Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

  ‘You are my bond-partner,’ Imoshen told him. ‘And though I respect your wishes, I will do what I believe to be right. I could not live with myself otherwise.’

  ‘Then we are at a deadlock,’ Tulkhan said, and he left her.

  Imoshen watched him walk away. Only yesterday Ashmyr had looked into her eyes and recognised her.

  He had been born a little more than one small moon short of a full year. She suspected the exertion and the danger she faced had brought him on early. Even so, he was doing well and so was she. While she had recovered physically, she felt more vulnerable than ever. Reothe was ready to traffic with the Ancients and call on the Parakletos at risk to his own soul. To defeat Reothe she had to discover his limitations.

  The palace library was no help. She had to get into the Basilica to search the archives. Somehow she would translate the T’Endomaz and use the knowledge against Reothe.

  It was a cruel irony that he had given her the most valuable thing he possessed – his parents’ last gift – and she hoped to use it to destroy him. Tears stung her eyes.

  It was her lot to face terrible choices, just as it had been Imoshen the First’s. Her namesake had bound the T’En warriors to her with oaths that went beyond death.

  Pushing such dark thoughts aside Imoshen stretched, arching her back. Tonight was her last night with the General. The soft tug on her nipple as the baby fed made her other breast run with milk. She pressed it to stop the flow. Her body tingled and she thought longingly of Tulkhan’s rough hands. If only he would hold her. She was sure she could overcome whatever scruples were restraining his ardour.

  TULKHAN SPRAWLED ON the bed, watching Imoshen feed their son. He and his men were ready to move out. All that remained was this one night with Imoshen. He longed to hold her in his arms, but did not know if he could trust himself to do that without wanting more.

  The baby fed eagerly. Tulkhan could hear him gulping milk. He grinned. ‘My greedy son will get wind and keep you up all night.’

  ‘Oh?’ Imoshen fixed him with teasing eyes. ‘So you’re an expert now. I wager Ghebite men never care for their children.’

  ‘Not true.’ Tulkhan leaned against the headboard and linked his hands behind his head. ‘When I was six I left the women’s quarters and joined the men’s lodge. There I was reared by the men who served my father. They trained me in the arts of war, preparing me for my role as first son of the King’s second wife.’

  She looked horrified. ‘You mean you never lived with your female relatives after that? How sad.’

  ‘Why?’

  Imoshen shook her head. ‘No wonder Ghebite men think women are a race apart.’

  She detached the drowsy baby and tucked him into the basket by their bed before moving to sit in front of Tulkhan. A drop of milk still clung to her nipple. He found himself staring at it, unable to think of anything else.

  Imoshen rose to her knees, her breasts tantalisingly close to his face. ‘Are you thirsty?’

  A shaft of urgent desire shot through him. Surely she wasn’t suggesting? It went against everything he had been taught, yet it was so tempting.

  He tore his gaze from the full expanse of her creamy white breast. ‘Imoshen!’

  She tilted her head, a smile playing about her lips.

  ‘Is this how the women of Fair Isle act?’ His voice was hoarse with the effort of denial.

  Imoshen sighed and closed the bodice of her shift. ‘I don’t know. It was never mentioned in my lessons on how to share pleasure with a man.’

  ‘You had lessons on... on –’

  ‘Physical love?’ Imoshen laughed. ‘Of course. Everyone does. At least all well-educated people. I don’t know about the farmers.’ Her lips quirked. ‘I suspect their education is more practical than theoretical.’

  ‘How can you jest?’ Tulkhan shifted across the bed, pulling the covers with him to hide his state. ‘Imoshen, that is unnatural.’

  ‘How can you say that? Didn’t those men who reared you see to it that you learned how to lie with a woman?’

  He could clearly remember them bringing a certain type of woman to his chamber when he was sixteen. It had been an enjoyable education, one he had partaken of regularly until he joined the army just after his seventeenth birthday.

  Tulkhan folded his arms. ‘That was different.’

  ‘Different?’

  For a moment he thought she was angry. Her eyes glowed like jewels. ‘Imoshen?’

  ‘How can you deny me when it is plain for all to see that you want me?’

  The baby whimpered, responding to her tone. Imoshen glanced into the basket, then looked back to Tulkhan.

  ‘I don’t understand you,’ she whispered.

  He shook his head slowly. ‘Nor I, you.’ But it did not stop him wanting her.

  ‘You could be killed,’ she cried ‘Reothe wants to lure you into the highlands so he can murder you.’

  ‘What would you have me do?’ Tulkhan reasoned. ‘If I threaten the Keld to betray Reothe’s hideout, they will grow to hate me. Yet I cannot let him undermine my hold on Fair Isle. I have no choice.’

  ‘You go to your death!’ Tears spilled down Imoshen’s cheeks. Her balled fists hit his chest, pounding, thudding in time to his raging heart.

  He caught her to him, pinning her arms against his chest, and kissed her forehead. He had no more words.

  Her body trembled and he felt an answering shudder run through him. He wanted her so badly. He could feel her hot breath mingling with the moisture of her tears on his throat. His need to comfort her went core deep.

  ‘Make love to me.’ Her lips moved on his skin.

  His arms tightened. ‘I can’t. It would hurt you so soon after the birth.’

  She laughed and pulled away from him. ‘I’m healed. Besides, do you think I care about a little pain?’

  ‘I will be careful.’

  She smiled and opened her arms in welcome.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THIS TIME WHEN the General marched out, Imoshen watched from the balcony with Ashmyr in her arms. The tenderness of their lovemaking had left her aching for him, vulnerable to the slightest nuance of his voice.

  Sorrow formed a hard kernel in her chest as he gave her a farewell salute. She must not think of what awaited him. The last soldier disappeared from sight and she turned away. There was much to keep her mind from her fears, not least of all discovering the limits of Reothe’s powers.

  Imoshen made her way out of the palace and across to the Basilica. With deliberate casualness she strolled through the great double doors with Ashmyr in her arms. The priests clustered around her, delighted and honoured by the visit, fussing over the baby, who watched them all with curious unblinking eyes.

  ‘So serious!’ they laughed.

  Imoshen’s innocent request for a tour of the building was greeted eagerly and they were already halfway through the kitchens and storerooms when the Beatific caught up with them.

  Imoshen knew the head of the T’En church probably wished her anywhere but inside her bastion of power, yet protocol demanded she welcome T’Imoshen graciously.

  ‘There could not possibly be anything to interest you in this section of the Basilica,’ the Beatific said. ‘Let me escort you.’

  Imoshen smiled. She knew the Beatific would not let her out of her sight, but that would not stop Imoshen meeting the Archivist and probing her mind.

  ‘Our Basilica contains many great treasures preserved for posterity,’ the Beatific said smoothly, leading Imoshen away from the acolytes. ‘But first you must meet the leaders of each branch.’

  The Beatific made a point of showing Imoshen the Tractarians’ training chambers, where she felt as if she had walked into a nest of snakes. One by one the mulberry-robed priests fell silent, turning to watch her. Murgon came to his feet and said the words of welcome, but she read contempt in his eyes. A shudder moved over Imoshen’s skin. This man was half T’En, yet he despised her.

  ‘I will a
ccompany you on the tour,’ Murgon said, offering his arm.

  Imoshen took a step back, unable to hide her revulsion. She could not bring herself to touch him.

  Seeing her reaction, the Beatific’s smile finally reached her eyes.

  Imoshen felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Let them think her cowed by their display of force. It would make it all the easier for her to trick them.

  The Beatific led her away and, after viewing countless trophies of war and tributes from long-dead mainland kings, they finally came to the Archives.

  Imoshen was careful to appear only mildly interested. The Archivist and several of her staff came forward.

  ‘Welcome to the Archives of the Basilica, T’Imoshen,’ the Archivist greeted her. ‘I think you will find this library is even greater than the palace’s.’

  While Imoshen pretended to admire the collection, she searched for something neutral to focus their attention. A multifaceted glass sculpture was on display beneath a window. It converted pure sunlight into shafts of rainbow light.

  ‘Fascinating. How does it do that?’ The delight in her voice was genuine.

  She crossed to the captive rainbow. Spreading out her fingers within it, she watched the colours trickle over her pale skin.

  ‘It is a prism, a child’s toy.’ The Archivist placed a hand on the glass sculpture.

  ‘We had no such toys in the stronghold,’ Imoshen said, trying to use the tenuous connection between them to sift the woman’s mind. She turned her hand over and over, feeling the light, feeling the outer edges of the Archivist’s mind. She had never attempted this with so weak a link.

  ‘That’s because your stronghold was one of the earliest built by your namesake, Imoshen the First. There was no time during the Age of Tribulation to indulge the senses. So many uprisings had to be put down.’

  Imoshen sensed the Beatific grow tense, but what could the woman do? Imoshen was not touching the Archivist.

  She had to keep the woman talking while she concentrated on finding out where the oldest cartularies were kept. They were the key to the T’Endomaz. ‘Because I was named after her I have always felt a kinship with Imoshen the First. It was such a shame the T’Elegos was lost when the palace burned down.’

  The Archivist smiled to herself. Imoshen felt the woman’s reaction as though it was her own. The Archivist felt superior because Imoshen was mistaken. The T’Elegos had not been lost. It was safely hidden in the Basilica, in this very chamber!

  Imoshen’s mind reeled. She froze, desperate not to reveal herself.

  ‘...Sardonyx’s revolt of sixty-four,’ the Archivist was saying. ‘Some works predating the conquest did survive the sea journey, but they were lost to posterity along with the first Imoshen’s T’Elegos. During the Age of Tribulation, not only was the palace burned, but your stronghold’s library was destroyed twice.’

  ‘What a shame,’ Imoshen said softly. When she felt she could hide the triumph in her heart she looked up and smiled. ‘I would like one of these prisms for Ashmyr when he is older. I think it would delight a child to make rainbows.’

  ‘Of course,’ the Beatific agreed readily. ‘Now, would you like to see the music wing where the choir will be rehearsing?’

  Imoshen nodded, hugging her impossible discovery to herself. Joy and outrage mingled freely. She did not understand why the church had hidden the T’Elegos from the people of Fair Isle, but she knew she was close to breaking the T’Endomaz encryption.

  Even the arrival of Murgon and several of his Tractarians during the choir’s rehearsal did not dispel her elation. They watched her closely but there was nothing for them to see.

  DESPITE HER IMPATIENCE, Imoshen bided her time until Intercession Day. It provided her best chance to slip unnoticed into the Basilica. Every fortnight they opened the disputation hall where anyone from a landless worker to the richest guildmaster was welcome to consult the priests trained in matters of T’En law and its interpretation.

  If a disputation could not be settled, applicants requested the assistance of a church representative to present their case to the Empress. Consequently there was always a long line of petitioners awaiting hearings in the public rooms of the Basilica.

  Late that afternoon Imoshen fed Ashmyr and strapped him between her breasts. She would have preferred to leave him safely in his little basket, but she trusted no one. Always at the back of her mind was the fear of the Ancients.

  Imoshen pulled up her cloak’s hood and shuffled forward, blending with the crowd. She did not intend to use her gifts, which might attract Murgon and his Tractarians. Unchallenged, she moved past public rooms packed with busy priests, each full of their own importance. Excitement powered her legs as she glided up the grand staircase. The first time she had seen its marbled balustrades, she had been overwhelmed by its beauty, but now she barely took in the glistening stone. Thanks to her guided tour she knew her way to the Archives, which were deserted on Intercession Day. Her soft-soled boots carried her soundlessly across the mosaic floor.

  She went straight to the false wall panel, recognising it from the Archivist’s memory. The woman had even supplied her with the knowledge to open the panel. Imoshen felt no remorse about her methods. As far as she was concerned the T’Elegos was her heritage. The church had no right to hide it.

  The baby stirred against her chest and she crooned under her breath as her fingers traced the design of the carved wood panel which was inlaid with ivory and gold. In her mind’s eye she saw the Archivist trip the mechanism and her hands mimicked the action. It felt exactly as the woman remembered. How strange to have the tactile memory of another person.

  The panel clicked and the catch sprang open. Imoshen’s heart leapt. At last she would discover the secrets her namesake had inscribed. She would know what Reothe knew, how to uncover and exploit his weaknesses, and she would have the key to break the encryption of the T’Endomaz.

  Sliding the panel across, she peered into the dusty vault.

  Nothing?

  She blinked in astonishment and her heart missed a beat. It could not be.

  The vault was empty.

  Had she given herself away? Had the Beatific removed the T’Elegos?

  Imoshen sank to her knees. There on the stone floor she could see the dust-rimmed outline where a single jar had stood. This corresponded with what she knew. According to legend and what she could glean from historical accounts, Imoshen the First had spent the last winter of her life working on a long scroll of vellum. She had been determined to preserve for posterity the story of the T’En odyssey and to honour her warriors. Imoshen knew that the best way to preserve a single ancient scroll, to protect it from insects and damp was to seal it in an earthenware jar filled with oil.

  The T’Elegos had almost been within her grasp. Her hands clenched in frustration.

  Who would have taken it and why? Had the Beatific decided to change the hiding place? And if it wasn’t the Beatific, who else would have had access and the motive? The Archivist certainly believed the T’Elegos was still in its hiding place.

  Imoshen straightened, her thigh muscles flexing with the added weight of the baby. Leaning against the wall she stared into the empty vault. Her mind went blank and her vision blurred.

  Candlelight danced on the walls. Someone stood with his back to her, rolling a heavy jar into position. He knelt to pick it up, turning towards her.

  Reothe!

  The vision faded.

  Imoshen blinked, startled and dismayed. She had not meant to use her gift. Never before had she called up the image of a past event. But then she had never tried.

  Reothe had stolen the T’Elegos!

  Anger stirred in Imoshen. Had he removed the jar with the Beatific’s approval or by subterfuge? She knew he was capable of slipping in here even more easily than she had done.

  Why had no one at the Basilica discovered the loss? Imoshen had received the distinct impression from the Archivist that this document was too dangerous to re
ad, yet too precious to destroy. For generations it had been hidden, keeping Imoshen the First’s insights into the T’En mysteries safe from prying eyes.

  Reothe must have given her the T’Endomaz knowing she could not unlock the secrets without the T’Elegos. As furious as she was with him, she found it hard to believe evil of Reothe. Perhaps the T’Elegos contained information which could be used against the pure T’En.

  There was no doubt that there were True-people who hated the pure T’En. Murgon of the Tractarians was their most virulent opponent. Imoshen shuddered, feeling vulnerable.

  Backing out of the secret vault, she closed the panel. Before she knew what she was doing, Imoshen brushed the carved woodwork, erasing all memory of her touch.

  Now no one with the T’En gift would be able to tell she had been here.

  That made her stop. How had she known how to cover her tracks?

  Simple logic had told her. If these steps did one thing, then by reversing them she removed the traces. Strange, before this her mind had not worked along such paths and she had struggled to focus her meagre powers.

  Had she betrayed her presence? The Tractarians were only half T’En. Though they were trained to sense the use of the gifts, as far as she knew there was only one person who had the skill to trace her actions.

  Imoshen made her way to the grand staircase. A forewarning of danger travelled over her skin. Sick dread filled her as she took in the cluster of mulberry-robed priests at the entrance. And there, wandering casually through the throng, was Murgon.

  Somehow these part T’En traitors had sensed her presence. Murgon turned and looked directly at the staircase. Imoshen froze, willing herself to appear ordinary. Then she realised the very act itself would attract Murgon. Terror killed all thought. Three intercession priests chose that moment to pass her, arguing loudly over a case.