This time she had no fear, she was an instrument channelling the rage of those present. Emotion impossible to contain consumed her. Her heart was stone. Stone was immortal, a timeless memorial, and the Parakletos were her stonemasons. Their purpose appeased Cariah’s tortured shade, and with appeasement came acceptance.
Their task completed, the Parakletos returned to death’s shadow with Cariah’s shade.
Tulkhan felt a great pressure inside his head, a roaring which drowned all noise, then something snapped and he staggered, dizzy with relief. Around him grappling bodies parted, some dropping to their knees. One woman stood staring blankly.
Thrusting through disoriented people, he strode to Imoshen’s side. At his touch she fell sideways into a snowdrift, still as a corpse. Horrified, he dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. Her skin was cold, her lips blue. Had he lost her and his unborn son? ‘Imoshen...’
Remorse seared him. Desperate, he lifted her in his arms and carried her towards the horses.
Strange. A few moments ago everyone had been intent on wreaking vengeance, now they stood stunned as if their desperate emotions had turned to smoke.
He handed Imoshen’s unconscious form to Piers and climbed into the saddle. ‘Pass her up.’
Tulkhan focused on taking her weight, arranging her comfortably across his thighs and wrapping her in the blanket someone had retrieved. He shouldn’t have asked this of her. He nodded to Piers. ‘Bring the bodies in and have them prepared for burial.’
‘No!’ Cariah’s youngest sister cried. ‘It cannot be!’
‘What now?’ Piers muttered.
‘See for yourself.’ The girl stepped back, pointing to the bodies.
The other sister moved forward, accompanied by curious servants. There was silence as they inspected the bodies. One of the servants called on the T’En for protection.
‘Frozen like stone,’ Cariah’s sister marvelled.
‘What curse is this?’ Piers asked uneasily.
‘We can’t move my lady Cariah. She has turned to stone,’ the servant reported, close to panic.
‘Impossible!’
‘Frozen, that’s all,’ Piers said, going to inspect the bodies. He cursed in shock.
Their startled comments washed over Tulkhan. As the others sought to satisfy their curiosity, a strange certainty settled around his heart. Imoshen’s flesh had been as cold as stone when he touched her and as smooth as marble.
He urged his horse forward. The others fell back.
Silently Tulkhan looked down at the bodies, trapped forever in stone’s cold embrace. Even the dusting of snow had been transformed. A knife turned in Tulkhan’s stomach. Imoshen had ensured Cariah and Jacolm would be a permanent reminder of his failure to understand.
‘White marble,’ he whispered, recognising the stone.
Someone cursed. Cariah’s youngest sister declared it a miracle. Lord Fairban muttered something in High T’En.
Everyone fell silent, turning to Tulkhan. The General’s arms tightened around Imoshen’s unconscious form and his mount shifted uneasily, sensing the crowd’s animosity and fear. Tulkhan watched them draw away, uniting against the unknown. Even the Keld averted their faces, lifting their left hands to their eyes then upwards, deflecting the evil so that it passed over them.
His own men stared at him, their faces filled with such awe and dread that Tulkhan sensed if he hadn’t been holding Imoshen they might have leapt on her and torn her apart. Years of command told him he had to seize the moment.
He gestured to the stone lovers. ‘They will be a permanent reminder to us all. They paid the price for our failure to understand each other. Let there be no more lives lost so pointlessly.’
Then he rode away as if he did not expect a knife in his back. Yet he knew that only years of Ghebite discipline on the battlefield and the nobles’ natural awe of the T’En restrained the crowd from turning on him and Imoshen like a pack of wolves.
Chapter Thirteen
TULKAN’S HANDS SHOOK as he gripped the reins. What had Imoshen been thinking? A familiar suspicion crossed his mind. More than once he had wondered whether the T’En gifts were more of a reflex than a learned skill.
He glanced down at her still face. Her pallor was worse than usual, but it was the blueness of her lips that made his heart falter. This time she had over-reached herself. He could only hope warmth and gentle massage would help her emerge from this frozen state.
The outbuildings of the royal palace lay just ahead. Stableboys and servants ran forward to hold the General’s horse as he dropped to the ground with Imoshen in his arms. His knees protested.
Around him people clamoured for news. He gave the servants only a brief explanation as he entered the palace.
Striding down the long gallery with Imoshen in his arms, Tulkhan called for the fire to be built up in their chambers and the bed heated. He ordered a warm bath drawn immediately. Somehow, he had to bring the colour back to Imoshen’s cheeks.
He kicked the bedchamber door open and placed her gently on the bed. The maid appeared at his side, her wide eyes fixed on Imoshen’s unconscious form with a mixture of awe and horror.
‘Is she dying?’ Merkah whispered.
‘No, merely exhausted,’ he said, hoping it was true. ‘Leave us.’
When she was gone, he placed his cheek against Imoshen’s mouth, trying to detect her breath. He felt nothing. Desperate, he tore open her thin shift and laid his face on her pale breast. For an agonising moment he heard nothing, then he felt a slow single beat and nothing more. What had happened to her out there in the snow?
A servant entered to tell Tulkhan the bath was ready. He would let no one else care for Imoshen. He stripped her single garment and lowered her limp form into the warm water. Though it did bring a little colour to her flesh, it did not wake her.
Before the water could cool, he carried her to the bed and tucked her between blankets which held warmed stones. Then he took her hands in his and waited.
By dusk that evening he had not left Imoshen’s side and she had not stirred. If anything, she seemed even less responsive. The heat of the room made him sweat, but Imoshen’s skin was like porcelain, cool and lifeless.
The Ghebite bone-setter who had trained at Wharrd’s side had already been and gone. His skill was in the art of sewing up wounds. This was no True-man injury.
Tulkhan pressed the heels of his hands to his aching eyes as he waited for the Beatific to send a priest trained in the arts of healing. Someone scratched at the door and he rose hopefully. But it was the Beatific herself who entered.
‘General Tulkhan,’ she greeted him softly. Her alert gaze went past him to Imoshen’s still form and she approached the bed slowly, as if drawn against her will. Gingerly she laid a hand on Imoshen’s pale cheek.
‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’ he whispered, desperate for a word of comfort.
‘No. How could I? The pure T’En have almost died out. And even when they lived they kept the use and extent of their gifts a closely guarded secret.’ The Beatific met his eyes. He sensed she was studying him, weighing up possibilities. ‘If she does not wake soon, she will die. Maybe the babe is already dead. It is for the best. No pure T’En woman –’
‘The babe!’ He sank onto the side of the bed. His son was probably dead, but he felt nothing. All his being was focused on Imoshen.
In that moment he knew she had come to mean more to him than life itself. The child she carried was his hold on the future and on Fair Isle, yet he would give it all up if Imoshen would only wake.
The Beatific opened her arms and pressed his forehead to her breast, offering wordless comfort.
He pulled away. ‘Sahorrd, Jacolm and Cariah, all dead. I did not think, did not foresee... now this.’
The Beatific made a soothing noise and he looked up into her handsome face. Her hazel eyes glowed with compassion. She understood. Hadn’t she confessed to loving Reothe against her better judgment?
‘This is a T’En illness, General. It needs one of the T’En to bring her back.’
‘Reothe!’ The name escaped Tulkhan with all the hatred he felt for the rebel leader.
The Beatific stepped back as Tulkhan rose impatiently. He paced to the fire. If he were to invite Reothe into the palace to help Imoshen, what chance had he, a mere True-man, against a Dhamfeer male? Reothe had mastered his T’En gifts to such an extent that with a single touch he could deliver death. Tulkhan shuddered, recalling how one of his men had died after delivering Reothe’s message, just as the rebel leader had foretold.
Frustration raged through Tulkhan. He might as well hand Fair Isle and Imoshen over to Reothe right now!
But if he hesitated Imoshen might die, and with her his unborn child. He could not contemplate such loss.
‘General Tulkhan?’
‘I take it you can get word to Reothe?’ He knew he was asking her to implicate herself. He’d suspected all along that the Beatific was playing a double game by currying favour with both him and the rebel leader, while looking to the future to secure her power base.
Her golden eyes widened and she spoke slowly, as though surprised he would contemplate calling on his sworn enemy. ‘It might be possible. I have people who watch and report. But it would not be safe to invite Reothe here. Better to let nature take its course. No, listen!’ She caught Tulkhan’s shirt in her hands, as if her woman’s strength might sway him. ‘You cannot sacrifice everything you have achieved for her. Already Imoshen has betrayed you. I heard she was at Reothe’s camp the night before you were bonded.’
‘What?’
The Beatific flinched as he grasped her shoulders. Tulkhan released his vicelike grip, already regretting his slip. He would not be manipulated. ‘Rumour, mere speculation.’
‘Not necessarily.’ The Beatific worked her shoulders gingerly and looked up at him, gauging his reaction. ‘The country people say she was with Reothe till dawn. They claim she saved his life after he was mauled by a snow leopard.’
Tulkhan recalled Imoshen’s sudden appearance in his bedchamber, naked and disoriented.
‘There is more,’ the Beatific continued. ‘It is said Imoshen and Reothe planned to lead a surprise attack on the palace, to strike while you were in disarray. If Reothe were to march into T’Diemn with Imoshen at his side, the people would lay down arms and join him. Only your Ghebite soldiers would remain loyal.’
It was nothing but the bitter truth. The strategist in Tulkhan knew he should let Imoshen die.
What chance would he have if Imoshen and Reothe united against him? He would never hold Fair Isle. Already this accursed island had robbed him of his father and his half-brother.
He looked across at Imoshen’s pale, still form on the bed. Yet he longed to trust her.
Unable to stand still, he paced the room, aware that the Beatific was watching him carefully. Perhaps this woman hoped to gain from Imoshen’s death. Did she imagine he would turn to her for comfort? Never! Yet, without Imoshen, he would need the Beatific’s support to hold Fair Isle...
Full dark had fallen and he hadn’t lit more candles. He found himself standing over the bed, staring down at Imoshen. She appeared pale even against the white covers. He sensed that the longer she stayed in this state, the harder it would be to rouse her. He had to make a decision.
‘Leave us.’
‘General Tulkhan?’
‘Just go!’ He wanted time alone with his thoughts. ‘I will call you when I am ready.’
The Beatific retreated without a word.
Methodically, he lit the candles. Then he returned to the bed and stripped the sweat-dampened shirt from his back, removing his boots. Clad only in his breeches he slipped beneath the covers, rolling the warming stones onto the floor.
Despite the stones’ residual heat, Imoshen’s flesh was cold and her body limp. With infinite gentleness Tulkhan slid his arm under her shoulders so that she lay draped across his body, her face cradled in the crook of his neck. He guided her still hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, even her sixth finger. Pain twisted inside him.
He rubbed her wrist across his lips, inhaling her sweet scent.
Odd. He lifted her hand to study her left wrist. Why had he never noticed that pale scar before? It was barely visible, yet... He pressed her inner wrist to his lips, feeling the thin ridge of flesh where the skin had knitted. The scar felt more visible than it looked. Perhaps this was because her skin was so fine.
Imoshen was dying, and he should let her die, even though his heart railed against it. Tears stung his eyes. A great knot of sadness swelled inside his chest.
Despite the many blankets, her cold body leached the warmth from him. His eyes closed as a terrible weariness overcame him. His thoughts grew blurred and slow. It was a cruel choice. He wanted her to live... but if he called on Reothe, he lost her, lost everything.
Sleep, then decide.
Drifting away he felt nothing but a deep abiding sorrow. Then he sensed oblivion calling and welcomed it.
TULKHAN WOKE WITH a start. The fire had burned down to glowing embers and the candles had guttered into wax.
His body screamed a warning. Through half-closed lids he watched the air at the end of the bed shimmer. A figure took shape in the flickering candlelight.
Fear froze Tulkhan’s limbs. His breath caught in his throat.
The last T’En warrior stood studying the two figures in the bed, his features unreadable.
Tulkhan kept his eyes mere slits, hoping Reothe would not realise he was awake. Had the Beatific betrayed him? If she had sent a messenger to Reothe, he could not have arrived so soon unless he was just outside the city gates.
‘I can tell you are aware of me,’ Reothe said softly. ‘How does it feel to lie helpless before your enemy?’
As he said this Tulkhan discovered he was paralysed.
Reothe laughed softly. ‘Your fear is sweet. I could drink it down in one gulp. Don’t look so horrified. You hold Imoshen in your arms and yet you don’t know her true nature? Her gifts grow, living off all of you, the fears and hopes of so many little lives. We T’En serve True-men and women because you serve us.’
He fell silent for a heartbeat then a sweet smile illuminated his face. ‘I can feel the Beatific in the next room. She plots to console you once Imoshen dies. She desires you, admires your virility. But if I were to go to her now she would take me into her arms, her body and her heart. It is the fate of you, who call yourselves True-people, to serve the T’En for love.’
Tulkhan raged against the truth he heard in Reothe’s words.
‘How?’ His voice was a mere croak, but at least he had spoken. ‘How are you here? Now?’
Reothe tensed, studying him. ‘You are a determined creature. I could enjoy your resistance for a long time before overcoming you.’
Terror clogged Tulkhan’s throat. He could not protect himself, let alone Imoshen, from this alien creature.
Reothe walked around the bed to crouch at Tulkhan’s side, bringing their faces level. ‘You want to know how I come to be here?’ He smiled. ‘You called me. Ironic, isn’t it?’
‘Called you?’ Tulkhan couldn’t move his head. He could only see his tormentor from the corner of his eyes. The strain made his head ache and distorted his vision so that the fire’s embers seemed to flicker through Reothe’s features. ‘Never!’
‘But you did. You see, Imoshen and I are bound, betrothed in the old way. Earlier today I sensed a dimming in Imoshen’s life force. When you touched our bonding scar you called me.’ Reothe paused to observe Tulkhan’s face. ‘Didn’t she tell you? The night before she was to bond with you, she joined with me. We mingled our blood and our breath to complete what we had begun last autumn. See.’ He held his left arm out to reveal a scar that matched Imoshen’s. ‘Everything she has ever shared with you was meant for me.’
Tulkhan could not believe it. Would not!
‘Deny this.’ Reothe turned Imoshe
n’s left wrist to Tulkhan’s face. ‘She may knit the scar seamlessly – she may cloak its very existence from you – but she cannot change what is!’
Before this day Tulkhan had never noticed the scar. Imoshen had been hiding it. Was she playing some deep, double game? She couldn’t be, she had come to him so openly. He could not believe she would betray him, yet...
‘This is too sweet!’ Reothe crowed. ‘You tear yourself apart. Let me ease your pain.’
If Tulkhan could have moved he would have screamed, but his body was not his to command. He could only lie writhing in mental torment as Reothe spread the fingers of his left hand over Tulkhan’s face.
Instinctively the General closed his eyes, but instead of flesh on his skin, he felt six cool points caress his senses. Soothingly they sank deeper into his awareness, siphoning off the terror that threatened to engulf his sanity. He was aware of a sense of Otherness which was Reothe. It was not unpleasant, just... different.
He knew he should be horrified, but fear was a distant memory. When the presence that was Reothe retreated, he was almost sorry to lose contact. He had never experienced the intimate presence of another being like that. As he opened his eyes he was aware of a cruel separation.
Until this moment, he had never known how truly alone he was.
Reothe rose to stand beside the bed. A delighted laugh escaped him as he pulled back the covers.
‘See what you have done for me. I grow more substantial on your emotions.’
Now Tulkhan understood that this Reothe was only a projection. There was something chillingly innocent in the T’En warrior’s delight. It was as if he was so far removed from a True-man that the rules Tulkhan lived by could not affect him.
One part of the General knew he should be mortified to lie defenceless before his most dangerous enemy, but the mind-touch had left him strangely distanced, so that he could only watch as Reothe studied the way Tulkhan’s body entwined with Imoshen’s.
Reothe’s six-fingered hand glided over Imoshen’s thigh. His touch contained reverence and ownership. Resentment flooded Tulkhan. Yet an equal and opposite surge of hope filled him. Could Reothe help?
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