Dark Dreams

by Rowena Cory Daniells

Imoshen moved up the steps with them. From the balcony she looked down to see Murgon call two priests over and confer with them before heading towards the stairs.

  She fled.

  The Basilica was a sprawling rabbit warren and she had only a rough idea of its layout. She had to find the nearest safe exit. Opening her T’En senses, she risked a quick search. The maze of passages and informal rooms assumed a three-dimensional shape in her mind as she sought an escape route not guarded by the Tractarians.

  She felt them questing for her. They were weak but they outnumbered her. Scattered like ants on a rubbish heap they picked their way through the dross, looking for the source of power which drew them like honey. She might crush one or two but she could not stand against all of them.

  Nausea rolled over her. She had endangered herself and Ashmyr for nothing. These Tractarians would find her and she had no excuse for entering the Basilica today. How the Beatific would crow!

  Her T’En power rose to the surface. She was aware of tension thrumming through her body, as well as the vast well of emotions emanating from the True-men and women in the rooms around her. Instinct told her to use her gifts to escape.

  But that instinct would get her captured.

  Slipping into a deserted storeroom, she reeled in her T’En senses, even though it left her feeling exposed. Without her gifts she could not tell where the Tractarians were, could not tell if they were closing in. Like a trapped animal she could smell her own fear.

  Ashmyr stirred, whimpering in his sleep.

  Leaning against the cold stone wall of the cluttered room, Imoshen slowed her breathing.

  With a trembling hand, she wiped the sweat from her top lip and listened intently. Far away she could hear the clatter of the great kitchen and smell the food being prepared.

  The kitchen!

  It was the perfect avenue of escape. The kitchen of any great establishment was always full of bustle, people coming and going, deliveries, flirting scullery maids and cheeky stable hands trying to steal freshly baked pies.

  Hardly daring to think what she planned, Imoshen left the sanctuary of the storeroom. She followed the heady scent of spices, baking meat, pickles and preserves to the kitchen. At any moment she could be discovered by a servant loyal to the Beatific, and turned over to the Tractarians...

  What was she thinking? She had not been declared rogue.

  No one but the Tractarians knew she was in the Basilica illegally. As long as one of them was not standing by each kitchen door she had a chance of escape.

  Stepping into the shadow of a deep doorway she watched the flow of human traffic across the cavernous kitchen. With over a thousand people to be fed, the kitchen staff formed an efficient army. Some were busy peeling vegetables, their heads down and hands flying over long preparation tables. Others dragged loaves out of deep ovens, swinging around to slide them onto cooling trays. The scent of the fresh bread almost made Imoshen gag.

  A mulberry-robed priest stood by the far door. The workers averted their eyes when they passed her. So they disliked this priest. Did they dislike all Tractarians or just this one?

  Heart pounding, Imoshen slipped away before the priest could sense her. Her hair, her eyes, her sixth finger all marked her for what she was. A surge of hatred for her pursuers overtook her.

  Imoshen headed towards the familiar smell of soap and sunshine. The laundry was deserted, the coppers emptied of their loads of washing. No one guarded this door, for it led to an enclosed courtyard which contained nothing but flapping priestly garments drying in the sun.

  A mulberry tabard caught Imoshen’s eye and she had an idea. Crossing the scrubbed tiles she entered the courtyard. No one was about. Who would watch washing dry? With a sharp tug she pulled a Tractarian robe off the line. Throwing it over her shoulders, she raised the hood to hide her hair.

  Mouth dry with fear, Imoshen went inside. Now she noticed how the other priests avoided her eyes. That the priests would fear one of their own branches had not occurred to Imoshen, but under the circumstances she was grateful.

  Taking care to appear at ease with her surroundings, she crossed the floor of the kitchen. The Tractarian by the door met her eyes briefly. Imoshen willed herself to appear familiar, willed her son to be silent.

  ‘No sign?’ the woman asked in High T’En.

  Imoshen realised they kept the old language alive to exclude others. She slipped into the language as easily as she had slipped into the mulberry robe. ‘No. I’ve been sent to check the carts.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  With one hand on Ashmyr she moved off, careful not to appear hurried. Once she entered the outer courtyard it was simple enough to follow one of the many delivery carts through the lane and out into the sunshine of old T’Diemn.

  Imoshen felt light-headed with relief. This day had taught her a valuable lesson. She had more than one enemy within the church. If the Beatific was a cunning cat, Murgon was a ravenous wolf, leading his pack in pursuit of her.

  Walking steadily away from the Basilica, Imoshen joined a crowd outside a tea-house then darted into a side lane to remove the mulberry robe. Without remorse she tossed it onto the rubbish a nearby shopkeeper had left burning. She stirred the coals until the material caught light. As she watched the robe burn she vowed never again to leave herself vulnerable to the Tractarians.

  She had risked so much today – and for what?

  Reothe had the T’Elegos. But she could wait no longer. Tulkhan was in danger and she must face the most difficult decision of her life.

  EXHAUSTED BY HER close escape, Imoshen slept all afternoon and into the evening. Late that night she packed her travelling things. Then she debated over the wording of a message for Kalleen and Wharrd. She called on their friendship, asking only that they meet her at Umasreach Stronghold as soon as possible.

  As she watched Ashmyr asleep in his basket, tears blurred her vision. It was because she loved him so fiercely that she had to remove him from danger, for she believed the inevitable confrontation between herself and Reothe was fated to be her last.

  She would not leave Tulkhan to die alone. She must stand at his side, and if by some miracle they survived, Kalleen would restore Ashmyr to her. However, if she fell at Tulkhan’s side, then Kalleen and Wharrd would know to flee Fair Isle. It demanded a lot of their friendship to ask them to raise her son, but if Reothe recaptured the island they would lose everything anyway, their estates, their titles and their lives.

  Secreted in her family’s stronghold was a king’s ransom in portable wealth. With her great-aunt, Imoshen had collected and hidden it during the spring and summer of the Ghebite invasion so that they could ransom their relatives. Now it would be put to good use. With this wealth Kalleen and Wharrd could take Ashmyr and flee to one of the mainland kingdoms, far from Reothe’s influence and the taint of the Ancients.

  Safe and unknown, her boy could be raised in peace. When she saw Kalleen and Wharrd in person, she would tell them not to encourage Ashmyr to recapture Fair Isle. There was nothing to be gained by frittering away his life in fruitless revenge. She wished only that he be happy.

  Imoshen smiled. Maybe when he grew to adulthood he would travel into the dawn sun and discover his T’En origins. But in truth she did not care what Ashmyr did as long as he grew up free of fear and Reothe. Imoshen folded the note and sealed it with a daub of wax and the pad of her sixth finger.

  Unable to resist she knelt beside her sleeping son. Her heart swelled with love as she stroked his shock of fine dark hair.

  ‘Merkah?’ Imoshen looked up as the girl passed by with an armful of clothes. ‘I won’t need anything so fancy, just my travelling things. And you’ll need yours too.’

  ‘I am to come with you this time?’ Merkah was still resentful.

  ‘As far as the stronghold. But before you finish packing, please send for Crawen.’

  ‘Yes, my lady.’ Merkah hurried away, eyes bright with curiosity.

  Imoshen picked up her so
n, cradling his soft head against her cheek. If she and Tulkhan lost, she would not see Ashmyr grow up and he would never know how much she loved him. She felt his head bob against her cheek, his little mouth open, looking for another feed.

  She held him away from her to memorise his perfect little features. Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks.

  He would never know what it cost her to give him away. Perhaps she should touch his unformed mind and leave a message there for him to find one day. No, she must let him be his own person. One day Kalleen and Wharrd could tell him that his mother had given him up so that he would grow up free. She had to content herself with that.

  ‘Crawen, my lady,’ Merkah announced.

  Imoshen indicated the message. ‘I want this to reach Windhaven as soon as possible. Deliver it into Kalleen’s own hands.’

  The woman took the sealed missive. ‘Am I to wait for an answer?’

  ‘No. I’m going to my stronghold. You can escort Kalleen and Wharrd there.’

  Crawen smiled. ‘It will be good to go home.’

  Imoshen nodded but there was no smile in her heart.

  IMOSHEN MEANT TO leave early the next morning, but both she and Ashmyr woke during the night hot and fretful. Merkah talked of the spotted-fever which had swept through the children of T’Diemn. Though Imoshen had had it as a child, it appeared she was still susceptible to a milder version.

  Rather than take her son on a journey when he was ill, Imoshen sat by his cot and bathed him, speaking softly to soothe him and using her gift to cool his body. All day he lay on the bed next to her, safely tucked in the crook of her body. As she tended to his needs she savoured every moment, knowing she must soon give him up.

  By evening he was cool and sleeping naturally. There was no sign of spots and her own fever had broken.

  ‘Merkah?’ Imoshen sat up, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby.

  The maid paused as she tiptoed across the chamber.

  ‘We’ll leave tomorrow. There’s no point in setting off this late in the day.’

  The girl nodded and left.

  Imoshen tucked a pillow on each side of the baby then slipped into the bathing chamber to wash the weariness from her body.

  Rubbing her damp hair dry she entered the room to find Merkah beside the bed, the baby in her arms. ‘He was stirring so I picked him up.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As Imoshen stepped forward she noted the glow of colour in Merkah’s cheeks. ‘Are you feverish?’ Imoshen touched her forehead. The girl’s skin was hot. Strange, her mind was closed. Imoshen would not have thought Merkah had the strength of will to resist the T’En gifts. ‘I will mix you something –’

  ‘No, I’ll use my mother’s remedy.’

  ‘I am a healer, Merkah, I know my herbs.’

  But the girl would not be swayed. Imoshen was not surprised. Some healers guarded their knowledge jealously. ‘Then get some rest and we will see how you are tomorrow.’

  But the next day Merkah was feverish. She kept to her room, refusing Imoshen’s offer of help.

  Imoshen spent the day pacing impatiently. Now that her mind was made up, every day was an agony of waiting, and yet the longer she delayed the longer she had with her son.

  Over the next few days Merkah’s fever worsened. Imoshen could have left without her but she allowed herself the painful indulgence of prolonging this time with Ashmyr. Besides, it would take several days for her message to reach Kalleen and Wharrd, and they would need time to pack and travel to the stronghold. Imoshen longed to see the home she had been forced to abandon at a moment’s notice last autumn.

  It was six days before Merkah was finally well enough to attend to her duties, and Imoshen faced the fact that their leaving could no longer be delayed. She stared down at her sleeping son and her heart ached with love for him. She could not bear to think of giving him up but it was the only way to keep him safe.

  MIDMORNING THEY SET out with two servants and six of her stronghold guard, all of whom were happy to be returning home. Imoshen had not told them that she intended to leave them there and continue south to meet up with Tulkhan at the Lesser Pass.

  They made good time and were soon into the woods, where the trees almost met over the road above their heads. Imoshen smiled as Merkah frantically brushed an insect off her shoulder. Her maid was not a good traveller.

  As they travelled through the balmy summer afternoon, Imoshen’s heart lifted at the thought of going home. She would see how Umasreach Stronghold and the new town had fared through the winter. She would show off her son. For the moment she allowed herself to think only that far ahead.

  Trying to make the halfway point, the party rode late into the long summer twilight. Finally they came to the burned-out ruins of what had once been a bustling inn. Imoshen was surprised no one had taken up residence. True, there was no roof and weeds had sprouted in the walls, but it was an ideal spot. Perhaps the people south of T’Diemn did not have the confidence to rebuild until this trouble with the rebels was settled.

  Others had camped here before them and cleared out a hearth space, so they lit a fire on the stones and prepared the evening meal. Merkah seemed distracted. Imoshen had to call the maid twice to get her attention and even then the girl was slow to bring Imoshen the baby’s change things.

  While her companions sat back and ate their meal, talking happily of the stronghold, their friends and families, Merkah sat alone, watching the darkness fearfully.

  ‘You must not be afraid,’ Imoshen told her, growing exasperated with her timidity. ‘We are a long way from the rebel camps.’

  ‘True,’ one of the stronghold guard said. ‘But I have heard tales of Reothe and his people travelling far into the north while the Ghebites are busy building their fortress.’

  ‘There are many tales,’ Imoshen said dismissively. And there were. If you believed half of the sightings, Reothe would have to fly from one end of Fair Isle to the other. ‘Get some sleep. We’ll make an early start tomorrow.’

  Imoshen tucked Ashmyr into the crook of her arm and closed her eyes. The thought of losing her son haunted her. She gave up trying to sleep and reviewed her plans. Were they safe from attack?

  Imoshen tried to weigh up the chances. To escape notice she had chosen to travel with a small group and only her palace staff had known she was going.

  IMOSHEN WOKE WITH an odd taste in her mouth. The larger moon was waxing and their campsite was bathed in its silvery glow. She sniffed. The air had that strange tang which foretold a thunderstorm, yet the stars were clearly visible.

  Stiff from the saddle, she struggled to her feet with the baby cradled in her arms. Her head was thick with sleep, only the sensation of something impending drove her to move. ‘Merkah, wake up. We must take cover.’

  Her maid did not stir.

  Exasperated, Imoshen searched the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen. No storm. Then what...

  Reothe leapt up onto the ruined stone wall directly opposite her, his silver hair glowing in the moonlight.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘YOU...’ IMOSHEN GASPED. She tried to warn her companions. ‘To arms. We are attacked!’

  But her people did not stir and Reothe’s people did not attack.

  He jumped down into the shadows and prowled towards her. Instinctively she covered the baby, pressing him closer to her chest. Fear closed her throat, robbing her of speech.

  Frantically, she kicked the nearest guard in the back. He grunted but did not wake.

  ‘They are asleep,’ Reothe told her, his soft voice hanging on the still night. ‘And will remain that way until dawn, when they discover you have run away during the night to join me.’

  ‘No.’ It was a breathless denial.

  He came to a stop before her and held out his hands. ‘Give me the baby, Imoshen.’

  Her heart sank. Selfish fool. If she had already given Ashmyr into Kalleen’s safekeeping, she could have resisted Reothe with every fibre of her being, but as long as her son
was vulnerable she dare not resist. Every contact with Reothe had confirmed that he was the master of his gifts and she the novice. She could not stand against him – better to play along with him for now.

  Reothe smiled as she passed the sleeping baby to him. Turning Ashmyr’s face to the light, he studied the boy.

  Imoshen could hardly think for the rushing of blood in her ears.

  ‘So much black hair... but at least he is half ours,’ Reothe muttered. ‘Come, Imoshen.’

  He cradled the small baby against his body and held out his other hand.

  She was too devastated to move.

  ‘Bring his things and your own,’ Reothe ordered. ‘Do it, or I will walk off with him. I imagine even on his own, Ashmyr is enough to bring the General running –’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘I rather thought you would.’

  Numbly she collected their belongings. Reothe carried the baby and she followed him out of the ruins. None of her people stirred. They would assume she had gone of her own free will. Would Tulkhan believe them?

  A dozen rebels mounted on wiry mountain ponies waited in the shadows of the trees, with two horses. She could just make out their sturdy peasant clothes and weaponry.

  Imoshen felt a lightening of the atmosphere when she stepped onto the road. As her head cleared she realised she had been betrayed. Someone had told the rebels her plans. With a sickening lurch Imoshen understood Merkah must have slipped them a herb to mimic the fever, then taken it herself to cover her tracks. Yet Kalleen had recommended the girl. Merkah had to be passing information to someone of influence.

  ‘Wake up, Imoshen, your horse is waiting,’ Reothe chided.

  She looked up to see him swing into his saddle.

  Taking the reins in one hand, he cradled the baby in his free arm.

  Imoshen put her foot into the stirrup and mounted her horse. All the while, her empty arms ached. She wanted to rail at Reothe, to plead with him to give Ashmyr back, but she was in no position to bargain.