Then they crossed the sludgy snow to Gharavan’s men. Several men of rank stepped forward and Tulkhan greeted them with quiet dignity. Would he order their allegiance or death? How would he resolve this standoff? Imoshen tensed as she saw the unfriendly faces of the young king’s men. Tulkhan was mistaken to keep her with him. They feared and consequently hated her.
The General cleared his throat. “Well men, you know me. I served my father the king since I joined the ranks as a youth. Some of you have served under me on other campaigns, others of you worked with me when we settled the town recently. I am a fair man.”
They muttered and nodded.
“King Gharavan is on his way to Northpoint. I’ve claimed Fair Isle for myself.”
There was a stunned intake of breath and a torrent of exclamations. The muttering and grumbling from the ranks grew louder. Tulkhan let them vent their surprise and outrage before calling for silence.
“If you feel you can’t stomach serving me, you can take the clothes you stand up in and your kit and walk to Northpoint, under an escort of my men. You have until dusk to make up your mind. By dawn tomorrow those who won’t swear allegiance to me must leave the town.”
A grizzled commander stepped forward. “I don’t need till dusk to make up my mind, General. You served your father, but Gharavan’s half the king he was. I’ll take an oath of allegiance to you and my men will follow suit.”
Tulkhan thanked him. “By tomorrow I will have the allegiance of the townsfolk and an army loyal to me.”
He wheeled the horse. It rose on its hind legs. Imoshen clutched his chest to steady herself. He secured her, one arm pressing her to him. With a start she realized the horse was trained to rear and walk on its hind legs. Though she felt precarious she sensed she was quite safe. She was also aware of the striking sight they made as his own men broke into a spontaneous roar of approval.
Now she understood.
By keeping her with him, the General had sought his men’s acceptance of her by unspoken demand. And they had given it.
At Tulkhan’s gentle command the magnificent black destrier gave voice, then settled and pranced toward the stables at the rear of the palace almost as if it had enjoyed the display and approval.
When they finally arrived at the palace, exhausted as she was, Imoshen knew no peace. The town was far from secure and there was much to be done. She left the General speaking to his men in the stables and headed inside the palace, flanked by her Stronghold Guard.
She had known this building as an infrequent visitor, a minor member of the extended royal family. The first time she came here was during the Midsummer Festival before Reothe and she were betrothed.
That was the first time she met him. Although they were second cousins and the only Throwbacks of the last two generations, their paths had not crossed before because her parents had not thought her mature enough to visit the court. Even if they had, Reothe would probably not have been there. He had spent the better part of several years at sea with only a short interval in T’Diemn between his two voyages.
That midsummer the huge formal rooms had been decorated and the public hall was open to the townsfolk. There had been impromptu dances, poetry recitations, musical performances and plays. The flower of T’En culture had been present.
Barely sixteen, Imoshen had been overwhelmed by the sophistication of the palace and its occupants. She had longed to remain in the background but already she stood as tall as most men and her coloring marked her as T’En.
Everywhere she went, people stared.
For Imoshen that festival had been a prolonged period of excruciating tension and formality, as she was escorted by various family members to different venues and introduced to the members of their extended family. She had been formally presented to the Emperor and Empress and listened in on several sessions of government, where the nobles met to formalize alliances within their own island and trade agreements with the mainland and the archipelago.
How different it was now. The long corridors were filled with fearful milling servants and the debris of the young king’s occupation. Imoshen stepped over smashed crockery to enter one of the formal rooms.
“Crawen, you may take your people and settle in. Send the cook and the master of the bedchambers to me.”
Left alone in the room Imoshen stared unseeing at the opulent surroundings. Memories crowded her, making her face flame with shame as she recalled the first meeting with Reothe. She had been sent to collect her brother from a performance in the forecourt of the palace. Only she had taken a wrong turn and found herself in a group of the young royals and minor nobles who were watching a poetic duel.
The first duelist had to create a rhyming quartet about something topical, then the other would take an idea from that rhyme and create another quartet, often turning it back on the originator.
She and her brother and sister had played a similar game as children. Being proficient in courtly speech was considered an important tool of etiquette.
Unfortunately for Imoshen, her arrival threw one of the duelists off his speech and, to recover himself, he chose her as his subject. Or perhaps it was simply a comment about the T’En.
At any rate, she stiffened as every eye in the room turned to her. It was a cruel jest at the expense of the T’En, but it was clever—and the audience applauded him for that with their customary subtle little finger clicks.
Eager to outdo her opponent, the other poetic duelist chose the T’En again and this time made a more intimate reference to Imoshen.
She stood stranded, under unbearably intense scrutiny and unable to flee because her pride would not let her, but not sufficiently versed in the game at this level to produce a quartet of her own. She did not know the duelists by name or reputation.
As the female duelist wound down and everyone clicked their appreciation, Imoshen saw the first poet take a breath and knew he was about to use her as a topic. His eyes glistened with anticipation, making her heart sink and her cheeks flame.
But from the seated ranks Reothe came to his feet. He was as ornately dressed as anyone there and as graceful when he gave the formal sign to show he was entering the duel, but he radiated a lethal quality which she now recognized. It stemmed from years of command. Then she had known instinctively that he was different from the others.
Reothe wasn’t playing—he never played.
The first part of his quartet shifted the emphasis from her to the first T’Imoshen. It was not offensive but clever. It mocked those people who resisted change. Then he turned the rhyme back on the two poets themselves, likening them to their ancestors.
He rounded it off so neatly that even the two poets clicked their appreciation.
Imoshen had met Reothe’s gaze across the crowded room. His identical wine-dark eyes silently mocked her, angering her more than the poets’ comments had. She could see he expected her to be grateful to him for coming to her rescue.
The two poets challenged by Reothe’s skill were eager to reply. In the ensuing three-way duel Imoshen slipped away.
Her brother wasn’t even where he was supposed to be. She didn’t find him that day. But Reothe found her. He might have been waiting on the landing between the wing of guest chambers and semiformal chambers for her to pass, but she refused to believe he would lie in wait for her.
Seeing him there, she stiffened her shoulders and prepared to walk past but he caught her arm. “What, no word of thanks?”
His assumption irritated her, yet good manners told her to thank him. She flicked her arm free using a simple escape break she had polished through childhood bouts with her siblings. Few of her peers bothered to maintain the skills of unarmed combat but she took pride in hers.
“Thank you, but I would have extricated myself—”
“That’s not what it looked like.”
She stiffened, knowing he was right. True, she had been out of her depth socially but her etiquette training told her Reothe shouldn’t have reminded h
er of it. She studied him, surprised that he should overstep the boundaries of formal court etiquette.
What she read in his narrow intelligent face did not reassure her. She knew instinctively etiquette was a tool he used and discarded when it suited him. There was an intensity about him which could not be contained by propriety.
The enigmatic expression in his dark eyes was too intimate. She felt as if he had looked into her heart and knew all her failings, and she hated the sensation.
“Thank you for bringing my deficiencies to my attention. I will make a point of not attending poetic duels!” she retorted angrily and spun on her heel, dizzied by her sudden about-face and the implication she had read in his expression.
“You’re running away,” he called softly, as she forced herself to walk up the broad staircase with what she hoped was stately dignity.
She tensed and turned, looking down into a face so like her own that they could have been brother and sister.
“She who runs away, lives to fight another day!” she said, using High T’En speech, not the bastardized version of the old maxim.
Reothe’s eyes widened and she knew she had scored a point. No one used High T’En nowadays, few people even read it. Only those church priests who made a study of law were proficient in it.
Imoshen gave a start, suddenly recalling where she was as the clatter of approaching palace servants interrupted her. Drawing a deep breath, she prepared to deal with them. She was no longer a gauche sixteen-year-old. She’d had a birthday since that midsummer, been betrothed, seen her world destroyed, lost her family and escaped death more than once.
Entering the palace as part of the conquering force, she could have retreated to her room and expected to be waited on. But that did not suit Imoshen. She was used to taking control. She knew how much organization was needed to run a large establishment, though the Stronghold was not as complex as the palace.
If, as she suspected, the palace staff were in disarray after serving the king and his men, they would need firm guidance. Imoshen insisted on speaking with the servant responsible for each aspect of the palace administration. She inspected every state room and many of the informal rooms. She spoke with the cook and inspected the kitchen and storerooms. They had plentiful supplies of food, spices and wine.
Finally, the master of the bedchambers reported to her for an inspection of the double wings of sleeping quarters. As she surveyed the chambers disgust filled her. King Gharavan and his men had been living like pigs, wallowing in their own filth, surrounded by debauchery. She threw out the whores, male and female, then ordered the serving men and women to scrub the rooms.
She was relieved the servants acknowledged her natural authority and responded well. The master of the bedchambers promised to restore order. She knew he feared for his position. A little fear was good, but she preferred her people to serve and strive to please her because they loved her.
It was dark and the candles lit before she was satisfied that the task of running the palace was under control.
Imoshen was so tired her hands trembled but she could not afford to let herself rest. There was still the evening meal to get through. She selected one of the semiformal rooms where she had the tables arranged in a U-shape. It pleased her sense of order and beauty to watch the well-trained servants spread out pristine white cloths and arrange the fine silver, delicate china and crystal.
When Tulkhan entered she could tell by the tense set of his mouth that he had been busy shoring up lines of support within the ranks. A rush of purely physical relief swept her body and she fought an urge to go to him. It was as if an invisible thread united them, drawing her ever closer to him.
At that moment he looked across the ornate room to her, across the table with its sparkling settings and scented candles. His expression was carefully controlled. She searched his face for a hint of softening but his obsidian eyes were unreadable.
She felt excluded.
Though the room was quite plain compared to some of the other formal rooms it was more ornate than anything in the Stronghold. Was that the problem? Did the General find the opulence of this setting repellent? Did it disgust him as a symbol of the rot which had led the T’En empire to collapse? Did she disgust him as a remnant of that richly decadent regime?
Imoshen could not tell. She only knew that she longed to go to him and must not reveal her weakness for a moment.
“General.” She acknowledged him and the men who had accompanied him, recognizing several as members of his Elite Guard. Others she did not know and she marked their faces. They must have held positions of responsibility in Gharavan’s army. Could their loyalty be trusted? “Gentlemen. The meal is almost ready if you will be seated. There is warmed wine and fresh bread.”
It smelled delicious. Imoshen had discovered in the cook an artist forced to serve the barbarians and the woman had responded to Imoshen’s overtures with a feast. Confronted with a T’En who understood the preparation of food and presentation of dishes the cook had outdone herself. Imoshen was pleased.
But it had taken time and energy. She was not as good at Reading people as the Aayel had been. By surreptitious touch and careful questioning the Aayel had Read people’s needs and found the Key which showed her how to win them over. Support freely given was much better than support gained by coercion.
It was exhausting, mentally and emotionally. And now she had to sit down to a meal she felt too nauseated to eat while mixing with these men, many of whom must resent her. But she would do it. She would do whatever she had to do to survive!
Imoshen took a deep breath and lifted her chin. The U-shaped table created an intimate dinner setting which was still loosely formal.
“Wine, General?” She tilted the steaming jug. Her gaze ran over the lines of the vessel, instinctively enjoying its elegant shape. Candlelight glistened on its polished surface.
That midsummer long ago she had discovered that the simple act of eating in the royal palace could be a sensuous experience, and now she was here, serving these barbarians who probably would not even know how to use the cutlery. A shiver ran over Imoshen’s skin.
Life was strange—strange and cruel.
General Tulkhan’s hand gripped her wrist. When his dark, scarred fingers closed around her white flesh she felt the strength in him.
“You would serve me?” His piercing eyes held hers.
She felt color steal into her cheeks, very aware of the men who were taking their seats. It occurred to her with the instincts schooled by diplomacy that the table needed women, but she could not call in the whores she had banished.
They needed the wives and daughters of the minor nobles to normalize the situation. She suspected the Ghebites would act less rashly when there were women present, women they respected.
Tulkhan’s fingers tightened on the tender bones of her wrist. “I said, would you serve me like a common kitchen maid?”
She stiffened in silent fury as the truth of it hit her like a physical blow. Her position was tenuous at best, relying on his goodwill. Here, away from her own Stronghold she had simply assumed command of the palace servants, but if he chose the General could undermine her position. She could be relegated to the role of a menial servant.
“What place do I have, General?”
He grimaced. “Sit at my side.”
She balked, the memory of King Gharavan’s whores filling her with dismay. “Am I to sit at your side as your equal or your whore?”
He flushed. She saw the rising tide of anger stain his skin. The knobs of muscle at his jawline gleamed in the candlelight as he ground his teeth.
“Now is not the time—”
“On the contrary.” Blood rushed in her ears as she felt all eyes turn to them. Conversations stopped. “I have spent all afternoon soothing the cook’s feelings so that she could produce this meal, working with the master of the bedchambers to throw out your brother’s whores. Even now the servants are stripping the beds to make them fit for y
our honest men. I would like to know where I stand!”
He glared at her.
Though her heart was pounding, Imoshen did not flinch when he lifted his hand. Before she could protest, she found herself swept off her feet. In a rush, he lifted her with him as he climbed onto his chair. Suddenly towering above the table, Imoshen clutched the General as they balanced precariously on the chair. Its slender legs creaked ominously.
“Fill your mugs, men, I give you a toast. A toast to Fair Isle, my new land and to Imoshen, my wife.”
Cold shock doused Imoshen. But, of course, it was the next step!
Tulkhan had laid claim to her and the land in one sentence. Reothe had wanted her because of what she represented. Tulkhan could not afford to let her remain unbonded.
He would legitimize his claim to the land by binding her to him.
The knowledge that she had played into his hands filled Imoshen with shame. Once enslaved as his “wife” what bargaining power would she have? The implications swamped her.
Tulkhan’s men echoed his toast as the servants hurried forward with more heated wine. Someone thrust a warm goblet in her numbed hand.
“Drink and smile, damn it!” Tulkhan hissed. His arm circled her waist, pressing her to his side.
Imoshen lifted the wine and sipped as the room swayed around her. Here she was standing on a chair in a lesser dining room of the royal palace, claimed as a prize of war by the barbarian who had murdered every member of her family.
It was too much.
She felt utterly numb. An almost hysterical urge to laugh threatened to overcome her as she recalled the last time she had eaten here, during the midsummer feast.
Only the Emperor and Empress’s immediate family, about forty people, had been present. It was her first private-formal evening since she had arrived and Reothe had been present. With their argument still ringing in her ears she had been careful not to notice him during the excruciatingly long dinner and the entertainment which followed. But when she was sure he was not looking she had watched him avidly.
Broken Vows Page 31
