Cariah shuddered. ‘It is the whispering and watching. I cannot stand it.’
‘You feel the force of their emotions. It is your gift. When this is over you and I can –’
Cariah pulled away. ‘Half-bloods do not have the gifts.’
‘Maybe once, but the Aayel once let slip that when our people blended their blood with the descendants of the Ancients we –’
‘I feel nothing.’ Cariah would not meet Imoshen’s eyes. ‘You frighten me with such talk. A part of me wants to run from you too.’
Imoshen felt as if she had been dealt a physical blow. She turned away in pain. If Cariah, who was more T’En than most, could still fear her, what hope was there that others would accept her?
‘Why did Jacolm kill Sahorrd?’ Cariah cried. ‘He loved him.’
‘Who knows what love means to them?’ Imoshen muttered.
Cariah resumed pacing. ‘I should have handled it differently.’
Imoshen restrained her impatience. ‘If you cannot say no to a Ghebite male, then what chance have other women, women who are not independently wealthy with the connections of a noble family, women who do not have the power of a guild behind them? Do not berate yourself, Cariah. There is more to this than simply you, Jacolm and Sahorrd. The right of all the women of Fair Isle to control their lives is at stake.’
‘I did not think...’
‘Go now.’ Imoshen was too weary to talk.
‘Forgive me, T’Imoshen, you see further than I.’ Cariah gave a formal obeisance and Imoshen was aware of a subtle shift in the balance of their relationship.
When Cariah retreated, closing the door softly behind her, Imoshen stared unseeing into the flames. It was too cruel – Cariah, of all people, feared her. She felt overwhelmed by the escalation of events. Everything was unravelling.
Her muscles ached with the onset of the fever. She added more wood to the fire to warm her cold bones. A heartbeat later, the door swung open and Tulkhan strode in without so much as a word of greeting. Imoshen straightened. He vibrated with repressed anger.
A dart of despair pierced her and she turned away from him.
‘At least look at me, Imoshen.’ Tulkhan’s voice was raw.
She turned to face him.
‘Get this woman to accept Jacolm.’
A bitter laugh escaped her.
He cursed. ‘Is it so impossible?’
‘What do you think?’ She stared across the room at him, a cultural chasm between them. ‘Cariah has rejected both men.’
Tulkhan gave an exasperated grimace. ‘She would have his name.’
Imoshen snorted. ‘She has her own name.’
‘His protection.’
‘She needs no protection. She is a respected member of the Thespers’ Guild and a property holder in her own right. Why should she ally herself with Jacolm, or any man, unless she wants to?’
‘Then why did she lie with him, with them both?’
Imoshen had to laugh. ‘Why do you think? Don’t your Ghebite women enjoy bedding their men?’
Tulkhan flushed.
Imoshen shook her head in wonder. ‘Why did you not stop the duel?’
‘You don’t understand what honour means to us.’ He made an impatient gesture but she could see the grief in his care-worn face.
Imoshen’s head throbbed and her throat felt tight. She could hardly think and there was still Sahorrd’s burial ceremony to endure. ‘Please leave. I will dress now. In Fair Isle we wear our finest clothes to honour the dead, but I don’t want to offend your people. What should I wear to honour Sahorrd?’
He shook his head in wonder. ‘Imoshen...’
‘What?’
‘The Cadre would be horrified to see a woman at a man’s burial ceremony.’
‘I see.’ Anger made her voice hard but this was not the moment to make a stand. ‘My people will expect me to do the right thing. Someone from Fair Isle must be present to honour Sahorrd in death.’ There was only one male of equal rank to her and she could hardly ask Reothe. ‘With emotions running the way they are, I cannot ask any of the Keldon nobles. The Beatific would be ideal if she were not a woman.’
‘Murgon the Tractarian?’ Tulkhan suggested.
Her first impulse was to deny Murgon this honour. Of all church officials he was the last person she wished to represent her. It would elevate his importance in the eyes of the Ghebites.
‘You have a better suggestion?’ Tulkhan pressed.
She sighed. ‘I will send a message to the Beatific, appointing him as my delegate. Wording it without offending her will be a challenge.’
Tulkhan gave her a wry smile and hope stirred within Imoshen.
‘You see, all it takes is a little compromise,’ Tulkhan said. ‘If you would but speak with Cariah...’
‘Enough! What you call compromise would see the women of Fair Isle reduced to property. I will not do it, General.’ Imoshen’s rage drained away, leaving her dizzy. She reached for the mantelpiece and missed, felt herself fall.
Startled, Tulkhan caught her, swinging her up into his arms. Her skin branded his. Remorse stirred him. ‘You are feverish.’
‘The Beatific,’ Imoshen mumbled. ‘I must –’
‘I will speak with her. You should be in bed.’
‘Trust you to think that,’ she whispered.
He grinned and carried her into the bedchamber. ‘Can I get you something?’
Imoshen frowned at him, her eyes glassy with fever as she lay back on the pillow. ‘Bring the tisane.’
Imoshen was almost asleep when he returned, but she roused herself enough to drain the medicine.
He sat on the bed next to her, pulling the covers up.
She brushed his hands away. ‘I can do that.’
‘I know. But I want to.’
A tear slipped down Imoshen’s cheek. ‘Oh, General, everything has gone wrong and I try so hard.’
‘We both do.’ He pushed her fever-damp hair from her forehead.
Imoshen fought to open her eyes.
‘Sleep.’
‘But –’
‘There is always tomorrow, Imoshen. For once, trust me.’
Her fingers reached out to feel for his. Tulkhan held her hand until she slept.
‘GENERAL?’
Tulkhan looked up to see Lord Fairban’s anxious face. The General had spent a restless night going over and over the events surrounding Sahorrd’s death. He did not see how he could he have acted otherwise. Curse this Keldon noble and his beautiful, arrogant daughter. ‘What is it, Fairban?’
‘The Master of the Thespers’ Guild tells me my daughter is missing. She did not meet with him this morning as arranged and her sisters have not seen her.’ Lord Fairban began reasonably, but his voice gained intensity as he spoke. ‘Unless she has taken refuge with T’Imoshen, I fear for her safety. Where is your man, Jacolm?’
Tulkhan ground his teeth as he saw the Vaygharians enter the room. Everyone was looking his way, making no pretence of polite conversation. The fatal duel and Cariah’s subsequent rejection of the winner had provided the court with a feast of speculation.
‘Commander Piers?’ Tulkhan called his trusted veteran. ‘Send for Jacolm.’
To maintain the appearance of normalcy Tulkhan joined in a game of chance, but his gaze kept returning to the doorway. When he caught sight of Piers, he rose, and the others made no pretence of continuing the game.
Piers gave a formal salute.
‘Well, man?’ Tulkhan heard the tension in his voice.
‘Jacolm cannot be found anywhere. His bed has not been slept in.’
Lord Fairban moaned and people exclaimed.
Tulkhan signalled for silence. ‘Piers, organise a search of the palace, then the grounds. Locate Jacolm’s horse and kit.’
‘I checked. Untouched. The kit is still in his room.’
Lord Fairban paled. ‘If that Ghebite has –’
‘Get moving!’ Tulkhan rounded on his men. The Keld wat
ched him silently. Though no one spoke, he could almost sense them withdrawing from him.
Tulkhan ran his hand through his hair. He needed to find Cariah and Jacolm before anything happened. In desperation he thought of Imoshen and the scrying platter. Without a word he strode from the room, heading for their chambers. Every servant he passed avoided his eyes.
Imoshen would understand the need to use her gifts just this once. He only hoped she was well enough.
The new maid gave a gasp of surprise as he threw the door open.
‘Where is she?’
The girl glanced to the door of Empress’s bedchamber.
He strode past the maid and thrust the door open. The bed was empty.
‘You look for me, General?’
He spun to see Imoshen’s blanket-shrouded form rise from the rug before the fire. Two bright spots of colour burned in her white cheeks. Her pale beauty glowed with the inner furnace of a fever.
‘You are no better.’
‘What’s wrong?’
He didn’t want to tell her.
‘Is it Cariah?’ Imoshen’s voice was a croak.
‘She’s missing.’
‘And the Ghebite?’
‘Jacolm’s missing too.’
‘He has abducted her?’
‘His horse and kit are still here.’
Imoshen clutched the back of the chair for support.
He tried to reassure her. ‘I have men searching the palace.’
She sank to her knees before the fire. ‘It’s my fault. She wanted to run, but I told her to stay.’
‘No, it’s my fault. I should have foreseen Jacolm’s reaction. What man could face such disgrace?’
‘What disgrace?’
Tulkhan had no time to explain. He crossed the room, lifting Imoshen to her feet. ‘We must find them before it’s too late. Are you well enough to do a scrying?’
She stiffened. ‘You insisted that I never use my gifts.’
‘Lives are at stake.’
‘So you would use my T’En gifts when it suits you?’
‘Yes.’ Why was she hesitating?
‘If I do, what stops you from having me locked away like some unclean thing?’
‘Have done with this.’ He heard the maid’s gasp. ‘You, girl. I know you’re listening at the door. Bring the scrying plate.’
Imoshen closed her eyes and stood absolutely still. Tulkhan’s hands tingled. A prickling sensation ran up his arms.
Shocked, he released her, stepping back. ‘So you don’t need the plate?’
‘Focus. The Aayel said it was all a matter of discipline and focus. I dread...’ Imoshen grimaced in concentration. ‘They are not in the palace buildings. It is very hard, people are running everywhere. There is so much tension.
‘Search the grounds.’
‘I am.’
Merkah returned with the plate, but Tulkhan waved her away. ‘Go, and keep out.’
‘I find no bright points of life, only...’ Imoshen’s knees buckled and she staggered. Tulkhan caught her. In that instant a wave of nausea swept over him. Roiling dark emotions blotted his vision.
Imoshen moaned. ‘Heated fever dreams. The taste of death on my tongue.’
Tulkhan cursed. She was delirious. He should call for the maid and have Imoshen put to bed.
‘Now I understand the visions,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘I thought them feverish nightmares, but it was Cariah trying to reach me.’
‘What do you mean?’ Tulkhan demanded.
Imoshen shook her head and pushed past him.
He watched her unsteady passage across the room. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘I must face this.’
He strode after her, sweeping her off her feet, blanket and all. ‘You can barely walk.’
For once she did not resist him. ‘The place I sense lies beyond the lake. You can’t carry me that far.’
‘We’ll ride.’
By the time they had entered the stables they were accompanied by half the court, including Fairban and his two younger daughters.
‘Saddle my horse,’ Tulkhan called to a stableboy, ignoring all demands for an explanation. He stepped up into the saddle and held out his arm to Imoshen. She clasped his forearm, put a bare foot on his boot and he hauled her up into his arms.
Her face was starkly pale. Her eyes glittered strangely. Even with the blanket between them, he could feel the overflow of her T’En gifts, rolling off her skin like heat radiating from a blacksmith’s forge. It made his heart race. And though he knew it probably damned his soul for all eternity, he liked the sensation.
Imoshen guided them out beyond the ornamental gardens to the lake and the woods. Tulkhan skirted the water. It was only a matter of days since the performance, but he didn’t trust the ice to take a galloping horse laden with two people. He could hear horses and shouts behind him as the others followed.
‘That way.’ Eyes closed, Imoshen guided them unerringly through the winter-bare trees.
They slowed to pick their way over the treacherous ground, hollows hidden by deep drifts.
‘Which way now?’ Tulkhan asked. The others had caught up with them and were floundering through the thick snow.
She flinched. ‘You have to ask?’
Then he saw a dark patch already half buried by the lightly falling snow.
Imoshen twisted from his arms and slid to the ground. Barefoot, she staggered through the drifts. He threw his leg over the saddle. When he caught up with her she was on her knees before the figures.
They could have been entwined in a lovers’ embrace. Snow dusted their heads and clothes. Cariah lay in Jacolm’s arms, her face swollen and distorted.
Tulkhan could see Jacolm had strangled her, then cradled her body while he cut his wrists right up to the elbow. His blood soaked them both, a great black stain.
‘Poor Jacolm,’ Tulkhan whispered. ‘He could not live with the dishonour. He loved her –’
‘Love?’ Imoshen sprang to her feet, flinging the blanket aside. She wore nothing but a thin shift and her hair was loose. Already a crown of powder-fine snow clung to her head, her lashes.
‘Love?’ Imoshen repeated. ‘Love does not kill what it cannot have!’
Lord Fairban leapt down from his mount with a keening cry of pain. His sobbing daughters waded through the snow to his side, trying to restrain him.
‘Cariah...’ he moaned, beside himself with grief.
Tulkhan looked over their heads to a contingent of his men awaiting his orders. They would have to bring the bodies in and prepare them for burial. Which church would claim precedence, or would it be each to their own?
It was a nightmare.
‘You...’ Lord Fairban turned on Tulkhan. ‘You could have stopped this. Cariah had already refused them. It did not have to come to this!’
‘The moment she refused them it led to this. Don’t you understand? Jacolm could not face the disgrace. No Ghebite could!’ Tulkhan felt his voice vibrate with anger. Why couldn’t these people see? As much as he loathed the pointless loss of life, he understood it.
Lord Fairban launched himself at Tulkhan’s throat. The General caught the old man’s clawed hands, turning them aside. Deranged by grief, Lord Fairban fought with manic fury, while Tulkhan fought only to keep him at arm’s length. Even in his prime, the smaller man would never had been a match for Tulkhan.
Lord Fairban’s daughters and servants surged forward to restrain the old man. The Ghebites barrelled into the melee, pushing people down into the snow and drawing their weapons. Tulkhan bellowed instructions, ordering them to sheathe their swords, but his voice was drowned by the screams. Soon blood would be shed and the precarious peace shattered.
Frantically Tulkhan searched the crowd for Imoshen’s fair head, fearing she would be struck down and accidentally killed, or left lying unconscious in the snow. In her feverish state the chill would be enough to kill her.
He thrust people aside, vaguely awa
re that Lord Fairban was being dragged away by three Ghebites. In the midst of the wrestling bodies Tulkhan saw Imoshen. She was a solitary figure kneeling before the corpses.
As he darted forward to comfort her, a woman collided with him. The force of the impact sent him to his knees and he barely saved them both from falling under the hooves of a frantic horse.
Imoshen stared at the dead lovers, seeing minute details. Unbidden, she relived the moments before their deaths. At first Cariah had argued, but Jacolm would not acknowledge her right to choose, then Imoshen experienced Cariah’s terror when she realised he meant to kill her and relived her friend’s battle for life and her defeat. She sensed Cariah’s shade raging impotently, unable to leave the site of her murder.
At the same time, Imoshen felt the Ghebite commander’s utter despair. He had killed his best friend and sword-brother, only to be publicly humiliated by the woman he adored. Even as he strangled her, he told her he loved her. But, dishonoured, he had no choice. Jacolm’s shade had departed with his acceptance of death.
Imoshen’s heart swelled with ferocious pity. Despair settled upon her like a great stone. Her grief was not only for those present, it was for all her people and for Tulkhan’s men too. This terrible lesson must never be forgotten.
In her heightened state, Imoshen could feel everyone fighting behind her, a seething mass of True-people. Their anger, fuelled by loss, rose like a great tide of torment, threatening to engulf her. The force of their swirling passions almost overpowered her. Channelling it, she used the well of strong emotions to empower her T’En gifts.
As Imoshen stroked Cariah’s sixth finger, she watched the young woman’s features settle into a peaceful pose, all trace of violent death eradicated. Now Cariah lay in Jacolm’s arms as if embraced. Dusted with snow, they were an island of stillness in a sea of emotion.
Cariah’s impatient soul ate into Imoshen’s awareness, demanding justice, demanding acknowledgment. The words for the dead spilled from Imoshen’s desperate lips. This time she would not be bluffed by the Parakletos. She would bind them to her will. Anger filled her throat so that the words choked before they were born. It did not matter – the words had only to form in her mind and the Parakletos came. Eagerly.
Dark Dreams Page 24