Broken Vows
Page 1
IN A WORLD OF DANGER AND DARK ENCHANTMENT,
THE MOST TREACHEROUS MAGIC IS DESIRE....
Trained in the arts of war and possessed of extraordinary healing gifts, Imoshen was one of the last of the legendary T’En, an ancient race who’d ruled Fair Isle for six centuries. But now, in the space of a heartbeat, all that Imoshen holds dear is gone...lost to invading soldiers and the relentless general who led them.
All his life Tulkhan had heard tales of the T’En...of exotic women whose wine-dark eyes could see into a man’s soul and read his mind. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the reality of Imoshen. Even surrounded by his Elite Guard, the fierce beauty would not surrender.
But making the last living T’En royal his captive was a grave mistake. For soon Tulkhan will discover the full force of Imoshen’s proud defiance, as this alluring temptress seeks to turn the tables and make her magnificent captor a prisoner of his own raging desire.
BROKEN VOWS
From Cory Daniells comes a glorious romantic fantasy set against a backdrop of dark magic and daring, a spellbinding story of a man and a woman at the heart of a deadly conflict...and at the mercy of an irresistible hunger.
DARK TEMPTATION
Imoshen turned to him, pride blazing in her eyes. A smile of triumph curved her lips.
The T’En had done it again. She’d reached into his mind and invaded his thoughts.
He flung her hands away.
“Don’t ever do that again!” Even as he spoke he registered the confusion in her eyes. She didn’t understand his anger. A sheen of unshed tears made her eyes glisten and he realized he’d hurt her.
She’d offered him a vision of the future and he’d thrown it aside. Damn her!
Damn her beautiful, trembling mouth.
He had to kiss her. It made no sense. He ignored the small, quiet part of his brain that warned him not to give in. One kiss would never be enough. Instead of heeding common sense, he let the need that had been steadily building within his body guide his actions.
He caught her to him, capturing her lips with his. . . .
To D, who always believed in me.
Chapter One
General Tulkhan strode the halls of the Stronghold, triumphant. But even though the last of the T’En royal family had surrendered he experienced no thrill of victory. His father, the Ghebite King, was dead.
Shattering glass broke his concentration. Heart pounding, he spun around. Nothing.
According to the terms of surrender he had promised there would be no wanton destruction. Senses strained, he made out the muffled sounds of jeering male voices a little way down the passage. Scuffling noises were followed swiftly by a man’s frustrated yelp of pain.
Tulkhan cursed in three languages. He had forbidden his soldiers the rights of conquest. There was to be no looting, no women. It was hard on the men who had followed him so faithfully. They expected no—they deserved—the rewards of victory but Tulkhan had granted terms, and besides, he wanted to study the renowned T’En culture and that meant preserving it wherever possible.
Suppressing his annoyance, he strode toward an ornate set of double doors as he heard one of his men shout a warning followed swiftly by a dull thud and more curses.
Throwing the doors open he took in the carnage— smashed pots, exposed scrolls and the overwhelming stench of preserving fluid. Two of his men stood with their backs to him, restraining a woman. Three of his Elite Guard circled the captive, nursing various injuries.
Tulkhan immediately dismissed the possibility that the haggard old man in the corner who was watching all of this with bright eyes could be the cause of this mayhem. It had to be the female his men were attempting to subdue. He cursed silently. It wasn’t like his Elite Guard to disobey an order.
“Halt! What is this?”
An ominous silence descended on the room. His men looked almost sheepish. For an instant amusement pierced Tulkhan’s irritation, but he did not reveal it.
“A veritable hellcat, General,” one man ventured.
With a flick of his wrist Tulkhan signaled the Ghebite guard to turn the captive toward him and prepared to be lenient. He could afford to be magnanimous, his army was victorious.
But this was no ordinary captive. His guards restrained one of the legendary T’En. Jolted, Tulkhan swallowed. His instinctive revulsion warred with his innate curiosity.
The female was a pure T’En—in his own language an accursed Dhamfeer—a dangerous alien creature with mysterious powers.
Disheveled but defiant she glared at him, her torn bodice revealing small, firm breasts which rose and fell with each short breath. But it was her unnatural gaze which captivated him. The old superstitions were true. The eyes of a pure Dhamfeer were dark as red wine, red as the blood which ran in a rivulet from her swollen lips down her long neck and over her high breasts.
He should have been repelled, for she was the antithesis of a Ghebite woman.
Instead of a rich coppery sheen, her flesh was as white as milk. A fine tracery of blue veins ran underneath the skin’s surface like marble. Absently he wondered if her skin was as flawless to stroke as that silky stone. His fingers tingled in anticipation of an exploratory touch.
Riveted by the sight of the Dhamfeer’s milky flesh, streaked red by her own blood, Tulkhan felt his body respond. A rush of lust which was equal parts fascination and fear gripped him. Shocked, he licked dry lips. Never had he known such an immediate reaction.
By all that was holy he should be repelled by this Dhamfeer! She was not even a True-woman. According to the Ghebite priests, women possessed weak, inferior souls. Tulkhan smiled grimly. He was sure the priests would declare that this female Dhamfeer possessed no soul. After all, she was little more than a beast.
Yet if so, why did he read intelligence in her strange eyes?
Taking a deep breath, he put theological questions aside and considered the situation. He had personally viewed the remains of several half-breed Dhamfeer during this campaign but never come face-to-face with a live specimen. To see one who was not only very much alive, but so obviously pure Dhamfeer reminded him that this was a foreign land, until recently ruled by the legendary T’En.
He shuddered, suddenly aware of a strange scent which made his heart race. It was not the taint of fear—having been soldiering since he was seventeen, he knew that intimately. This scent was rich and slightly musky. Suddenly he felt an overwhelming urge to lose himself in its source.
With a start he realized it was coming from the Dhamfeer. Why didn’t she fear for her life? Why did she respond to threat with this heady, sensual scent?
In a flash of insight he recalled the survival instincts of a little marsupial, a native of his homeland. When threatened by its natural predator, this creature gave off a scent which mimicked the mating scent of the predator. In the resulting confusion the marsupial had a chance to escape. Instinctively he sensed that the Dhamfeer was trying to protect herself by seducing him.
“Stop that!”
She blinked, confused. “Stop what?”
Tulkhan cursed under his breath, unable to explain. How could he prove his suspicion? Who would believe him when his explanation presupposed that the Dhamfeer could control her scent?
Just what could the Dhamfeer do?
Superstition held that one of her race could possess a True-man such as himself with the sheer power of her will.
The hardened soldier in Tulkhan shrugged this aside—a great deal of nonsense was said about this almost mythical island. They’d said it was impregnable and he had proved them wrong.
Command meant never revealing weakness, and years of experience came to the fore. Stifling his disquiet, the General turned on his men. “So it takes five of you to subdue a mere fem
ale!”
They wilted under the attack, resentfully eyeing the ground.
The Dhamfeer smiled and he caught a glimpse of her sharp white teeth. He realized she was enjoying the guards’ discomfiture, the hellcat! He itched to wipe that sly smile from her face, to subdue those defiant eyes and see that proud chin fall.
Superstition also said that the eyes of the Dhamfeer could ensorcell you. Tulkhan held her wine-dark gaze, meeting those feral eyes with a challenge of his own.
Nothing! He experienced no tingling apprehension of ensorcellment. Even better—for an instant he thought he read a flicker of fear, quickly cloaked.
Having proven folklore wrong, Tulkhan assessed his captive. This Dhamfeer was very young. Her own people must have considered her too young to fight or she would have died at their side on the battlefield.
He grimaced—how barbaric of these people to train women for their regular army, and condone their slaughter on the battlefield!
The Elite Guard waited with bated breath as the conquering Ghebite General confronted the last of the T’En royal family.
Imoshen met General Tulkhan’s eyes, desperate not to reveal how he unnerved her. She’d heard he was a freakish giant, bigger than a normal Ghebite warrior. But seeing him in the flesh was startling. His massive dark form dominated the room. She had to look up to meet his eyes and this annoyed Imoshen. Being pure T’En, only the tallest of True-men could look her in the eye and she hadn’t realized till now how much she enjoyed looking down on people.
But it was more than that. This Ghebite General looked utterly alien in his flamboyant war finery. He’d removed his crested helmet to reveal dark, sweat-dampened hair which clung in fine tendrils to his broad cheekbones. With his strange, coppery skin and obsidian black eyes, he was the antithesis of her own kind—extrinsic, unknown and unknowable.
But what unnerved her most was the sharp intelligence she perceived in his calculating dark eyes and the cynical twist to his mouth. Here was a man who believed in nothing, who would stop at nothing.
As she held his gaze she realized he was studying her, assessing her. A prickle of fear moved over her skin. This Ghebite was too clever for her liking. She feared perceptive intelligence in an invader more than brutality.
Worse. She was his captive! Her heart sank, but she would not reveal her weakness to him.
Instead, she raged at the ignominy of her position—to confront her captor like this, restrained and half naked! But she would not grovel.
If only she had heeded the Aayel’s advice. Not so long ago she had been unwilling to face the reality of their defeat. If only she could go back and retrace those impetuous steps which had led her to this!
Imoshen’s six-fingered hands closed in fists of rage. “I hate him! I—”
“Imoshen!”
With a guilty start she turned to face the Aayel. Her great-aunt had received this title on her hundredth birthday. As the Aayel she was a living repository of their society’s shared history. It was an honor for her family, a minor branch of the royal line who were second cousins to the Empress.
Where were her kin now? Murdered on the battlefield by that man? White hot rage ignited Imoshen. Her gaze flew to the plains beyond the Stronghold’s walls. She raised the farseer and peered searchingly through it.
There he was, the Ghebite General, resplendent in his barbarian battledress. A defiant crest of red feathers topped his helmet, rippling in the breeze. Linked plates of armor emphasized his broad shoulders. Long tendrils of his dark hair had come loose from his plait. They lifted in the breeze, twining around the strong column of his throat.
Even from this distance, the farseer enabled Imoshen to make out the severe planes of his arrogant face, burnt to a coppery sheen by the blazing sun of his northern homeland, Gheeaba. It was a word to strike fear in the hearts of peaceful people everywhere.
The General sat astride a magnificent black destrier, a massive creature trained to trample the enemy beneath its hooves, ready to die for its master. Imoshen grimaced. She had heard his men were happy to die for him too. It was said he inspired this devotion.
“Barbarians!” Imoshen hissed.
“Come here, Shenna.” The voice was soft. But Imoshen knew that even though the Aayel used her pet name, it was a command.
Slapping the farseer closed she slipped lightly off the window seat and padded cat-light across the bare boards. The Aayel despised the trappings of luxury. According to her they were a symbol of weakness, a sign of how the royal House of T’En had succumbed to indolence and infighting, making it ripe for invasion by the northern barbarians.
“The Ghebite General stands on the field with his army and demands we open the Stronghold gates, Aayel.” Imoshen’s throat was tight with emotion. Logic told her that for the General to have come this far her family must be dead. Even the Emperor and Empress who had led separate armies in a pincer attack, a last-ditch attempt to crush the invaders, must have failed.
All lost!
Other than the Aayel, every relative she had lay dead, fallen between the Stronghold and the coast.
A vision of a bloodied battlefield swam before her mind’s eye. Sickened, she saw the carrion birds pecking at the flesh of the dead, heard the screams of the horses dying and the moans of the wounded.
Was it a true Seeing, or all her too vivid imagination? Imoshen did not know. The Aayel was the one who had the gift for scrying. Imoshen’s gift was the more mundane but useful ability of hastening healing.
“If only our mainland allies hadn’t deserted us!” Imoshen’s hands closed in fists of frustration. “I don’t understand. The Empress sent for their aid in plenty of time.”
“Why does not matter.”
“It matters to me!”
The Aayel sighed. “I am old and cynical, Shenna. I have seen too much. True, the southern kingdoms have not honored the treaty of alliance, but it is not surprising. Fair Isle is small and richer than they. Gheeaba stretches across the north of the mainland like a great canker, growing more powerful with every country it absorbs.
“Meanwhile the southern kingdoms withhold their support. They watch and wait to see if Fair Isle will fall. Whatever happens they cannot lose. If we stand against the Ghebites it halts their southern march and leaves us weakened, eager to accept our allies’ help on any terms before the Ghebites renew their attack in the spring. Think of your lessons.”
“How can you talk of history when the General stands at our gates, demanding our surrender?”
The Aayel smiled. “One day this will be history. But listen!” She caught Imoshen’s hand in her own six-fingers and held her gaze with faded, wine-dark eyes.
Below them in the courtyard Imoshen could hear the fearful moans of the people who had fled before the invaders, retreating within the Stronghold’s walls.
“Imoshen, heed me! To have come this far the General must have conquered all resistance. We can expect no aid. We must surrender the Stronghold.”
“There are still the southern nobles.”
“A handful of stubborn men and women. But they are no use to us here, today. We must surrender.”
“The church? Surely they will—”
“Protect us?”
Imoshen tried to interpret her great-aunt’s expression and failed.
“If the Ghebite General knocked on the door of the basilica itself, do you think the Beatific would pause to consider for more than a heartbeat before turning us over?” the old woman demanded.
“But the Beatific is head of the T’En Church, which reveres our gifts. We are the last of the pure T’En, sacred vessels of—”
“Pretty words, Imoshen. But think! The Beatific is a True-woman, unlike you and me. If the church lived up to its vows I would be the Beatific, not her. No, the church is for True-people, while we are nothing but inconvenient Throw-backs to an earlier time.” The Aayel hurried on before Imoshen could draw breath to argue. “We are on our own. We must surrender the Stronghold.”
“The same right our ancestor had six hundred years ago when she marched across these fertile lands and defeated the simple farm folk to lay claim to Fair Isle—the right of might.”
Imoshen’s skin went cold with the logic of it. She had never thought of her namesake’s acquisition of this island as anything other than a glorious victory. That it had been an invasion which stripped True-people of their ancestral homes and rights was an unwelcome revelation.
The Aayel nodded wisely, her pale face like parchment. Imoshen felt those old, thin claws tighten on her hands, saw the Aayel’s faded eyes glow.
“It is hard to be marked as different, I know. You could be the child I was never allowed to have.” Fondly, she stroked Imoshen’s long hair. “The blood of the first T’Imoshen runs as strong in you as it does in me. Mark the signs—the silver hair, the six fingers, the garnet eyes. But over six hundred years our people have interbred with the locals, our language and culture have interwoven with theirs and we have lost our fierce will. We have grown content, ripe for plunder. This Ghebite General is only doing what the first T’Imoshen did, bringing fresh blood to a fertile island.”
Imoshen shook her head, blinking back tears of fury. She could not see it that way. This was her home, her people, and she would die for them.
“Better to live and protect them!” the Aayel insisted, reading her thoughts. She glanced to the door as the sound of booted feet marching on stone and the jingle of metal heralded the arrival of their own Stronghold Guard.
“Will you do a scrying to see if the Stronghold can stand against him?” Imoshen pleaded.
The Aayel waved this aside impatiently. “It is never so precise. Besides I need no gifts to see what logic tells me will happen.” She fixed Imoshen with her sharp eyes. “The General will offer us Terms. We would be wise to accept. At least we will have something to bargain with. If we force him to lay siege to our Stronghold and take it by force he will punish our defiance by systematically killing all who oppose him.”