Very slowly, Imoshen turned to meet his eyes. “To abandon you there would have meant a bloodbath. The people would have revolted, the southern nobles would have turned and forced you to defeat them. Besides,” she sighed tiredly, “I had given my word.”
Since the Stronghold had fallen and Imoshen had become Tulkhan’s prisoner she had constantly opposed him, forcing him to confront his beliefs. He had seen evidence of her tactical training and her consummate statesmanship but until this moment he had not personally experienced its effect.
After the assassination attempt he had confronted Imoshen, demanding to know who Reothe was. She had admitted that he was once her betrothed but she had given him up for dead. He was said to have been killed in battle. Yet she had known all along that Reothe lived because he had offered her a chance to escape with him at Landsend Abbey. She had refused and because of this had faced death at Tulkhan’s own hand, averted only by the Aayel’s sacrifice. How she must have hated him, her Ghebite captor.
He had underestimated T’Imoshen, last of the T’En. She had risked death because she had given him her word. She had stayed and risked her life rather than betray the people of Fair Isle who trusted her to look after their interests. He would never again compare her with a Ghebite woman.
Tulkhan watched as Imoshen collected the trays then carried them to the passage for the servants to take away, even though the servants would have cleared the remains of the meal later. She was keeping him at a distance.
Why?
It was obvious she didn’t want to discuss this with him any further. She had chosen to stay because she had given him her word and for her that meant everything.
But she had also given her word to the rebel leader.
A cold ball of certainty settled in Tulkhan’s belly.
“You gave your word to Reothe. The pair of you were betrothed.” It was out before he could stop himself. “Are your vows worthless?”
Her lips twisted in a painful smile. “I was barely sixteen. The betrothal promise was a vow sworn on a dying empire.”
“Reothe is not dead.” He had to pursue it, had to hear her say the deposed prince of the T’En was nothing to her. It ate at him.
She said something in an ancient language which made the little hairs on his body rise. Magic? Once he hadn’t believed in the T’En gifts. But he had seen what Imoshen could do.
He sprang to his feet, heart thudding. “What was that, a curse?”
She shrugged. “It is a line from an old T’En poem. It translates something like . . . Dead man walks and talks, but doesn’t know he’s dead.”
A shiver moved over Tulkhan’s skin. Reothe had quoted the same poem when they met in the mists. A curse escaped Tulkhan.
Imoshen looked up at him, startled. “What is it, General? My vow to Reothe is dead. I have made a commitment to you—”
“For the good of Fair Isle.”
“Exactly. You can trust me.”
Tulkhan itched to shake her, to wipe that reasonable look from her face.
“Actions speak louder than words. Why did you incinerate the fighting birds?”
She flinched and he felt better, then perversely despised himself for picking at what he knew was a painful memory for her.
Imoshen turned and padded to the window. She picked up a plate of half-eaten fruit she’d overlooked.
“Leave that. The servants can do it. God knows, there are enough of them!”
She replaced the plate but hesitated with her back to him, fiddling with something on the table below the window. “I must apologize—”
“I said leave it!” He’d strode across the room before he knew he meant to. When he spun her around to face him he could feel the firm flesh of her upper arms pinched cruelly between his fingers. “I asked why you felt it necessary to stage that display for my people! You could have burned down the stables, killing people and trained battle horses.”
With a liquid-quick movement she broke his hold on her, swinging her arms up against his thumb and down again so fast he couldn’t compensate, couldn’t hold her.
Her lips drew back from her sharp teeth and her wine-dark eyes blazed with an inner feral light which both frightened and fascinated him. He had pierced Imoshen’s armor. Tulkhan was pleased.
“Why must your men act like barbarians, bringing their foul ways into the lives of my people? Fighting cocks, blood sports! What next? Bear baiting?”
Since this wasn’t far from the truth Tulkhan remained silent.
Imoshen ground her teeth then shrugged past him disdainfully. She prowled the room angrily before finally settling in front of the fireplace. “You have inherited an ancient culture, with a legacy of knowledge rich beyond measure, General Tulkhan. Don’t destroy it simply because you don’t understand it.”
The fire’s glow behind her bathed her body in light, illuminating her long legs through her gown, and creating a halo in the strands of her long hair. He wanted to run his fingers through that pale, silken mane.
The ever-present need to touch her was overwhelming. He could feel it drawing him across the room to her. He wanted to step close enough to inhale her scent and grow drunk on it. He needed to feel that quicksilver response in her, to know that his touch ignited her body as she ignited his. He needed her. On the lake he had been ready to make the ultimate sacrifice to save her.
With a jolt he realized he would throw away everything to have Imoshen in his arms and in his bed. She was a drug he craved. Yet like the drug-crazed priests of an obscure sect he had seen immolating themselves, would his need for her destroy him?
Cool, rational thought made Tulkhan hesitate.
Already tonight she had outmaneuvered him by tricking him into recognizing the church. No, to be truthful he’d had little choice. He needed the church behind him. And in some ways he could see Imoshen’s point of view.
Why should she give up her right to make her own decisions, own property? Had the Ghebite women he had known during his youth despised the men they loved because they were slaves of their fathers and sons?
Tulkhan’s head spun with the implications. He could sense Imoshen watching him, studying him. He must not let her guess how deeply she disturbed him. Would she use it against him? In her position he would have.
Cold certainty gripped him. The more he saw of Imoshen the more she drew him. The more she knew of him the easier she would find it to manipulate him. No matter what it cost him he must keep her at a distance. Bed her, yes, but welcome her into his heart—never!
He caught her watching him. Her faintly calculating expression confirmed all his fears. Furious with himself for ever thinking there could be trust between them, he advanced on her.
Imoshen stood her ground before the fire, proud but wary.
Despite his vow to keep her at a distance he caught her in his arms, felt the curves of her strong body against the length of him. He wanted to hurt her as much as she had hurt him, wanted to leave her needing him as much as he needed her.
Her lips parted in a sharp gasp and he felt a tremor run through her body. An answering tremor ran through his as his body responded.
“Marriage or bond-partner, it’s all the same to me. It means you’re mine to have. Kiss me,” he demanded.
“No! Not like this. Not in anger—”
But he caught her face between his hands and captured her lips, drawn tight in a grimace of anger. The force of her fury ignited him. Her foot came down sharply on his instep but she was only wearing soft indoor slippers and it wasn’t painful. He laughed.
She cursed him, her knee surging up between his thighs but he twisted, deflecting the blow.
“Tulkhan, I—”
The moment her lips parted he had her. He could already feel it, the surge of need building between them. He knew the moment her kiss became voluntary. The gentling of her touch called to him. He wanted to drown in her.
A groan escaped him. Her breath fanned his cheek.
“Damn you, General
!” Her lips moved on his. “Why must you take when a gift is more precious?”
Her words confused him. He could think only of his need.
Why should he wait? They’d publicly announced they were to wed. He’d already known her body twice.
“No!” Her voice cut through his thoughts.
Sharply, she twisted from his grasp. Darting back two steps, she ducked down and snatched a brand from the fire.
Holding it by the blackened end, she thrust the flame between them.
“One step closer and I’ll put out your eyes!”
For a moment he believed her. Then he saw the sheen of unshed tears which masked her anger.
“You wouldn’t. You want me. If I persisted I could have you now and you’d end up welcoming me!”
She gave a bitter short laugh. “Is force all you Ghebites understand? You take my land by force. You claim me as a prize of war. Do you think you can take me by force?”
“Your fingers are burning.”
“Good! I’d rather burn than be defiled by you!”
“Defiled? You’re no celibate Dhamfeer priestess. First, you broke your vows to your church by accepting Reothe as your bond-partner. Then you broke your vows to your betrothed because it suited your purpose. You bedded me because it suited your purpose. You’re no better than the Ghebite women you despise.”
“Get out!”
“I’m going.”
“Good!”
They stood there panting, the air charged with the force of their emotion.
Imoshen jerked the burning brand, indicating the door. The pain in her hand was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. She’d thought Tulkhan was different from the other Ghebites.
“I’m going,” he repeated and she could see him distancing himself from her. “But mark this, Dhamfeer. I know what you are and I won’t forget it!”
Contemptuously he turned his back on her and strode out of the room.
When the door closed after General Tulkhan Imoshen flung the brand back into the fire and ran to the window, opening it to thrust her fingers into the snow on the ledge.
A wracking sob of despair shook her.
“Fool, fool!” she hissed, not sure whether she meant herself or Tulkhan.
When her fingers finally grew numb she returned to her seat by the fireplace to put salve on her burns. Hugging her throbbing hand to her chest, silent tears of despair slid down her cheeks.
She should heal her hand as Reothe had taught her, but perversely she felt she deserved this pain and besides, every muscle in her body ached. She was exhausted. The drenching in the lake had shaken her more than she cared to admit.
Kalleen was right—she should have rested. But she could not have taken to her bed when she did not know whether the General and his advisors were perusing the church document without her.
Now the document was signed, sealed and delivered. The Aayel would be pleased. She had achieved her goal, but she didn’t feel elated. She had paid a bitter price. It had cost her Tulkhan’s trust.
While she had won for her people, she had lost for herself. But she could not think of herself, too much was at stake.
Leaning her head against the tall chairback, she groaned with pain. She wasn’t strong enough for this. If only the Aayel had lived to advise her. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, had made her slip tonight. She hadn’t meant to let the General know about her opportunity to escape with Reothe at Landsend.
Tulkhan might be angry with her, but in recognizing the T’En Church he had secured the church’s support and without it he could not hold Fair Isle. She had taken the first step to ensuring that her country wouldn’t sink into barbarism.
Weary beyond words, Imoshen dropped her good hand to her lap and peered into the flames. Her fingers splayed across her belly protectively. Had the General only been thinking of his child when he risked his life to save her? The child hardly seemed real to her. It was too early to feel anything, too early to show. There was no visible evidence to confirm that brief flare she’d felt when the new life began.
Since that night she had lain with Tulkhan—a shudder passed through her as her body quickened with the memory—so much had happened. Her T’En powers had grown with frightening rapidity. In her mind’s eye she saw the fighting birds engulfed in a fiery ball of flames and feathers. Her hands tightened into painful fists and she groaned, lifting her burned hand to her lips.
How could she admit to General Tulkhan that she had no control over her gifts when he already despised her T’En side?
What did she expect? He was Ghebite.
What did she want from the General? Trust? Love?
What did he expect her to do? Deny what she was?
Imoshen ground her teeth in frustration. She had done everything she set out to achieve. The Aayel would have been proud. Fair Isle was hers and one day her son would rule the island.
Yes, she had won the battle, but the war was far from over. Too many factors could upset the balance of power. The southern nobles, Reothe and his rebels weren’t the only threats. She sighed. It would be only too easy for Tulkhan and his Ghebite army to make one wrong move and destroy their fragile alliance with the people of Fair Isle, then they would welcome Reothe. And what of King Gharavan? What if he swore revenge and returned with a fresh army?
Imoshen shuddered. She may have reclaimed Fair Isle but now she had to hold it. And to do that she needed General Tulkhan’s support. But it had to be willing support. He would not take kindly to manipulation and, besides, she did not want to dishonor him with trickery. He had signed the church agreement because it benefited them both, and united the population of Fair Isle behind him. Now that he understood the full ramifications of property ownership he was angry with her, but the General was a fair man. He would come round. She was sure of it.
Her hand throbbed and she turned it over to the light. The blisters were already beginning to form. She would have to heal the burn. Concentrating, Imoshen reached inside herself for that one T’En skill she felt secure enough to call on. But strive as she might, she could not find it. The familiar taste did not settle on her tongue and her teeth did not ache with the buildup of tension.
She was drained. Exhausted by the bone-chilling dip in the frozen lake and the shattering outpouring of strength she had directed at the fighting birds, she felt just as she used to feel when the gift first came to her and she had tried to heal at the Aayel’s bidding. Her gift had limits. It would do well to remember that.
She unfolded her legs and padded to the window, plunging her hand into the snow again to ease the pain. With a sigh of relief she let her mind drift.
A movement in the shadows of the courtyard attracted her attention. It was Tulkhan. She would know those broad shoulders and that proud bearing anywhere. He stood alone, staring up at the twin moons. The smaller moon was full while the larger waxed more slowly. It would not be full again until winter’s cusp. The night was so clear that she could see the larger moon’s dark face silhouetted against the stars.
What did the Ghebite General see when he looked up at the twin moons? Did he see two brothers forever in conflict, the son of the first wife trying to outshine the son of the second wife and win his father’s love?
Or was he remembering what she had told him about the role of the twin moons in the mythology of Fair Isle—man and woman, different but complete in themselves. For a while one would be in the ascendancy then the other would dominate, but they were at their brightest and strongest when both shone together. Had he understood her unspoken message?
She looked down at him thinking, we are different you and I, from different backgrounds, different as a man and woman can be, yet for the good of Fair Isle we must not burn ourselves out in pointless conflict.
But was it possible for a Ghebite male to overcome barbaric ways and his prejudices? Could Tulkhan accept her T’En self?
Reothe would. The thought came unbidden. Reothe was her other half. She might fear his
superior T’En powers but at least he would never despise her for her innate gifts.
He believed that together they could unite Fair Isle and drive the Ghebites out. Would the sum of their gifts be greater joined? For a moment she let herself contemplate standing at Reothe’s side leading an army across the fertile plains of Fair Isle, driving the arrogant Ghebites into the sea and restoring T’En rule.
But she couldn’t. Her people had seen too much death. They wanted peace. They needed to know that if they planted a crop they would live to harvest it for their children. They had the right to the simple dignity of their lives, lived without fear of being called upon to serve their rulers in a war not of their choosing.
She could not condone more fighting, and joining Reothe would inevitably ensure more death with no certainty of success. Besides, she hardly knew the man who had once been her betrothed. The General, for all that he was a Ghebite, was more familiar to her. She knew Tulkhan was an honorable man.
Imoshen had to believe that she had made the right choice when she rejected Reothe’s offer of escape.
Suddenly the General looked up. His face was in shadow but she could imagine his dark eyes, broad cheekbones. What was he thinking?
He stepped into the patch of light and raised his hand in a silent salute, acknowledging an equal. She returned the gesture. Then Tulkhan strode from the courtyard.
Imoshen flexed her fingers. The snow had numbed the pain at last. She sighed and closed the window. So much depended on her but she would not falter.
She was no man’s puppet, neither Reothe’s nor Tulkhan’s. She was T’Imoshen, last of the T’En, and the future was hers to shape. The last princess of the T’En would bow to no one.
Broken Vows Page 37
