Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  She shook her head, either unable or unwilling to answer.

  He cradled her against his chest, dragging the covers over her cold limbs. ‘What –’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  There was such sorrow in her voice he could not pry. So instead he held her close until the trembling ceased.

  Tulkhan realised he was whispering Ghebite endearments, things his mother used to croon to him, things he’d long forgotten. But now he recalled his mother’s hands on him and her loving touch when he was too young to leave her side to live in the men’s lodge. How strange – finding Imoshen had forced him to face his mother’s loss, and in facing it he had found her again.

  Imoshen pulled away from him, brushing the tears from her cheeks. The light from the open window had grown stronger and Tulkhan knew the servants would be coming soon. They must not find her in his chambers.

  He went to warn her, but she placed her fingers to his lips. ‘Hush.’

  There were smudges of tiredness in the shadows beneath her eyes. Why did she look so haunted?

  ‘We have little time,’ she whispered. ‘Know this, Tulkhan of the Ghebites. I will bond with you this day.’

  He had to smile. All of Fair Isle knew that.

  ‘No.’ Her face was serious. She took his hand, placing his palm on her chest where he felt her heart beating strongly. ‘I bond with you, here and now. I swear it. We don’t need the church or a thousand nobles to witness this. It is between you and me.’

  Tulkhan understood. The utter simplicity of Imoshen’s vow went straight to his core.

  He lifted her free hand, kissing her sixth finger. What was that scent?

  He held her eyes. ‘Know this, Imoshen of the T’En. I will bond with you from this day forward.’

  Silently she eased her fingers from his to slip her hand inside his shirt. He felt her cold palm over his heart. His own hand rested on her chest, mirroring the gesture. It felt as if he held her rapidly beating heart in his hand. And, as she looked into his eyes, he felt his heart’s rhythm change until their two hearts beat as one, resonant and strong.

  Imoshen nodded once as if satisfied, then slid off the bed. ‘I must go.’ But she hesitated, looking down at him.

  At that moment she seemed fragile. Tulkhan didn’t want to part now, to spend the rest of the day looking at her, unable to touch, unable to share this intimacy until the last ceremony was over late tonight.

  A noise in the hallway alerted him. ‘Be careful, the servants come.’

  A sweet sad smile illuminated her face. ‘They will not see me.’

  He knew it was true. He was mad to love a Dhamfeer.

  THE DAY OF the Midwinter Feast dawned bright and cold as Kalleen and Cariah helped Imoshen prepare for the bonding ceremony.

  ‘There...’ Cariah stepped back to admire Imoshen’s hair. A circlet of gold studded with yellow amethysts sat on her brow, and a thin gold net set with amethysts at every joint held her heavy hair in place. A second outfit was laid out on her bed for the coronation this afternoon.

  Imoshen adjusted Tulkhan’s bonding gift. ‘The weight of this torque will give me a headache by midday.’

  Kalleen smoothed her slim hands over Imoshen’s gown of exquisite gold lace worn over an underdress of black satin. ‘You are lucky you are tall. The babe does not show yet.’

  ‘Does everyone know?’ Imoshen asked ruefully.

  Kalleen wrinkled her nose. ‘It is the right and proper way to go to your bonding, rich with child, my lady.’

  Imoshen shrugged to ease the tension in her shoulders. Kalleen still addressed her as my lady, only now it sounded like a term of endearment.

  After this day she would be the Empress, she supposed, though by Ghebite custom General Tulkhan would accept the kingship, which in turn made her his queen. Imoshen grimaced. She did not feel royal. She felt dizzy with trepidation.

  ‘Your hands are so cold.’ Kalleen rubbed them between hers and blew on the icy fingers. ‘What is it?’

  Imoshen shrugged. She felt Cariah’s sharp eyes on her. She had bathed Reothe’s scent from her skin, but he remained in her thoughts. It felt as if she had left a piece of herself behind in that camp amid the hot pools. No matter how she rationalised it, she hated having to leave him. It had been a cruel choice. Yet she believed it was for the best. For all his talk of equality, Reothe threatened to dominate her in ways Tulkhan did not. She felt as if she had abandoned her younger, naive self when she had abandoned Reothe last night.

  This very morning Tulkhan had sworn to bond with her, and she knew would stand true to his oath. Yet, as the day progressed, he was sure to draw away from her. If only she could get close to him, intimately close. She knew that if she could slip into his mind when he slipped into her body, she could imprint herself on him and... But no, that would not be right. What good was love if it was not freely given?

  ‘What troubles you, Imoshen?’ Cariah whispered.

  ‘Tulkhan does not love me!’ It was out before she could stop herself.

  ‘He wants you,’ Kalleen said. ‘I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You are to be bonded –’

  ‘You speak of bonding in the old way of the country folk,’ Cariah corrected. ‘In bondings of state the best you can hope for is companionship, and if you are very lucky a little fondness. Don’t despair, Imoshen, love may follow, especially since his body pulls him to you. Make use of it.’

  Cariah’s Old Empire tone made Imoshen flinch. ‘My parents raised me with the old values. Their bonding went beyond the flesh to their souls. From what I now know of life in the Empress’s court, I’m glad my family avoided it.’

  ‘You can’t avoid your responsibilities,’ Cariah said.

  ‘Enough, Cariah.’ Kalleen squeezed Imoshen’s hands. ‘It will be for the best. I have seen how Wharrd has changed since we were bonded. The General will grow to love you.’

  Imoshen sighed. ‘I am being foolish. Forgive me. As Cariah says, this is a bonding of state. Sometimes when I look into the General’s eyes I think as much as he desires me, he hates me.’

  Kalleen and Cariah exchanged swift glances, their silence damning. Imoshen stifled her dismay. The murmur of the approaching noblewomen who would be escorting her to the great hall filled the pause.

  ‘They come,’ Cariah said. ‘Stand tall. Don’t let them suspect.’

  Kalleen hugged Imoshen. ‘I wish you happiness. You have been so good to me.’

  The women entered and for the rest of the day Imoshen knew she would have no peace.

  FOR IMOSHEN THE bonding ceremony felt unreal, as if it were happening to someone else. For one thing it went on longer than was traditional because both churches played a role. The Cadre performed his with bad grace, having been relegated to giving his blessing before the Beatific oversaw the vow-giving in the manner of a Fair Isle bonding.

  Standing next to her, Tulkhan seemed alien and distant in his barbarian splendour. He wore the ceremonial belt over a red velvet tunic with black sable trim. His long hair fell free down his back and two plaits hung from his temples, threaded with fine gold beads.

  As the two of them clasped hands and the Beatific tied a slender red ribbon around their wrists, Imoshen recalled how Reothe had used the old form of bonding, cutting their skin and pressing their wrists together. When their blood mingled she had refused to make the vow. With the words unsaid they were not bonded by the laws of their church. Yet her unruly body had responded to Reothe by breaking the old bonding scar. She shuddered.

  Hands still joined, they accepted the bonding chalice. Imoshen offered it to Tulkhan. When he had taken a sip he offered it to her, turning it so that her lips touched where his had. The memory of drinking from Reothe’s lips made her dizzy.

  The Beatific retrieved the chalice, then the moment came for Imoshen to make her vow to Tulkhan before the gathered nobles and town officials. It was a relief to say the words. This final step was irrevocable. It freed her from Reothe’s claim. It must!


  There was still the long noon feast and then the coronation ceremony to be endured, but tonight when she lay with General Tulkhan their joining would erase all thought of her once-betrothed.

  AS THE PALE winter sun set on the great dome of the Basilica, Tulkhan and Imoshen faced the Beatific on their knees, ready to accept the coronation symbols of the Emperor and Empress.

  They had crossed the square and entered the Basilica as supplicants, barefoot and bare-headed, but after the ceremony they would leave in the coronation chariot as befitted their new roles.

  It was this aspect of their bonding which troubled General Tulkhan. The ornate coronation made him deeply uncomfortable. He was sure the Keldon nobles considered him a barbarian upstart, and with all this pomp and ceremony he felt he was being distanced from his own men. He wished this T’En rite over. But first Imoshen must be accepted by the Orb before she could be Arbiter of Truth.

  With deep reverence the Beatific donned gloves so that her flesh did not defile the relic. She unlocked a delicate cage and withdrew the Orb. According to legend, it came from the land beyond the dawn sun. Tulkhan stared at the fragile glass and wondered cynically how many times it had been replaced in six hundred years of journeys and battles.

  Imoshen seemed nervous. Her face was paler than usual and she wore Old-Empire make-up which heightened her T’En characteristics. The torque he had given her was nowhere in evidence, indeed her whole outfit was different from the gold and black of this morning’s bonding ceremony. Now she wore a white underdress overlaid with fine silver lace. Her hair was loose on her shoulders like a satin cloak, and her head, like his, was bare, ready to accept the crown.

  Her eyes closed briefly as she prepared herself. The tang of her T’En gift registered on Tulkhan’s tongue, making him wonder about the source of the Orb’s power.

  Imoshen raised her arms, hands cupped to receive the Orb. It left the Beatific’s grasp, falling into Imoshen’s. The instant her bare fingers touched the Orb’s surface it flared brightly, surprising Tulkhan.

  A gasp of reverence escaped the masses gathered behind them. The Orb had responded to Imoshen’s T’En blood.

  The Beatific removed the Orb and replaced it. Then she returned her attention to them, ready to finalise the coronation. An awed silence fell as the Beatific raised the twin crowns for public blessing.

  Stiff with inactivity, Tulkhan waited impatiently with Imoshen at his side. Self-derision twisted within him. Whether he called himself King or Prince, he would never be as respected as the rulers of the Old Empire. He ground his teeth.

  ‘What is it?’ Imoshen mouthed softly, though she continued looking straight ahead.

  ‘I can’t do it.’ His own words surprised him. ‘I won’t claim to be something I’m not.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Startled, Imoshen turned to him.

  He had always despised hereditary rule which accepted a man’s birth before his ability. The Beatific stepped towards them, her assistant carrying the twin crowns on their bed of velvet.

  Revulsion stirred in Tulkhan. ‘I’m no king. I’m a soldier!’

  ‘If you can lead an army, you can lead an island.’

  Tulkhan knew she was right.

  He sprang to his feet, pulling Imoshen with him. The Beatific took a step back, her expression a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

  ‘Trust me?’ Tulkhan asked Imoshen.

  She searched his eyes, then smiled. ‘Yes.’

  He felt an answering smile ignite him and faced the crowd.

  ‘I am not your Emperor and I never will be.’ His words carried, echoing in the great dome. Not surprisingly a murmur of confusion greeted his announcement. He lifted his free hand, signalling for silence. ‘I am not the King of the Ghebites. I am simply a soldier, first son of the King’s second wife. I claim no royal privilege for myself. I am a general. I will place no one, whether they be noble, guildmaster, Fair Isle farmer or Ghebite soldier, above any other.’ The investiture of his men returned to him. ‘Like my lord commanders I am here to serve Fair Isle.’

  He paused to study the sea of faces, their expressions ranging from outrage to astonishment. Certain factions would not approve. The Keldon nobles for one, but he had already acknowledged their rights and the laws of their church.

  ‘I declare myself Protector General of Fair Isle, and this is Imoshen, Lady Protector of the People.’ He took Imoshen’s hand, placing it along his forearm so that her fingers draped over his.

  A tentative cheer broke from the ranks of his men, telling him his instinct had been right. The people of Fair Isle were harder to read. A furious whispering broke out in the crowd as they debated his repudiation of the emperorship.

  Imoshen’s fingers tightened on his. He expected to see anger, but pure joy suffused her features.

  ‘Signal the musicians and choir,’ Imoshen ordered over her shoulder to the Beatific. ‘We will dispense the coins and make our triumphal ride around the square now.’

  ‘The Vow of Expiation,’ the Beatific hissed. ‘You must give that vow or negate the bonding and coronation.’

  ‘I had not forgotten,’ Imoshen whispered, still facing the crowd.

  Tulkhan squeezed her hand as the choir began their rehearsed piece, their voices soaring high into the great dome like streams of living sound.

  ‘Are you disappointed?’ Tulkhan asked under cover of their song.

  Imoshen smiled. ‘No, Protector General. You have confirmed my faith in you in a most unexpected way.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled, enjoying her approval.

  They stepped off the dais, making their stately way down the aisle under the centre of the dome. There, inset in the floor, was an ancient circle of stone, so old its engravings were almost worn away.

  Before everyone, Imoshen sank to her knees and placed her left hand in the impression on the stone. Her six fingers fitted the indentations perfectly.

  As she gave her Vow of Expiation, promising to serve the people of Fair Isle without fear or favour, Tulkhan noted the intense expression on the face of the man opposite. Dressed in a mulberry tabard, his wine-dark eyes glittered as they fixed on Imoshen’s bent head.

  For a moment Tulkhan could not remember who he was. Then it came to him. This was Murgon, leader of the Tractarians, the branch of the Church dedicated to hunting down rogue T’En.

  Imoshen came to her feet and the choir resumed their paean of praise. At the doors of the Basilica two acolytes knelt to help Imoshen and Tulkhan slide their feet into their shoes. They had entered the Basilica barefoot and bare-headed, mid-afternoon.

  Now it was dusk and they left it wearing the mantle of their office, although the crowns remained on their bed of velvet.

  ‘If only the pomp of position could be escaped as easily as the crowns and titles,’ Imoshen whispered, as if aware of his thoughts.

  Tulkhan wanted to laugh. But she was right. There were still hours of formality ahead of them as they presided over the coronation feast where they would sign the charter giving the three largest banks royal endorsement.

  When they stepped outside, the crowd greeted them with song. Along the steps of the Basilica two lines of people formed an honour guard. They were high-ranking nobles, Tulkhan’s men amongst them, town officials and ordinary citizens chosen by lot.

  The acolytes handed Tulkhan and Imoshen their chests of newly minted coins. The General paused to study the two-headed coin. Imoshen’s profile graced one side, his profile the other. It was dated six hundred and seventeen, though the new year did not officially start until tomorrow.

  ‘Time to share our good fortune,’ Imoshen said. ‘These coins will be collectors’ items in years to come.’

  They distributed the coins and accepted endless congratulations. At last the empty chests were returned to the acolytes and Tulkhan and Imoshen stepped into the open coronation chariot.

  The square was packed with residents of T’Diemn and outlying farms, all come to witness this historical occasion. T
he chariot made its slow stately way round the square, its two horses led by a groom. Then it came to a stop directly in front of the palace’s grand entrance where two tall towers stood like arrogant sentinels.

  Imoshen’s hand covered his. ‘Now you will see the display I promised.’

  A wizened little man scurried towards them, passing several objects to Imoshen.

  ‘I always wanted to launch one of these things,’ she confided as she pulled on a leather glove and took the cylinder.

  It didn’t look particularly inspiring. Tulkhan had expected jewels and gold.

  The little man opened his coal pouch and blew on it to quicken the flame. ‘Take care to hold it away from your body, Empress.’

  Imoshen dipped the cylinder’s wick in the flame. It sparked into life immediately, brighter than striking a flint. A tail of fire shot from the cylinder as it leapt into the air. Rapid as an escaped bird it arced across the sky, trailing sparks of light, only to burst star-bright above the palace.

  Tulkhan blinked, stunned by the afterimage as much as by the improbability of what he had seen. But the crowd was not surprised. They cheered delightedly, then grew expectantly quiet.

  ‘Watch the towers,’ Imoshen whispered. She stripped the glove from her hand and returned it to the little man.

  Tulkhan frowned. A spark flared on the nearest tower, followed by another. The crowd gasped as waterfalls of living sparks poured from the tower tops.

  ‘The place will burn to the ground,’ Tulkhan muttered.

  ‘Not at all. Members of the Pyrolate Guild spend years learning their craft. Surely you’ve heard of the T’En fountains of light?’

  Tulkhan had but he had discounted them, just as he had the rumours of the Dhamfeer powers. He stared in awe as from every tower fountains of golden light poured down, illuminating the palace. The crowded square was utterly silent. ‘What are they made of?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. The guild keeps their knowledge secret. But they are quite harmless.’

  Tulkhan marvelled. How could Imoshen be so casual? ‘I will inspect the apparatus that makes these fountains and that star-bird you shot into the sky.’