Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  At the entrance to the gallery Imoshen stopped. It was deserted and unlit except for a branch of candles which sat on the floor about halfway along, before a gaping hole in the wainscoting.

  ‘The secret passage has been forced.’

  ‘He fled,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘I don’t blame him.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The servant who found this.’ Imoshen spoke over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall. ‘He was taking a shortcut through this gallery to meet his lover.’

  When they reached the gaping hole, Tulkhan picked up the candles and peered through the splintered wainscoting into the secret passage. The stale smell of old air made him grimace.

  He straightened and looked at Imoshen. ‘What would you have me do? How do you even know it is my people? It could be some of your builders.’

  ‘My builders would not be so stupid. They know better than to disturb the past. And they would not be so crude. If they wanted to explore the passage they would remove the skirting board and wainscoting, then replace it afterwards, not bludgeon a hole with a battle-axe. No. It is one or more of your men. My guess is Harholfe and his friends.’

  Tulkhan frowned. ‘They’ve gone looking for gold.’

  ‘Isn’t the gold room gold enough?’

  ‘It’s the challenge.’ He grinned then sobered. ‘What do you expect me to do? Go after them like misbehaving boys? Like as not they’ll find nothing down there but storerooms and rat holes, just as you said –’

  ‘That was not all I said.’

  ‘No.’ Tulkhan had not forgotten, merely tried to deny what he did not wish to face. He shook his head. ‘We must bring them out.’

  He ducked down, stepping through the jagged gap with difficulty. His shoulders were almost too wide. He’d taken four steps when he realised Imoshen was not following him. Turning on the stair he looked back up to her, her face framed by the splintered wood. Six candle flames danced in her fixed eyes.

  Tulkhan’s body tightened, responding to her fear. His free hand went to his sword hilt. But Imoshen had said cold steel would not help him against what lay below.

  He cursed under his breath. ‘They are my men and your ancestors. You can’t turn your back, Imoshen.’

  He saw a flare of anger displace her fear. Still she hesitated.

  ‘If you want my respect you must earn it,’ he told her. ‘A good general has a responsibility to his people.’

  ‘A good leader does not attempt the impossible.’

  ‘What? What is so impossible?’

  ‘Tulkhan, I am out of my depth!’ Her hands lifted in a silent plea.

  He did not let himself feel compassion. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Turning his back, he walked down the narrow stair. Though she moved soundlessly, he knew when she caught up with him because he could feel the skin-lifting tension of her T’En gift. It made his temples throb and left a metallic taste on his tongue.

  As he came to the long passage Imoshen caught his arm. ‘They brought this on themselves by forcing entry to the secret passages. If they have gone down into the catacombs, we must seal the door and leave them there.’

  Cold horror closed like a vice around his chest. He hardened his voice. ‘You know I cannot do that.’

  She stared at him, her face pale and set.

  With a string of High T’En curses, or perhaps it was a prayer, she darted around him. Still muttering, she plucked the candles from his hand and went ahead.

  Tulkhan smiled grimly to himself. But the hand which gripped his sword hilt was slick with sweat as he followed.

  Imoshen went unflinchingly down another staircase. At the base he noticed the exit panel was wedged open with a broken tile. They stepped into a long narrow gallery. The candles could only illuminate the nearest walls and part of the vaulted ceiling. Their lowered voices echoed.

  ‘See the style of vaulting? This dates from the Age of Tribulation. This way.’ Imoshen spoke as if she was conducting a leisurely tour of the palace, but her eyes never ceased searching the shadows.

  Tulkhan followed, his senses on alert. The tension which rolled off Imoshen’s skin was not so bad now. She had to be controlling it because she had not relaxed.

  ‘How far along was it?’ she muttered. ‘All these archways look the same.’

  A man’s raw scream cut the air. Imoshen stopped still. Tulkhan strained to hear as the echoes of the cry faded. He was about to speak when the clatter of boots reverberated on the stonework.

  ‘This way.’ Imoshen ran, trying to shield the candle flames.

  Tulkhan pushed past her. He could see light and leaping shadows coming from a narrow opening. He stopped as Sahorrd and Jacolm stumbled out.

  ‘General?’ Jacolm raised his candle.

  ‘One of them. Behind you!’ Sahorrd warned, lunging forward, his sword drawn.

  Tulkhan spun, unsheathing his blade. Sahorrd aimed for Imoshen’s throat. She parried with the candle holder, disarming him even as Tulkhan struck using the flat of his sword. The man went down with a grunt of disbelief.

  Jacolm swore. ‘The Princess.’

  ‘Who did you think it was?’ Tulkhan hauled Sahorrd to his feet. The man rubbed his head, avoiding Imoshen’s eyes as she handed him his weapon.

  ‘Much good it would have done you, if I’d been who you thought I was,’ she told him. ‘Let’s get out of here. But first I must seal the catacombs.’

  Jacolm stepped between her and the open passage. ‘Harholfe’s still down there, General.’

  Anger flashed through Tulkhan. ‘You left him down there?’

  ‘He was right behind me!’ Jacolm bristled.

  ‘Harholfe had the battleaxe,’ Sahorrd said. ‘He used it to prise the lid off the coffin.’

  Imoshen gasped. She made the sign to ward off evil, raising her left hand to her eyes then over her head. ‘May their eyes pass over me, over all of us.’

  ‘Your long-dead T’En warriors?’ Tulkhan asked. ‘The Para –’

  She hissed, cutting him short.

  Tulkhan looked to her for an explanation.

  ‘Names have power.’ Imoshen’s voice thrummed with emotion. ‘We invoke them by name to serve us.’

  ‘But what of Harholfe?’ Jacolm insisted.

  ‘We go after him,’ Tulkhan said. ‘You two stay here, cover our retreat.’

  He caught Imoshen’s eye. She wiped the back of her hand on her mouth, then moved into the narrow stairwell. He stepped down after her, aware that Jacolm and Sahorrd were following despite his orders. He was not surprised. No matter how deep their terror they would not abandon their brother-at-arms. To display cowardice meant disgrace.

  At the base of the stair Imoshen waited, holding the candles high to illuminate a long barrel-vaulted catacomb. Heavy stone coffins lay in wall niches.

  Silently Imoshen pointed upward. Above them were life-size paintings of the legendary Paragian Guard in full armour. The inlaid gold and silver flickered in the candlelight.

  There was no sign of Harholfe.

  ‘This way, General.’ Only the gleam of Sahorrd’s fearful eyes betrayed his dread as he led them to the right. Their combined light illuminated a waist-high stone coffin resting under a High T’En inscription.

  ‘Imoshen?’ Tulkhan indicated the words.

  She raised the candles and translated. ‘Here lies the Aayel. First of the Last.’

  ‘What does it mean?’ Tulkhan asked.

  ‘It is the sarcophagus of Imoshen the First’s own son, Aayel, First Emperor of Fair Isle. After he abdicated in favour of his half T’En daughter, Abularassa, he served the church and the people of Fair Isle. The title the Aayel was created to honour him. He was the first to serve in this capacity and the last surviving pure T’En male to be born in the old country. Only children, those born on the long journey and those too young to remember, were left.’ She touched her forehead, signalling the T’En obeisance to the first Aayel. ‘This is almost worth the –’

  ‘But
where is Harholfe?’ Jacolm took two impatient paces past them, then stopped. Holding his candle high, he looked back. ‘Come on.’

  Imoshen ignored him, studying the lid of the sarcophagus instead. Tulkhan joined her. The lid was decorated with a raised stone carving of an aged T’En male. He was richly dressed in clothes of state and carried no weapons. The individual hairs of his plaited beard had been intricately delineated first in stone, then silver thread.

  ‘For Akha Khan’s sake, can we move?’ Sahorrd urged. ‘The coffin is just around the corner.’

  ‘The one you were foolish enough to open?’ Imoshen snapped.

  He did not meet her eyes.

  ‘You desecrate my heritage,’ she told him. ‘These are the T’En of legend and you –’

  ‘Imoshen!’ Tulkhan barked. ‘We must find Harholfe and get out of here.’

  As he strode past Jacolm, he sensed the man’s terror and knew he was not far from violence. Tulkhan’s small pool of candlelight moved forward with him and soon he identified another stone sarcophagus. The heavy lid was off, tilted against the side.

  ‘So small,’ Imoshen whispered.

  ‘It contains a child,’ Sahorrd explained as they came abreast of it. ‘The carving on the lid was inlaid with precious metal and jewels. That’s why we –’

  Imoshen’s whimper cut him short. She swayed as if she might faint. Tulkhan steadied her only to find her skin was ice cold and her body felt stiff.

  He peered into the opened coffin expecting a skeleton. Instead he saw a perfectly preserved ten-year-old child. She was richly dressed in red velvet embroidered with gold thread. Jewels were sewn into the broad yoke collar that lay across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed and he could see the individual lashes, the soft curve of her top lip. A single ruby lay on her forehead.

  ‘Why didn’t you plunder this one?’ Tulkhan asked.

  Sahorrd and Jacolm stared down at the child, their weapons forgotten. Then Sahorrd looked up like a startled deer transfixed by a spear.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Panic edged his voice. ‘The ruby...’

  Tulkhan felt a sense of time slowing down so that he could hear his own heart beating in his ears, echoing hollowly in his head, drowning all sense of urgency.

  ‘Imoshen?’ He had to force himself to speak.

  She did not blink.

  Tulkhan felt his skin crawl. ‘Imoshen?’

  She looked over her shoulder at him, wine-dark eyes awash with tears. ‘My daughter...’

  ‘You have no daughter. Who is this, Imoshen?’

  She left his side, walking around the stone coffin to read the inscription on the lid which rested against the sarcophagus.

  ‘Here lies Ysanna. Killed by rebels.’ Imoshen touched the date. ‘She was six years old. I’ve never heard of her.’

  Tulkhan looked into the coffin again and felt himself falling away. He forced his tongue to work. ‘What T’En sorcery is this and where is Harholfe?’

  ‘He claimed the big ruby,’ Sahorrd said.

  ‘But he’s put it back for some reason,’ Jacolm muttered. His hand darted forward to take the precious stone.

  ‘No!’ Suddenly Imoshen’s fingers were between his and the jewel, holding it in place on the child’s forehead. She glared at him, her features austere, her eyes flickering red in the candlelight.

  ‘Curse your witchy eyes, woman!’ Jacolm spat, his sword tip lifting.

  ‘Enough,’ Tulkhan snapped. ‘Where is Harholfe?’

  They looked around but there was no sign of him, only empty stone walls.

  ‘Tell me what happened,’ Tulkhan ordered.

  ‘They came for us when he took the ruby.’ Sahorrd shuddered. ‘Three Dhamfeer dressed in armour appeared from the shadows. The priests say a True-man should turn his eyes from the black arts and now I know why. These beings made the blood run cold in my veins. I’ve never known such terror...’ He looked down in shame, then met their eyes resolutely. ‘I fled.’

  ‘We ran for the stairs.’ Jacolm indicated back the way they had come. ‘I swear Harholfe was right behind me.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ Tulkhan turned to Imoshen only to discover she was standing absolutely still, the big ruby pressed to the centre of her forehead between her closed lids. She opened her eyes and replaced the ruby. When she met his gaze, her garnet eyes were cold and contemptuous.

  ‘I thought you didn’t want the grave desecrated?’

  She stared at him in silence.

  Tulkhan fought a surge of fear. ‘Where is my man, Harholfe?’

  Closing her eyes, Imoshen lifted her left hand. Her splayed fingers seemed to feel the air.

  ‘What is left of him is just beyond the next coffin, propped up against the wall.’ Her voice was rich and strangely intimate.

  Jacolm cursed. He darted away, candle held high, weapon drawn. They followed him.

  ‘Nothing. I see nothing but his battleaxe.’ Jacolm spun around, gesturing to the dressed stone walls and floor, which were bare except for the discarded weapon. ‘Here is the stone coffin, but where – ?’

  ‘Where is the body, Imoshen?’ Tulkhan went to catch her arm, but before he could touch her, he felt a sharp, stinging blow. The flesh under his nails throbbed. He cursed with pain.

  Imoshen pointed to a blank wall, lifting her candles high. ‘There.’

  The reflection of the flickering flames glistened on the stone’s slick surface, glistened and coalesced into the outline of a man’s body.

  Sahorrd’s indrawn breath sounded loud in the silence. ‘It is his shadow. I mean...’ But he had no words for what he saw.

  Like oil dropped into water, the outline of a man appeared on the wall’s stone. Tulkhan could see Harholfe’s expression of frozen terror. He felt cold to the marrow. As a general he had seen men die in many ways – in battle, in agony, raving with fever, even too weary to care. But he had never seen a man die of fear, leaving his last moment of terror imprinted on stone.

  ‘Where is Harholfe’s body?’ Jacolm turned on Imoshen, sword raised. ‘His weapon lies at his feet unbloodied.’

  ‘Of course. Steel cannot kill those who are already dead.’ Imoshen held his eyes until he lowered his blade. ‘Your companion broke the ward protecting the grave. His soul was forfeit.’

  ‘Don’t play your riddles on me, Dhamfeer bitch!’ Jacolm’s voice vibrated with terrified fury. ‘Where is Harholfe?’

  Imoshen’s eyes closed. Tulkhan felt the overflow of her gift and took a step back, his fingertips still throbbing. Sahorrd and Jacolm made the Ghebite sign to ward off evil.

  When Imoshen opened her eyes they glowed with an inner radiance. ‘The Parakletos are escorting him through death’s shadow into death’s own realm.’

  ‘I thought you said...’ Tulkhan stopped. It struck him as odd that Imoshen no longer evinced any fear and seemed at ease with her T’En gifts. Her expression was calm and she looked at him as though he were a stranger. His skin crawled with understanding. Some long-dead T’En being was animating Imoshen.

  ‘I think it is time to go. Sahorrd, Jacolm?’ Tulkhan used the battlefield gesture to signal retreat. They moved to stand behind him, never turning their backs on Imoshen as they edged away.

  ‘We can’t leave,’ Jacolm protested. ‘Harholfe has not been properly buried.’

  Imoshen stabbed a finger at him. ‘You and your two friends trespassed on a sacred place and desecrated an innocent’s grave. Harholfe has paid, so it is finished, but first the stone must be replaced.’

  She walked past them, unconcerned by their weapons. To Tulkhan she did not seem vulnerable, despite her bare feet and the thin nightgown which brushed her slender ankles.

  He bent to retrieve the undamaged battleaxe. As he stood, stone grated on stone. He heard his men’s surprised intake of breath and turned to see Imoshen straighten, pivoting the stone slab into place.

  The abandoned candlestick behind the coffin illuminated her as she leaned over the stone statue to kiss the
child’s cold lips, whispering something in High T’En. She replaced the sarcophagus’s lid and dusted off her hands. He glanced at the stone lid. It had taken three men to move it. She did not have the strength to move that slab.

  Imoshen bent to retrieve the light.

  The moment stretched. She did not rise.

  Dread made Tulkhan’s movements stiff as he walked around the sarcophagus to find Imoshen sitting on the ground looking dazed. ‘General?’

  Relief flooded him. He helped her to stand. Her skin was warm and soft.

  ‘Come,’ he said.

  ‘What of your man?’

  ‘Dead.’

  She accepted this. In silence, except for the scuff of the Ghebite boots on stone, they hurried towards the first Aayel’s sarcophagus. Jacolm and Sahorrd turned the corner, taking their light with them.

  Imoshen stopped and flicked free of his grasp to stroke the Aayel’s tomb.

  ‘What?’ Tulkhan asked.

  Imoshen looked around the catacomb with awe and wonder. ‘My feet walk on history’s path. Sardonyx used to come down here and lie on the stone slab meant for his body.’

  ‘We must go.’

  ‘They said it drove him mad.’

  Tulkhan took her hand even though it made all the hairs on his arm rise in protest. ‘Come.’

  ‘His own kinswomen condemned him to death.’

  Tulkhan tugged on her arm. ‘The others are waiting.’

  ‘My heritage is one of tragedy.’

  ‘Not now, Imoshen!’ Tulkhan hurried her towards the steps under the cold long-dead eyes of T’En warriors.

  As they stepped out into the gallery, Imoshen shuddered. ‘Close the passage, seal the catacombs. No one must go down there.’

  ‘How do we close the passage?’ Tulkhan asked.

  ‘The shoe.’ Imoshen pointed to an old shoe wedged in the door frame. ‘Long ago a boy used it to hold the door open.’

  ‘What boy?’ Tulkhan asked.

  ‘Some lost boy. I don’t know any more.’

  Tulkhan sheathed his sword and worked the shoe loose. It came free with a tug and the panel slid into place, grating stone on dust. It did not close completely, however, remaining about a finger’s breadth open.