Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  She stared at the gravel. The twig had fallen unnoticed from her hands. Crushed blossoms lay all around her, trampled into the stones, the fine petals destroyed. Everything she had worked and planned for might be destroyed before the tree could bloom again. If Tulkhan died, she no longer cared if she saw next spring’s blossoms.

  When Imoshen returned to the palace, weary and desperate to rest, she found the General in their bedchamber. Servants scurried about packing his belongings.

  She did not like having their private division witnessed by others. Imoshen met his gaze across the room.

  ‘I will move into my old bedchamber. I stay here only long enough to see my son born,’ the General informed her coldly.

  Imoshen licked her lips. ‘Take a walk with me in the courtyard.’

  He would have refused but she let him see that this was not an idle request. Aware of the curious glances of the servants, Imoshen led him outside.

  ‘Well?’ he prodded when she did not speak immediately.

  ‘I have not mentioned this before because I am not sure of things.’

  ‘No T’En riddles, Imoshen. Get to the point.’

  She rounded on him. ‘I am not your Ghebite wife to be browbeaten and bullied.’ She paused to draw a calming breath. ‘To be frank, I don’t know when your son will be born. My mother carried me a full year from conception to birth. Your son is part T’En so it could take –’

  ‘You’re saying he might not be born until the Harvest Feast?’

  Imoshen nodded and held Tulkhan’s eyes. His Ghebite features hid his thoughts too well. ‘Throwbacks like myself take a full year, eight small moons to develop.’

  ‘True-men babies take around six,’ Tulkhan remarked. ‘So you are saying the longer it takes, the more T’En my son will be?’

  Imoshen registered his distaste but she would not give him the pleasure of knowing how much it hurt her.

  Tulkhan turned away, surprising the servants who were openly watching them through the glass doors. He gestured angrily at them and they hurried back to their tasks.

  It was already past the cusp of summer. His son would have been born any day now if he was a True-man. Tulkhan grimaced. Why had he denied the obvious? If the child was half Imoshen’s he would be half T’En – an alien creature like Reothe.

  His boy might as well be his enemy’s son.

  Tulkhan strode toward the doors.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Imoshen called.

  He did not answer her, but flung the door open. ‘Don’t bother moving my things,’ he told the servants. ‘I leave to rejoin my men.’

  They stared at him and then at Imoshen. Hastily recollecting themselves, they made quick obeisances and left the pair alone.

  Tulkhan did not want to be alone with Imoshen. Just to look on her was agony.

  ‘You will leave me like this?’ Her voice was raw.

  He gave her a cold look, closing himself away from her pain. ‘I leave as soon as I am ready.’

  IMOSHEN ALLOWED HERSELF to hope when she received Tulkhan’s summons to the map-room, but as soon as she saw his grim expression she knew his heart was still set hard against her.

  ‘I’ve marked the passes. Are there any others?’ he demanded, indicating the Keldon Highlands.

  Hiding her disappointment, Imoshen studied the map. ‘Only those two. The Greater Pass leads directly to T’Diemn and most trade travels that way. The Lesser Pass is a longer, more difficult route and is only used by small parties. The highland ravines are steep and treacherous. A traveller might wander for days trying to find their way. What are you planning?’

  ‘Fortifications. Once I control the passes I can monitor the comings and goings of the Keldon nobles, stop their trade if need be. The highlands are not rich and fertile. If I choose, I can make life very harsh for the Keld. Let them decide between fresh supplies and supporting the rebels!’

  Imoshen hesitated. ‘They are a proud people, used to austerity.’

  ‘What would you have me do, Imoshen? Repeat the mistake of your ancestor, march into one of their villages, demand they give up Reothe and his rebels? Execute the villagers until the survivors cooperate?’

  She shook her head, horrified.

  ‘That is the alternative. Unless you have changed your mind about doing a scrying. No?’ His expression was calculating. ‘Then we’ll do what you suggested. Send Reothe a message. Tell him you’ll meet him, only I will go in your stead. I’ll ambush him before he can reach the rendezvous. He need never know you betrayed him.’

  At that moment Imoshen realised she would never betray Reothe. She might fear him and mistrust him but he was her kinsman, the last of her kind. She could not lure him to his death.

  ‘It would not work. Reothe would know if I was not waiting for him.’

  ‘I see.’ Grimly Tulkhan rolled up the map. ‘By closing the passes I contain the rebels’ raids. That will reassure the people south of T’Diemn. I ride now.’ But he stood silently looking at her.

  Imoshen lifted her hands. ‘If you would only trust me –’

  She winced as a bark of laughter escaped him.

  ‘I might be a barbarian, Imoshen, but that does not mean I am a fool. Bring me Reothe’s head in a basket; only then will I trust you!’

  Nausea roiled in her belly.

  With a curse Tulkhan was gone.

  She sank into the seat, too stunned to think. Absently she stroked the scriber Tulkhan had been toying with, sensing his determination. If Reothe were foolish enough to bring a large force to attack the fortresses, neither side would gain. But why would Reothe wait until the fortifications were completed? Why not attack while the men were vulnerable?

  Imoshen knew Tulkhan did not intend to return until the fortresses were finished and manned. This would take until autumn, maybe even early winter. She could hardly believe Tulkhan would desert her before the birth of his son, yet she had been told it was the Ghebite custom to segregate women at this unclean time.

  How she hated everything Ghebite!

  Chapter Seventeen

  THE DAYS OF summer passed. In a kind of stupor, Imoshen slept and ate mechanically, while the baby writhed inside her as if impatient to be free. It had reached its highest point under her ribcage but had yet to drop, so she had no relief from the pressure. She was always weary.

  Imoshen dozed, dreaming she was back home at Umasreach Stronghold where her family were celebrating the imminent birth. It would be a great event. The Aayel had been giving her wise advice on handling the contractions.

  A great foreboding gripped her and she awoke, her heart hammering. Was something going to go wrong with the birth? Why did she feel such a sense of dread?

  She needed the scrying plate to help her focus. Imoshen was torn between her need to know and her fear of scrying, but the sense of foreboding won out. She strode to her chest, the only thing that was truly hers in all the palace, and rifled through it.

  Merkah should not have touched her scrying plate. Imoshen hugged it to her chest, affronted. She took the plate to the bathing room to run a little water in it. Pricking her thumb with her dagger, she squeezed two droplets onto the water: one drop of blood for her soul, one for her son’s. The drops hit the water’s surface, spreading into whirls.

  The spiral of fine blood drew her gaze to the plate. It had never done that before. She’d better focus on the birth, but the reflections held her captive.

  General Tulkhan... She saw him astride his horse, supervising the earthworks of the fortification. The ground was treacherous, the pass steep. He swung down from his mount to consult with the engineers.

  Imoshen watched the breeze lift his dark hair. She wanted to touch him. It was a physical need. But she mustn’t give in to it. He might sense her.

  The water’s surface shimmered. She was still looking at Tulkhan, but this time he faced death. His men fell around him, poorly protected by the half-finished fortress. Why didn’t they try to defend themselves? Rebels leapt over th
e walls crying Reothe’s name.

  Reothe!

  Too late, she could not stop the thought. The plate already shimmered. Imoshen knew she should not look, but it held an awful fascination. Reothe stood by a hot spring. He appeared to be alone except for a child of about eight. From this angle it was hard to tell if the little one was male or female.

  Both of them paused and turned towards Imoshen. Reothe’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. But it was the child’s gaze Imoshen could not hold. They were the oldest eyes she’d ever seen. With cold shock she knew she was looking into the eyes of one of the Ancients.

  Her fingers locked on the plate. She had to break contact. With a burst of will that left her dizzy and breathless, she cast the plate aside. It flew out of her hands, spinning in the air, and crashed straight through the stained-glass window.

  The sound of the shattering glass roused her. How could she be so stupid? She was too inexperienced to scry. The foreboding must have been a forewarning of Tulkhan’s death, not her baby’s.

  ‘T’Imoshen, are you hurt?’ Merkah threw the door open then gasped when she saw the smashed window. Lead curled like broken fingers, clasping at the empty air. ‘What happened?’

  Imoshen had no idea what to say. She straightened. ‘Pack my things. Have my horse saddled. I ride out today.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘Now!’

  Merkah ducked her head. Imoshen caught a flash of resentment in the maid’s face. She had been too sharp with the girl. Though she tried, she had never established the easy friendship she’d had with Kalleen.

  Imoshen strode into her chamber where Merkah was already laying out her clothes. ‘No, nothing fancy. I am joining my bond-partner. I want riding clothes.’

  The problem was nothing would do up over her belly. She tossed her dress aside and pulled on a pair of breeches, letting them ride under the swell of the baby. A borrowed shirt of Tulkhan’s was large enough to cover her stomach. It fell to her thighs, and while it was not suitable for court, it was presentable. She took her cloak to sleep under.

  ‘Who will be accompanying you, my lady?’

  ‘No one. I travel faster alone.’ And in disguise. She did not want any of Reothe’s people reporting her whereabouts to him.

  She felt buoyant. If she could reach Tulkhan in time to warn him of the attack, then he would have to believe her loyalty. If she didn’t warn him he would die.

  The need to get moving consumed her.

  ‘But my lady, you cannot go alone!’

  ‘No? I do not need a maid, or servants. I am not incompetent.’ Imoshen winced as she heard her tone.

  Merkah stiffened, retreating behind a wall of offended dignity.

  ‘I am in a hurry,’ Imoshen said more gently. ‘Have the cook pack travelling food for me. I won’t have time to hunt.’

  Before long she was in the stables strapping saddlebags to her horse. After a moment she sensed someone observing her. She glanced over her shoulder.

  The Vaygharian. Anger consumed her.

  He lifted his hands in a placating gesture. ‘This is not wise, Lady Protector. The General ordered me to watch over you.’

  She made a rude noise. ‘I can smell a lie.’

  ‘At least take an escort,’ he demurred. ‘A woman in your condition cannot travel alone.’

  Briefly she considered taking several of her stronghold guard but that would reveal who she was. She did not bother to reply to the Vaygharian, but took her horse’s reins and prepared to walk the beast out of the stall.

  The Vaygharian caught her arm.

  Quick as thought she flicked free of him and drew her knife, holding it to his throat. The horse sidled away. She nearly laughed as Kinraid glanced around uneasily.

  ‘I am only trying to serve you, Lady Protector.’

  ‘I know who you serve.’ She stepped closer. ‘I know what you are. Remember I looked into your soul and saw your death!’

  He went pale. She caught the smell of fear on his skin. Her lips pulled back from her teeth in a grimace of disgust. ‘If you are here when I get back, I will slit your throat myself.’

  ‘That is not the way the ruler of Fair Isle treats an ambassador of Vayghar.’

  ‘No.’ She smiled. ‘It is the way I treat a traitor. General Tulkhan wants people to think he is civilised. I don’t care what people think.’

  She stepped away and picked up the horse’s dangling reins. Silently she led her mount out. A dozen stable workers and palace servants gathered in the courtyard watching anxiously, but no one dared argue with her. She wondered who they would be serving this time next summer.

  The rigours of the journey did not concern her. She had seen farm women work until the contractions started and had helped them deliver their babes on dirt floors. Then, once the proper words were said, those women would be on their feet preparing their family’s evening meal.

  Imoshen had no illusions about the birth either. The powder of a pain-killing root was tucked into her travelling kit. She intended to brew a tea to sip during the worst of the pain.

  Pulling the cloak over her silver hair, Imoshen led her horse through the silent streets of T’Diemn. All her energies must be focused on reaching the General before it was too late.

  AFTER FOUR DAYS in the saddle, Imoshen was heartily sick of riding. It was not something she would recommend to anyone in the advanced stages of pregnancy. The action of the horse’s gait rocked her hips, triggering hot pokers of pain which shot down her legs without warning. Worse still, when she dismounted she found she could hardly walk.

  On leaving T’Diemn she had heard a horse galloping behind her and had ridden into a grove of trees to escape pursuit. It was Crawen, leader of the stronghold guard, come to escort her. Imoshen was sorely tempted but in the end she had let her guard ride by.

  She had concentrated on using her T’En gifts to cloak her appearance. When she emerged on the far side she knew the Vaygharian’s spies who followed her would not recognise her. They probably would not even notice her. She had chosen the form of a wandering T’En priest, a male at that.

  But maintaining the illusion required deep concentration and once Crawen had ridden dispiritedly past her back to T’Diemn, Imoshen had let her concentration slip. It would be enough to will herself unnoticed when she saw people and to keep to the lesser known paths.

  Now Imoshen’s heart lifted, for she would reach Tulkhan soon. She was in the foothills of the Keldon Highlands. Here the people were distrustful of strangers, but surely they would not turn aside a weary traveller? She urged her horse towards a plume of smoke rising into the oyster-shell gleam of the dusk sky.

  Before long, she approached the smoke’s source, a crofter’s cottage built of local stone, its roof made of sods. The rich smell of simmering stew made her mouth water.

  Crouched behind the bracken Imoshen watched an old man chop wood while an old woman herded the chickens and goat inside for the night. For them life was an ever-turning cycle of seasons. As the old couple went inside, Imoshen almost envied them their place in the scheme of things. It looked like a safe haven for the night.

  Picking her way across the dim ground she approached the door and scratched.

  The wizened little man opened the door a crack. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Is this the way the Keld greet a weary traveller?’ Imoshen concentrated on projecting a bland image.

  ‘Plenty of strange comings and goings near here,’ the woman muttered from behind him. Her sharp old eyes took in Imoshen’s pregnancy.

  Imoshen had found her advanced pregnancy made women eager to help her. Tonight she cloaked only her T’En colouring, to attempt anything more would have been too hard to sustain in her exhausted state.

  ‘That infant’s nearly due. Come in,’ the woman said.

  Imoshen ducked her head to enter. ‘The babe has not dropped yet.’

  The old woman clucked under her breath, sounding for all the world like the disapproving chickens sheltering in
the far end of the cottage. The goat added its opinion.

  Imoshen felt light-headed. ‘I can pay for food and lodging.’

  The woman sniffed, offended.

  ‘As if we would take your coins!’ the old man muttered.

  ‘Thank you Grandmother, Grandfather.’ Imoshen used the honorific form of address for village elders. She watched as the old woman bustled around, stirring the food on the fire. When she saw the old woman check the bed of straw Imoshen told her, ‘No, Grandmother. I will sleep on the floor before the fire. I would not turn you out of your own bed.’

  But she did long for some warm water to wash the grime off her body. She wanted to be clean when she met General Tulkhan. It was her one vanity.

  Despite the pain in her hips, Imoshen went outside to see to her horse. Everything was a chore, removing the saddle, rubbing the horse down. The beast appeared happy enough on a short hobble, and would have sensed predators if there were any about. For once Imoshen felt safe.

  When she returned, the old woman had served up a tasty stew with thick crusty bread. Imoshen ate it gratefully. Then exhaustion overtook her. She just managed to thank the old couple for their hospitality before slipping to the floor in front of the fire pit, her arms cradling her belly, her head on her saddlebag.

  It had been her intention to wait until the old couple went to bed but sleep was irresistible. As she lost consciousness, she felt her cloaking illusion fade and knew her true identity would be revealed. She would have to put her trust in the old people.

  HER MOUTH TASTED foul.

  Imoshen tried to swallow and gagged. Someone held a cup of water to her lips. It was elixir. She drank greedily. Cruelly, they took it away too soon.

  It was still dark. Did she have a fever? She must remember to thank the old couple for bringing her water. At least she’d slept deeply. Since starting this journey she’d hardly been able to sleep through the night for the ache in her hips.

  ‘Thank you.’ The words were a croak. ‘Have I been feverish?’