragged intake of breath, felt his rough soldier’s hands on her flesh as she drew them inside her cloak. The simple shift she wore parted for him. His breath caught in his throat as she placed his palms on her flesh.
She strained against him.
“Take care when you move against your king,” she whispered, her lips moving on his skin where his jaw met the tendon of his throat.
His unshaven chin scraped her face as their lips met, his words came in a puff of breath over her face. “I don’t fear him. He’s poorly advised. Gharavan will listen to me. I taught him to ride, to fight.”
His callused palm brushed her taut breast. A moan escaped her. The material of her shift tore. It was a shocking sound, punctuated by their ragged breathing, his guttural groan.
He shuddered as she boldly cupped his arousal through the material of his breeches. Wrapped in their twin cloaks, the trapped air between them grew hot. She felt the hard stone at her back as he pinned her there.
She wanted him now, as much of him as she could have. It did not matter if this was illogical. She didn’t want him to leave, to face danger alone as she would be doing. Her unspoken desperation seemed to call to something in him.
He shuddered as he stepped away from her. She followed, pressing her face into his neck. Her tongue touched his throat where she felt the tight cords of his neck, the pounding of his pulse.
She wound her fingers through his cloak. He stepped back again, though she could feel how much it cost him.
Why was he rejecting her?
He was about to ride out. Imoshen flushed. Was she so desperate for him that she would join with him here on the battlements?
The answer was simple. Yes.
Shame heated her cheeks. What had possessed her? She must not lose sight of her real purpose here. “The rebels will look for any sign of Ghebite dissension—”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Where do you stand on this, Imoshen?”
She sucked in her breath. Where did she stand? Not with Reothe. not with futile fighting and more bloodshed. But did she truly stand with the Ghebites?
Could she lie? No.
“I stand for the people of Fair Isle, for their right to live without fear and oppression.”
He nodded once as if this was no more or less than he expected. “And you will back me so long as I follow that course?”
This time she could answer without hesitation. “Yes.”
There were cries from the courtyard below, the sound of men gathering. General Tulkhan stalked to the stone work and waved down to the men. They responded with the Ghebite war cry.
“We march. Come here to my side, Imoshen.”
It was a show for his men, for those of her personal Stronghold Guard who would remain here and might be tempted to take a stand. Imoshen hesitated, understanding the significance of her public support of the Ghebite General but she joined him. Whatever her personal feelings, they must present a united front.
The General’s men fell silent at the sight of her at his side but those of her retinue, the servants who had prepared the food for the journey, the stable hands who had saddled the horses, gave a ragged cheer.
“Kiss me,” Tulkhan whispered. “Pull me into your arms and kiss me.”
She was shocked by the naked hunger in his voice and by the unspoken message he wanted to impart to those below.
“Do it,” he hissed, turning to her.
Imoshen faltered. To lie with him at the Festival of the Harvest Moons when she had been chosen was one thing, but to accept him like this before her people and his was another thing entirely. Would her own people despise her for taking the invader willingly into her bed?
“I must have your support if I’m to stop the bloodshed,” he whispered.
The General was right. She stepped forward, her eyes fixed on his grim mouth. She felt the breadth of his chest on her hands as she reached for him, felt the longing of her body to cleave to his. When his mouth sought hers she was ready to open for him. His broad hands found the small of her back, pulling her into him, pressing her body intimately into his.
Dimly, she heard the cheering from below, but there was a great rushing in her ears. She felt both frightened and exhilarated. There was nothing halfhearted about his response. His hunger for her had never been in doubt. It was a physical reaction which, if her own body was anything to go by, he had little control over. But whatever the reason for his need, he was certainly not above using their attraction for political gain.
Even knowing this, she longed for him as their lips parted.
General Tulkhan waved to the men gathered below and shouted: “Time to ride.”
They cheered.
“Ride safely, ride swiftly,” she gave him the formal reply.
Imoshen was still standing on the battlements when the sun rose and the tail end of the Ghebite General’s men left the plain, entering the thick woods.
Her gaze traveled the plain, taking in the campfires, the makeshift dwellings. The land below the Stronghold walls teamed with refugees, desperate people who had come to her for safety.
A new phase in her life had begun. Whether she had intended it or not, she had made a commitment to General Tulkhan and she had to see it through. Just as she had done whatever she had to ensure her personal survival, she would do whatever she needed to ensure the survival of her dream. The people of Fair Isle had no one else to care for their future.
T’Reothe, the General and King Gharavan—as far as she knew they were following their own plans for their own ends. True, she wanted to survive, but she wanted more. Fair Isle and its people were her responsibility.
General Tulkhan’s troops were used to moving quickly and they made good time despite a chilling downpour the following day.
The scouts spotted the desperate townsfolk on the great eastern road out of T’Diemn. Those who were able to run fled from the Ghebite scouts but several, mainly the old and injured, were captured and delivered to Tulkhan. He knew the value of information and ordered the columns to stop while he questioned them.
He had a hard time convincing the poor wretches he was not going to summarily execute them. They spoke of cruelty, of mass murder. Rumor had it every inhabitant of T’Diemn was dead.
Tulkhan’s army marched on, leaving the people he’d questioned by the side of the road. They watched him and his men with dull eyes, seething with the hatred born of powerless desperation.
He’d spoken to them personally, struggling with the local patois, but many of them spoke the more common language of trade. Tulkhan told them to go home, to tell the people who had fled their farms to return to their homes and villages, that there would be no more killing. They did not seem convinced.
It was late afternoon when Tulkhan saw the fabled T’Diemn for the first time. The sun was setting behind the domes and spires, cloaking the destruction caused by the invaders with a deceptive golden haze. Some of that haze had to be smoke hanging heavy on the still air.
The city had sprawled beyond its original fortified walls. From the rise where his party stood Tulkhan could see that it was the more recent outer buildings of T’Diemn that still smoldered in places.
As they rode down the paved road he recognized the signs of a prosperous city. Beside the road stood little shrines made of dressed stone and clearly well cared for. But as they came
closer to the outlying buildings they could see the devastation.
In the steadily growing twilight the stench of smoke hung on the air, rich with the stink of death. No children ran in the burned out streets, no chickens or pigs. What buildings remained were boarded up and shuttered. Tulkhan sensed hostility and fear, as if the city were drawing its collective breath to face another onslaught.
A deep and pervading anger settled in Tulkhan’s core. He knew from experience that sometimes a show of force was necessary, but he abhorred senseless cruelty and destruction. Behind him his men were silent, only the chink of their weapons and the creak of their horses’ gear punctuated the steady thud of the horses’ hooves.
When he crossed the bridge and approached the great gates that pierced the wall of the inner city, Tulkhan saw the heads on the pikes and his fury rose a notch. Making an example of three assassins who had attempted to take his life was one thing, killing townsfolk who had laid down their weapons after surrendering was unacceptable.
Tulkhan tried to imagine his charming young half-brother giving the order and could not. Gharavan was not vindictive. When Tulkhan had last seen the youth he would have sworn he did not have the ruthless nature required for this.
No one opposed them as General Tulkhan and his men entered the oldest part of the city and made their way up through the winding streets to the tall spires of the royal palace.
The nearer they came to the city center the less destruction Tulkhan saw. He noted men of his brother’s army lying drunk in the streets. His own men rode by without answering their bawdy cries. Here not every place was boarded shut and the taverns were open doing a roaring trade. No doubt the women of the street were busy as well. But the respectable townsfolk made their opinion clear by their absence.
Tulkhan entered the main square where the rain had washed most of the blood from the stones. He paused to study the royal palace. Which building was it? A great multi-domed structure stood on the west side of the square, facing a large towered building on the east. Smaller but equally spectacular buildings faced the square on the north and south sides.
He had read of the wonders of Fair Isle. Its wealth and culture were legendary on the mainland. This was why he had launched his attack when the Lowlands negotiated a surrender without resistance and the southern kingdoms expected him to continue south on the mainland, consolidating his hold. But Tulkhan had other plans. He wanted Fair Isle. He believed if Fair Isle fell it would demoralize the southern kingdoms. Strike swiftly, strike unexpectedly, that was his credo, and look where it had led him—to the very palace of the T’En.
Triumph and contempt made him smile, for these legendary rulers of Fair Isle had not felt the need to build their palace as a defensible last stand. In their arrogance they had created a palace of fragile glass and delicate stone towers.
At that moment the clouds parted and the setting sun bathed the white stone of the building crimson with its caress. The palace blazed with a welcome glow of light against the blue-black clouds of the retreating storm.
But Tulkhan did not mistake this for an omen. He knew the real storm lay inside. Dismounting, he ordered his commanders to have the men camp in the square. They could have taken shelter in the palace or claimed any building they took a liking to, but Tulkhan wanted his men isolated from the rot he had found in his half-brother’s army. He wanted to be sure his men remained self-disciplined, ready to come to his aid.
Leaving the commanders to make camp with their usual efficiency, Tulkhan entered the palace by one of the largest entrances. A young, slightly drunk Ghebite soldier straightened at his approach. Recognizing Tulkhan he blinked and tried to draw his weapon in formal salute. The General brushed past him wordlessly, too angry to speak.
He followed the bawdy music, laughter and feminine squeals down a series of long formal galleries. Hundreds of candles were already alight, filling the air with their scented wax.
His boots crunched on the smashed glass and crockery littering the brilliant mosaics on the floor. Wall hangings so rich the colors glowed hung lopsided from their frames. The destruction reminded him of animals invading a home, smashing, eating, fornicating at will, unable to appreciate the beauty of their surroundings.
How Imoshen would mock him if she could see this.
Imoshen—he felt a yearning tug deep within him, and was glad she was not there to witness this destruction.
Shame filled him, quickly replaced by anger.
Tulkhan thrust open double doors to see half a dozen Ghebite soldiers drinking and gambling. He took in their state of undress, their inebriation. Amongst them he recognized a number of the small-boned, golden-skinned males and females of Fair Isle decked out in borrowed finery. Their over bright, frightened eyes watched him carefully.
Tulkhan marched straight across to a young Ghebite noble and pulled him upright by his fancy jerkin.
“Where is Gharavan?”
The youth gasped, tried to focus his wine-dulled perceptions and blinked. “General Tulkhan?”
Startled, he plucked ineffectually at Tulkhan’s hands, but his voice held a note of reprimand when he replied. “The king is in the far chamber entertaining.”
Tulkhan tossed the youth back onto the ornate couch with the others. Before this campaign the young men who had associated with his half-brother had respected him. To them he was the triumphant General Tulkhan, almost a legendary figure.
In those days the young nobles as yet unblooded by war had been eager to hear stories of his battles. Tulkhan cursed softly. Now his half-brother was king and he was expected to show respect to these puppies!
“Take me to him,” Tulkhan ground out, hardly able to contain his fury.
The youth stood and straightened his clothes.
“This way, General.” He made the title an insult.
As Tulkhan entered the throne room of the T’En Emperor he was only dimly aware of the white walls inlaid with pale golden designs. His gaze was drawn through the tall multipaned windows to the leaping flames of a huge bonfire in the courtyard beyond. The hungry blaze cast bizarre moving patterns over the room’s inhabitants. Leering, leaping shadows danced along the walls. Tulkhan felt as if he had entered a waking nightmare.
This room was even more crowded than the outer chamber. Hundreds of scented candles hung from ornate candelabras, crusted heavily with several days’ wax, or littered the tables, guttering in their own wax puddles. The room’s inhabitants were as varied as the lighting. They consisted of his half-brother, the king, and his advisors. Some were old and wily men Tulkhan recognized as advisors to his father, others were ambitious and brash, barely out of their teens. They were dressed in what he assumed was the latest fashion of the Ghebite court.
Food was piled high on several low tables. Fair Isle musicians played unfamiliar instruments. Obviously they were locals forced to appease the invader. The others, pretty young men and women of T’Diemn, suddenly stopped their revelry as they caught sight of Tulkhan. The silence spread. It was not a welcoming silence.
Sprawled on a luxurious day bed surrounded by sycophants, Gharavan’s face settled into petulant lines. Tulkhan’s heart sank.
News of his father’s death had come to Tulkhan on the battlefield. He had sent his sworn fealty to his half-brother and continued the campaign. Now that Gharavan was no longer the boy-heir Tulkhan was ready to accord him the respect the King of the Ghebites deserved. He strode forward purposefully, his boots striking the tiles loudly in the hushed silence. He felt the eyes of the assembled elite of King Gharavan’s traveling court on him. Some were amused, some openly curious.
Tulkhan tensed. He had never been a courtier, content to play lapdog at his father’s side. There was no warmth in his half-brother’s eyes, only wary resentment.
Where was the happy-go-lucky boy he remembered?
Tulkhan dropped to one knee; king or not, he really wanted to haul this weak youth outside and douse his head under a water pump before knocking some sense into hi
m.
Instead, General Tulkhan placed his hand over his chest and bowed his head.
“The last royal Stronghold is taken, the people from this town to the Landsend swear allegiance to you, my King. As do I, your half-brother, General of the Ghebite army.”
The relief in the room was palpable.
His half-brother straightened, pushing a partially clad girl away.
“Tulkhan!” His eyes blazed with drunken fondness and a certain sly satisfaction. “So you’ve torn yourself away from your campaigning at last to come and swear fealty.”
Tulkhan rose and glared down at his half-brother, seeing the old familiar pettiness, the inclination to self-indulgence, written in his features. These were things he had always regarded as youthful excesses. What might have been charming and forgiven in a young boy were dangerous weaknesses in a king. But Tulkhan knew enough of human nature to understand now was not the time to berate his half-brother.
“You will wish to hear how the campaign went,” he announced. “Where will we go?”
Gharavan had no such wish. Tulkhan could see his half-brother simply wanted to stay where he was. But he came to his feet, overcome as always by Tulkhan’s stronger will.
“The antechamber at the far end would be suitable, my King,” a Vaygharian of about Tulkhan’s age advised. “I will have food and wine sent through to you.”
King Gharavan hesitated, then seemed to decide to make the best of it. Swinging his arm through Tulkhan’s, he ambled toward the far door, waving to the musicians as he approached. “Continue.”
As Tulkhan drew nearer he could read fear in their faces. Though they smiled and inclined their heads in obeisance to the invading king, their hearts were closed. They hated him. His half-brother had done irreparable damage to the peace. It was one thing to capture a land, quite another to hold it.
When they entered the antechamber, a servant was hurriedly scurrying out after lighting a sconce of scented candles. The far door had barely closed when Tulkhan rounded on his half-brother.
Broken Vows Page 19
