“What are you doing? We can’t leave yet.” Imoshen planted her feet and twisted to free her arm, instinctively breaking his hold at the weakest point, the thumb.
Casually, the General stepped behind her. She could feel him undoing the leather thong which held her hair. The skin on the back of her neck prickled as his fingers brushed her flesh. She ached for his touch, and hated herself for this weakness.
Turning a little to face him, she could see the bruises on his chest overlying the old scars. Was he badly hurt by the beating?
His distinctive male scent came to her. It was intoxicating. Like strong wine it went straight to her head, clouding rational thought. Her body urged her to take that one step which would bring her into contact with him. She wanted to feel him down the length of her, to tuck her face into the crook of his neck and taste the salty tang on his skin. A shudder of longing ran through her.
Surely he could sense her reaction to him? Yet he remained unmoved. Shame stung her.
It startled Imoshen to admit that her body’s needs could almost override her good sense. She knew the General had withdrawn from her, though she didn’t know why. Tulkhan should have been grateful for her help but instead he stood grimly behind her, his dark eyes impassive as he unbound her long hair. He lifted the tangled tresses to run his fingers through the knots, freeing them.
If she were to lean back she could press her shoulders to his chest, feel his arms around her. Instead she felt the insistent little tugs on her scalp as he unraveled her hair.
Kalleen returned, breathless, with their cloaks. Imoshen didn’t know how long they had been standing there. For her, time had stopped as she battled against the force of her body’s need. It was an unwelcome complication when she needed her wits about her.
She should have felt relief now that King Gharavan had been dispatched and banished to his own lands, but instead she found General Tulkhan had once again become her enemy.
Weariness and something else made her breath catch in her throat. She was so tired, physically and mentally. Would she ever know a safe harbor where she could let tier guard down, where she could be accepted for herself?
Tears flooded her eyes. She blinked them away fiercely, despising her weakness.
Calling on her reserves of strength, Imoshen lifted her chin and stood tall while Kalleen adjusted her cloak, spreading the mantle of her hair across her shoulders.
She watched Tulkhan swing the deep red of his cloak around him. The Ghebite cloak was not warm enough for this southern winter. His hair hung in long matted strands down his shoulder, dried with caked blood in places.
Irrationally she longed to tend him as she had done last night. The words sprang to her lips, but she contained them. She wanted to order a hot bath prepared so she could sponge the dried blood from his hair, see to his wounds. She ached to do it. Instinct told her the General needed a tender touch, but his manner was so forbidding she knew it was impossible. She was not welcome and the knowledge hurt.
Wharrd handed Tulkhan his helmet.
She watched as the General wound his hair into a knot and pulled the helmet over his head, wincing.
He was once again the distant barbarian invader, his eyes hooded beneath the helmet’s ridge, his height increased by the feathered crest which arched across the top.
He offered her his arm and she took it—understanding at last.
He had banished his half-brother the king and laid claim to Fair Isle in reality, but not yet officially. This was a show of strength. He had to look the part and she was playing her role at his side.
He needed her to bolster his position. Not by so much as a glimmer did he reveal anything as they walked from the great hall. The corded muscles of his forearm were like bands of steel under her fingers.
Before she knew she meant to do it, Imoshen used the physical contact to probe. She had to know why he deliberately distanced himself from her. But she met a blankness, a wall of iron will which held her probing gift at bay.
Startled, she looked at him and saw only the grim line of his jaw, the chiseled tip of his nose and broad angle of his cheekbone. The General had not consciously resisted her, yet he had excluded her from his mind.
This was interesting, and daunting. It meant she could not dip into his mind at will to gauge his mood and motivations. Not that she would have done it, she amended hastily. But honesty forced her to admit the temptation would always be there. Uncertainty had prompted her to try dipping into his thoughts just then and how soon would she have slipped into the habit of monitoring his mind?
The thought frightened Imoshen. She did not want to become so removed from Tulkhan and those around her that she thought nothing of stealing into their thoughts to gain leverage on them.
It was just as well Tulkhan did not sense her subtle probe. Or had he? Was that why he stepped back from her so stiffly now? But no, he offered her his hand. She swung into the saddle of her horse then watched him mount. Only she saw his slight grimace of pain, and her heart contracted.
He was such a magnificent creature. Only she knew how bruised and sore he was as he sat astride the black destrier.
Under that red cloak his chest was naked and he was clad in nothing but breeches and boots.
If he was in pain or cold he would not show it to the others.
At General Tulkhan’s signal the party moved out. Gharavan and his men wore cloaks, and their horses were heavily laden with clothes and stores. They were escorted by a select number of the Elite Guard. Tulkhan urged his mount forward, signaling Imoshen was to ride beside him.
It was a crisp early morning. They moved down the slope away from the Stronghold at a slow walk and the inhabitants of the township lined the broad street’s edge, staring and silent. Rumor would have kept them informed of what had passed. King Gharavan had invaded the Stronghold and tried to execute the General and the last T’En princess. In less than a day he had been vanquished and was being banished from the island.
Imoshen could sense the relief of the crowd and their animosity toward Gharavan. With a start she realized that if she and Tulkhan had not been there to add dignity to the escort, the townspeople might have picked up clods of snow or refuse and thrown it at the deposed king and his men.
She had to admit Tulkhan was wise, far wiser than any other Ghebite.
They left behind the last of the rude shelters which had been hastily built by the recent arrivals and came to a halt on the empty snow of the white plain. A finger of winter sunlight found its way through the sullen low clouds, illuminating them with its cold brilliance. A thousand diamonds of light sparkled on the cold snow. Their breath hung in clouds on the still air. Their horses snorted and shifted, steaming in the cold.
Tulkhan nudged his mount forward. At his signal Imoshen followed. Light reflected off the snow and off her white cloak so that it felt as if she was bathed in a cold silver brilliance. The moment had a timeless quality that seemed to stretch forever. The significance of the night’s events struck Imoshen, stealing her breath for a moment.
They were living history.
On this bitterly cold winter’s morning General Tulkhan had faced death, routed his half-brother and laid claim to Fair Isle, all with the aid of the last princess of the T’En.
What would Reothe say if he knew how instrumental she had been in this night’s events?
Imoshen squinted and scanned the line of the woods. Like benevolent giants the massive evergreens rose above the bare deciduous trees. Scattered through the forest they stood head and shoulders above the bare black branches, defiantly green still. In deep winter they would be cloaked in a protective layer of snow which insulated their foliage from the cold.
A horse snorted and her mount shifted uneasily.
Was Reothe himself watching this tableau from the safety of the woods? Would Gharavan ever reach the northwestern port and his ships?
The words exchanged between General Tulkhan and his half-brother washed over her. She heard only t
heir tone, resentful on Gharavan’s part, cold and uncompromising on Tulkhan’s. Then the General raised his hand and Wharrd gave the cry to move off.
Tulkhan’s horse shied and would have joined the others but he held it back, wheeling the beast around to rejoin her. Side by side they sat their mounts, he in his barbarian battle finery, resplendent in red, purple and black, she in white— white-tipped fur and silver hair.
What was General Tulkhan thinking? Imoshen wondered. Was he mourning his dead father, his half-brother, or his Ghebite homeland lost to him forever now? Or was he thinking of warmth and food, like she was?
When they could no longer see the banished men and their escort, when they had become one with the dark trunks of the woods, the General turned his horse and she followed suit. She was cold under her cloak and she knew he must be colder still. But they rode solemnly into the township, down the main street. People had drifted out to watch the king leave and now followed them back through town in a mass.
The place seemed pristinely beautiful coated in snow, glistening in the pale sunlight. You couldn’t see how hastily it had been cobbled together. Snow coated the scarred earth which had so recently been rolling grasslands.
Everything was so beautiful Imoshen’s eyes stung with unshed tears. Perhaps it was her. She hadn’t expected to see this day dawn, so suddenly she found life very precious.
They had almost mounted the rise to the Stronghold when someone gave a ragged cheer. As if this was a signal the townspeople took up the cry. It was a mixed babble— some called on General Tulkhan, others called on the T’En, but the meaning was clear.
Not only had the General and Imoshen delivered themselves from death this last night but they had delivered the people from persecution.
At the outer gate General Tulkhan slowed and turned his mount to face the populace. Imoshen followed his cue. Her heart swelled with an emotion she didn’t try to name and the tears she had been holding back flowed freely down her cheeks, scaldingly hot on her cold skin.
She told herself the people were weary of war, that they wanted peace and prosperity, not oppression. She and the General had shown that they could maintain peace and deal fairly. Was it more than self-interest that prompted this show of loyalty from her people? Imoshen did not know. Her head might hold doubts but her heart could not help responding, soaring with their cheers. She felt a rush of comradeship for her people who had suffered under the Ghebite invasion. Lifting her hand in salute she smiled through her tears.
At last Tulkhan turned his horse and they entered the passage, moving through the inner gates to the courtyard where the servants, remaining Elite Guard and Stronghold Guard greeted them enthusiastically. It warmed Imoshen’s heart because she knew these people personally. Fresh tears made her vision swim.
She was so tired. She wanted nothing more than a warm bath and food, then to crawl into bed.
The General swung from his saddle and turned to her, holding out his arms.
She wanted to feel his hands on her waist, to feel the length of his strong body as he lowered her to the ground. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and know that she had nothing to fear, but she couldn’t afford to lower her guard.
Disdaining his help, she swung her leg over the saddle and leapt to the ground.
Tulkhan caught her arm, his fingers biting sharply into her flesh. He raised their joined arms to acknowledge the greetings of the Stronghold. She knew he was annoyed with her show of independence. They had to present a united front. Their every move was being assessed, watched by servants, petty nobles and members of the Stronghold and Elite Guards.
When the cheer died down General Tulkhan raised his voice. “I thank you for standing true. I will not forget this night, or your loyalty.”
Again they cheered and Imoshen grimaced to herself. Other than the Elite Guard, the Stronghold’s loyalty had been to her and Tulkhan had benefited from it. By relieving them of Gharavan, the General had become a hero. And what of her?
As they moved toward the steps to the great hall the people surged forward, jostling to get near her. They stroked her hair and touched her sixth finger.
“T’En,” they whispered reverently, proudly. “Lady T’En.”
But they wouldn’t meet her eyes.
Then Imoshen understood. She had become their talisman—a creature to be revered and feared, the T’En of nursery rhyme!
It stung her to the quick, but it also amused her because she was the same person today she had been yesterday. Only their perception of her had changed. A rueful smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at General Tulkhan expecting him to be amused as she was, but instead she read suspicion in his obsidian eyes, quickly masked.
Imoshen couldn’t fathom his reaction. Her head spun with weariness. Rest, that was what she needed. Later when she could think clearly, she would deal with General Tulkhan and his suspicions.
He took her arm. “Prepare yourself. We ride for the capital within the hour.”
Imoshen’s heart sank.
Chapter Nine
But it took longer than an hour to prepare to ride out. Imoshen had to speak to the Stronghold staff and the Guildmasters of the township. A representative had to be elected from the townsfolk to make requests on behalf of their people.
Several officers of the Stronghold Guard loyal to Imoshen volunteered to accompany them to T’Diemn, along with a large force of Tulkhan’s Elite Guard. A small contingent of Ghebite soldiers remained at the Stronghold to serve as Tulkhan’s eyes and ears. The good behavior of the Stronghold inhabitants was ensured by Imoshen’s presence at the General’s side.
Imoshen did not want to leave her home. All her instincts were against this hurried departure and the weather suited her mood. The sun had given up its unequal struggle with the advancing mist and the sky hung heavy with snow-laden clouds. The air was still and charged with foreboding.
The immediate threat to her life had passed, and Imoshen felt exhausted. A strange lassitude enveloped her, making conversation impossible. Voices echoed in her head and everything seemed to be happening at a great distance. Dimly, she realized she had overextended herself by assuming the young king’s form.
But the events of the last few days were too fresh to think on. She felt only a mild irony. She had never expected to make her way to the capital at the side of a Ghebite conqueror.
This was very different from her first visit to T’Diemn and the Royal Palace. Riding into T’Diemn two seasons ago for her first Midsummer Festival she had been so eager. She could remember her excitement, her anticipation of the delights offered by the sophisticated town. At barely sixteen she had been impatient to grow up.
The memory was easily recalled, but Imoshen felt distanced from her younger self as if that Imoshen was another person. Her family and their retinue had taken two days to make the journey, traveling at a comfortable pace. In midwinter, in heavy snow, the journey could kill.
For the second time that day the townspeople escorted them out of the township. Despite Imoshen’s foreboding, the attitude of the Elite Guard, her own Stronghold Guard and the townsfolk was positive.
In better times the route to the capital had been a well traveled road with a serviceable inn at the halfway point. Imoshen doubted if they would find it standing now.
As they pushed on through the snow the sky darkened and Imoshen slept with her eyes open, hardly aware of where she was. The General ignored her. She felt despised, less than human. It would have hurt if she could have felt anything beyond brain-numbing weariness.
Snow fell lightly at first then with gathering intensity. It was clear that despite their fresh horses they would not reach the inn or what was left of it before darkness closed in on them. Imoshen roused herself from her lethargy, rising in the saddle to look around. They must find shelter for the night.
If only they were near one of the hot springs—even during the coldest winter they did not freeze over. The simple folk worshipped these places as sources o
f ancient power. But only someone in direst need would camp there overnight.
With a sudden surge of inner certainty Imoshen knew that Reothe was sheltering his rebels at one of the hot springs. Knowing him, he would dare to flout convention. It was an ideal winter hideout, shunned by the locals and protected from the worst of the weather.
Should she tell the General what she suspected? Instinct told her it was true, but it was still only a guess and there were many hot springs scattered over Fair Isle, especially in the highlands to the south.
Imoshen pulled the white fur close around her and peered from under the hood resentfully, seeing the snow-dusted shoulders of the man in front of her. This was typical of the General’s style of leadership. He made snap decisions and moved fast.
She understood Tulkhan wanted to seize power by filling the vacuum of leadership in T’Diemn. But what if Reothe was hiding in the forest, his scouts observing them even now? A concerted attack could see their escort slaughtered, Tulkhan’s life at Reothe’s mercy and herself faced with a bitter choice—join Tulkhan in death or take her place at the side of her betrothed.
A bitter smile pulled at Imoshen’s cold lips. She shuddered. Could she live as Reothe’s tool? A caustic laugh welled up in her. Hadn’t she chosen to live as Tulkhan’s tool, his tolerated oddity? But at least with the General she was not merely his tool. He needed her as much as she needed him.
She tried to make out the dim outlines of the tree trunks through the thick curtain of falling snow. Soon it would be too dark to choose a good camp for the night. They were exposed, vulnerable.
Fighting a wave of nausea caused by sheer exhaustion, Imoshen urged her mount forward to catch up with the General. She had intended to convince him to stop, but when she caught up he was already ordering his men to make camp.
Imoshen huddled in her furs to watch them build a basic shelter. Her Stronghold Guards all knew the tricks of surviving in the open in winter. They chose a protected overhang and built a crude snow wall. While they worked the Elite Guard gathered wood.
Broken Vows Page 29
