Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  Wharrd beckoned, Tulkhan rose abruptly and left her to her thoughts. She watched as he spoke with his bone-setter. Both men wore the dark breeches and boots of the Ghebite soldier. Tulkhan favoured a red velvet thigh-length shirt. A heavy belt worked with gold filigree inlaid with niello was slung low on his narrow hips. He wore his thick straight hair loose on his shoulders. Two long plaits threaded with small gold beads fell from his temples. By Old Empire standards he wore too much vibrant colour and too much gold ornamentation. Despite this, he looked utterly at ease in his barbarian splendour, dwarfing the more soberly dressed males of T’Diemn.

  ‘The General struts like a peacock, yet he puts our men to shame,’ the Beatific remarked.

  Startled, Imoshen met her eyes. ‘I must be growing used to the Ghebite love of display,’ she said to fill the silence. Alone with the church leader, now was her chance to find the woman’s key, the secret weakness that would open her up to Imoshen’s powers. Other than healing, Imoshen’s gifts were weak. The Aayel had been good at reading people. Though Imoshen had attempted this skill many times, it was only on first meeting General Tulkhan that she had successfully plucked the key image of his dying mother from his mind.

  Since coming to the palace she had been forced to develop her ability to read people. Every day she soothed tempers and assuaged hurt feelings. Everyone had a weakness, everyone could be reached.

  Imoshen offered to refill the Beatific’s wine glass. ‘Let us toast to preserving the dignity of Fair Isle’s women.’

  She poured the wine, then they exchanged looks across the rims of the glasses. At least in this they understood each other.

  Imoshen savoured her drink. ‘Signing the document was an important step, but every day in subtle ways they grind us down. It will be a long battle, I fear.’

  ‘A battle we must win.’ The Beatific put down her glass.

  Imoshen placed her hand over the other woman’s. ‘I need your help in this.’ But when she gently probed the Beatific’s mind, she discovered that it was sealed against her. Not only that, but she was very much aware of Imoshen’s attempt to trawl her thoughts.

  ‘Remove your hand!’ The Beatific enunciated each word with icy clarity. ‘In the Old Empire that would have been unpardonable.’

  Heat flooded Imoshen’s cheeks. None of the palace servants or guildmasters had been aware of her subtle mental touch. ‘Forgive me, I –’

  ‘Indeed?’ True-woman eyes studied her and narrowed. Then the Beatific smiled, but it was hard and patronising. ‘It seems I must forgive you, for how could you know better? Your parents deliberately kept you ignorant of your T’En heritage. If you had been born in the Age of Consolidation, one of the pure T’En would have been nominated as your mentor when you were ten. This T’En would have trained you in your obligations to Fair Isle, preparing you to take the Vow of Expiation at seventeen. But there was no one who could –’

  ‘The Aayel could have.’

  ‘No. She too was untrained. When T’Obazim went to her parents offering to mentor her, they broke with tradition and refused. He appealed to the church. For two years it went through different appeals, with a final submission to the Empress. But before she could give her decision, Obazim went rogue, demanding the girl be given into his care against her family’s wishes. The Tractarians hunted him down and he was stoned.’

  ‘I know. The Aayel told me how she witnessed his death. She was only twelve.’ Imoshen shuddered, recalling how her great-aunt had described the rogue T’En’s execution. The Aayel had lived the rest of her life in the shadow of that memory. Imoshen had not forgotten her great-aunt’s ambiguous comments about the church’s motivations either. ‘The Aayel told me that T’Obazim captured her mind so that she experienced his death with him.’

  The Beatific looked grim. ‘That was cruel. Did the Aayel also tell you that Reothe’s parents approached her to mentor him? No? She turned them down. Shortly after that, they committed ritual suicide.’

  ‘I never understood how they could abandon him like that.’

  The Beatific looked upon her with cruel pity. ‘I believe they could not face the terrible grief of building a Tower of Tears for Reothe.’

  ‘No.’ The denial was instinctive. ‘Reothe has served Fair Isle on the high seas and here at home. He had the love of the Empress, some say T’Ysanna’s love too. With the protection of the Empress and her heir he would never have been declared rogue. Not that he would ever go...’ Under the Beatific’s frank gaze Imoshen ran down.

  ‘Your great-aunt was investigated but exonerated of any responsibility for the deaths of Reothe’s parents.’

  ‘I did not know.’ Imoshen was shocked.

  ‘How could you? Your parents refused to admit your T’En nature. Before you turned ten my predecessor asked that you be gifted to the T’En church, but your parents refused.’

  Imoshen was glad. It would have been terrifying to have been cast adrift at so young an age in a great building like the Basilica, surrounded by unfriendly True-men and women. Poor Reothe. On the death of his parents the Empress had become his guardian and the royal court his home.

  ‘I see you are troubled.’ The Beatific deliberately covered Imoshen’s hand with hers.

  Fighting a sense of entrapment, Imoshen understood the Beatific was making it clear that she felt secure enough in her defences against the T’En gifts to touch her.

  ‘Let me advise you, Imoshen. You find yourself in an invidious position, forced to accept this Ghebite General as your bond-partner, forced to host this parody of a royal court. I know palace protocol and I have the experience of nearly seven years as Beatific behind me. I was the youngest person ever to be awarded this office. I can advise you.’

  ‘I must admit I am out of my depth.’ Imoshen felt relieved when the woman released her hand. She resisted the impulse to rub the imprint from her fingers. It would not hurt to appear to accept the Beatific’s support. There was much she could learn from this woman. ‘I thank you for your offer.’

  The Beatific smiled like a contented cat, and Imoshen knew she must stay alert or she would become the mouse.

  IMOSHEN STROKED THE cover reverently. ‘So this is the oldest book in the palace library?’

  ‘The T’En Codex of the Seasons.’ The Keeper of the Knowledge undid the clasp.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Imoshen whispered. Although she marvelled at the great tome’s workmanship, it was not the book she wanted. She had not dared to tell the Keeper she needed information on how her T’En ancestors controlled their gifts. Instead she had asked to see the rarest and oldest books in the library, hoping they would contain what she needed.

  ‘But it is not the original. That was destroyed in the revolt of sixty-four when the palace library burned. We lost much during the Age of Tribulation.’ The Keeper shook his head sadly. ‘This reproduction is a labour of love. Each page is made of a wafer-thin sheet of wood. The words are incised with the most delicate of quills, and each drawing is a work of art. See how the phases of the moon are illustrated, two small moon cycles to each large one, and the twin full moons on the season cusps. Perfect En.

  ‘There is a page for each season and its ritual celebration is described here. See the two full moons of autumn’s cusp, and the instructions for the Harvest Feast?’ He turned several pages. ‘And here is midwinter, symbolised by the small full moon and large new moon –’

  ‘T’Imoshen?’ a palace artisan appeared at the library door, her clothes dusted with white powder. ‘The master-builder would speak with you in the Age of Tribulation portrait gallery.’

  Imoshen sighed. Brief though their reign of terror had been, Gharavan’s Ghebites had done much damage. They had taken particular pleasure in defacing the portraits of her ancestors, and the gallery was in the process of being restored. She thanked the Keeper and followed the artisan.

  The palace was a warren of wings, stairs that led nowhere, even rooms within rooms. It was built on the site of the original palace, which
had been burned to the ground during the revolution. Sardonyx’s failed revolt destroyed the treasures of the original palace and its library. This was when Imoshen the First’s very own T’Elegos had been lost to posterity. How Imoshen longed to read her ancestor’s history of the T’En journey from their homeland and the trials of subduing Fair Isle. The T’Elegos had been written by her namesake in the autumn of thirty-one, just before she died and, unlike the Codex of the Seasons, it could not be replaced.

  ‘T’Imoshen.’ The master-builder greeted her with a branch of lighted candles, which Imoshen thought odd since it was only late afternoon. Tools lay discarded in the empty passage and the smell of fresh sawdust was the only evidence of the workers.

  ‘Come this way. I thought the proportions of the gallery strange,’ the craftsman explained. ‘Your ancestors were great ones for building. Sometimes they pulled down the work of the previous generation, sometimes they just built over things. When we removed the damaged wainscoting we discovered this.’

  He paused before a dark passage. Musty, stale air greeted Imoshen. The candles flickered.

  ‘A secret passage.’ She smiled with delight. The palace was supposed to be riddled with secret passages, but she had never seen one. ‘Where does it lead?’

  ‘I’ll not go in there.’ He handed her the candle brace. ‘Anything that old has the taint of the pure T’En, if you’ll pardon my plain speaking.’

  Without another word he left. Imoshen peered into the darkness, her heart racing with excitement. Lifting the candles high, she ducked her head to enter.

  TULKHAN OPENED THE door. Stepping aside, he let Lord Fairban and his daughters enter. Several of his commanders vied none too subtly for the attention of the young women.

  ‘And this room has just been restored. Unfortunately my half-brother’s men could not resist looting it.’ Looking around he could just imagine his countrymen’s reaction. Late afternoon sunlight poured through a single circular window in the centre of a dome. The room needed no more illumination, because every surface other than the black marble floor was golden. The dome was lined with beaten gold, impressed with intricate designs. The walls alternated gold-embossed panels with amber-lined niches housing statuettes of pure gold.

  No wonder the Ghebites had been consumed with gold lust. Fair Isle was renowned for its wealth, but this was almost beyond belief.

  ‘Imoshen insisted the room be restored precisely as it had been,’ Tulkhan said.

  Lord Fairban nodded. ‘Very proper. After all, it is part of Fair Isle’s heritage, even if it is in bad taste.’

  Wharrd caught Tulkhan’s eye.

  ‘Bad taste?’ Tulkhan asked.

  Cariah nodded seriously. ‘This whole wing dates from the Age of Consolidation.’ She picked up a golden statuette of a couple amorously entwined and held it up for them to see. ‘Too much decoration and ostentatious display, particularly during the middle period. In this, the Age of Discernment, we can look back on these rooms and their contents and appreciate them for their heritage value, if not their artistic value.’

  Tulkhan’s men looked stunned. He hid a smile.

  When Cariah returned the statuette to its niche, Harholfe stroked its sensuous curves. The T’En claimed to be highly civilised, yet they thought nothing of portraying the naked body in varying stages of arousal. Tulkhan’s people found the sculptures and frescoes disconcerting to say the least. If he was not careful Harholfe would make some crude joke and offend Lord Fairban.

  ‘Let me show you the old portrait gallery,’ Tulkhan said quickly. ‘The portraits are away being repaired while the gallery itself is being restored.’

  A LITTLE CROW of delight escaped Imoshen. The steps had led into a passage, down more stairs and finally through an archway into a long corridor. Someone had wedged the panel open with a broken tile. Imoshen left it wedged in place, not trusting that the old mechanism would still work.

  Raising the brace of candles high, she turned full circle, marvelling. With its exquisitely rendered stonework and buttresses, this corridor clearly dated from the Age of Tribulation. She was standing in history. This had to be part of the palace rebuilt after Sardonyx’s revolt.

  She closed her eyes, inhaling the air of another age, and opened her T’En senses to the past. If only she could have lived in a time when the T’En were revered and accepted.

  She opened her eyes and gasped with surprise as a boy wandered past her, his hands extended as if he were blind. He was pure T’En, and stood nearly as tall as her, although his chin was smooth.

  ‘Who are you?’

  He didn’t hear her. Perhaps he was deaf and mute as well as blind.

  Imoshen hesitated. There were no pure T’En left save herself and Reothe. Perhaps he had been hidden down here. Her heart went out to him.

  Hands extended, eyes blindly staring, the boy felt his way along the corridor. Gently, because she did not wish to frighten him, she lifted one hand to touch his arm, but her fingers passed right through him.

  Imoshen gasped, sagging against the wall. The apparition continued on. Was she watching some long-lost ancestor or someone from the future? His clothing consisted of simple breeches and shirt which could have been worn at any time in the last six hundred years.

  Imoshen took a deep breath to slow her heart rate, then followed. Though he was blind the boy seemed to know his way around. He appeared to be counting the archways until he found the one he wanted. There he ran his fingers over the stonework, triggering a hidden panel which opened onto a narrow stairwell. He wedged the panel open with one shoe and went down the steps.

  When Imoshen looked down to see a real shoe wedged in the doorway, dusty with age, she realised she was seeing an event from the past. She hurried down the steps, anxious not to lose the boy. They were below ground now, in the catacombs deep under the original palace. She shivered with awe as the brace of candles illuminated the wall niches where the dead lay, their forms carved on the stone lids of their coffins.

  As a child she had listened to her older brother and sister whispering stories late at night. They’d told how T’Sardonyx had gone slowly mad. According to legend he would creep into the palace catacombs to lie on the marble slab destined for his body and commune with the Parakletos.

  Imoshen shuddered. After the revolt it had become mandatory to burn the bodies of pure T’En and sprinkle their ashes on the sacred garden of their estates.

  The boy felt his way until he missed a step and fell forward onto the ground where he lay weeping softly in despair. Imoshen hastened to his side, but her words of comfort could not reach him.

  Setting the brace of candles down, she sat back on her heels. Maybe she could reach him with her gift. Lifting her face she closed her eyes and concentrated. This was not a healing, so she did not know how to begin, only that she must seek the familiar tension of the T’En powers. The metallic taste settled on her tongue, making her mouth water.

  Ready to attempt contact, she opened her eyes and saw the ceiling of the catacomb’s barrel vault above her. Dismay made her groan. Staring down from above were paintings of the T’En martyrs, the Paragian Guard who had died in the service of Imoshen the First.

  Men and woman stood dressed in early T’En armour, their hands on their sword hilts. Their garnet eyes were alive in their pale faces as they watched her. These were the T’En warriors who had given their lives to secure Fair Isle, the ones Imoshen the First had commemorated in the T’Elegos.

  When Imoshen read the high T’En name of the one directly above her she recognised him as one of the Parakletos. She bit her tongue, wishing the words unthought. Unbidden the verses of the death-summoning came into her mind. Somehow, she resisted saying them aloud. But it appeared that thinking them was enough, for a great oppression settled on her, filling her ears with roaring silence so that the sound of her ragged breathing faded.

  The Parakletos were coming for her. Panic engulfed her, froze her to the spot. Her heart faltered. Time stretched. Sh
e could sense them approaching, eager and vindictive, questing for her. Soon they would fix on her, and when they did she would not escape.

  Propelled by terror, she broke the trance and, with one last frantic effort, broke free of her paralysis. Snatching the candle brace, she ran. The flames winked out one by one so that by the time she reached the top of the stairs only one candle remained alight. She tripped and fell full length on the stone, skinning her hands. The last candle rolled away, winking out.

  Fear stung her. The candle flared back to life and she scrambled to her feet, careful to shield its precious light.

  Panting with fear, Imoshen found she could hardly think. Which way?

  ‘WHY AREN’T YOUR people at work?’ Tulkhan asked the master-builder who stood in the entrance to the old portrait gallery.

  ‘We uncovered an old passage. T’Imoshen is exploring it.’

  There was a buzz of excitement from Tulkhan’s companions.

  ‘Show me,’ the General ordered.

  The craftsman led them down the gallery and stopped before a dark opening to light a brace of candles, handing it to Tulkhan. ‘You will need this.’

  ‘Let’s go!’ Lord Fairban’s youngest daughter exclaimed.

  ‘There might be ancient treasures,’ Cariah whispered.

  ‘More gold?’ Jacolm asked, nudging Harholfe.

  Cariah laughed. ‘Much more valuable. Lost knowledge.’

  Jacolm frowned.

  ‘Wait, General,’ Lord Fairban began, but Tulkhan had already ducked his head and stepped into the steep stairwell. The others followed him down the staircase, complaining that there were not enough candles.

  The steps led into a passage, down more stairs and through an archway.

  ‘General, I –’ Lord Fairban began, then pointed, muttering something in High T’En.