Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  Pride surged through her. She could be as unflinching as her namesake if need be.

  “Here it is.” The Aayel recalled Imoshen’s attention and offered her a small stoppered decanter and a vial. “Pour out this much each night and drink it when you retire.”

  “What would you have me do, Aayel?” Imoshen’s hands closed in fists on her knees. She made no move to take the small measuring vial. The dark liquid glistened. Its pungent smell stung her nostrils, making her stomach churn.

  The old woman looked through the window. “Double full moon, a propitious time. You are blessed. You must convince the General to send his men out into the fields to assist the farmers to harvest the crops. Our people have made great sacrifices for us. On the farms there are few able-bodied people, mainly the very old and the very young.

  “The food must be harvested and stored in our central granaries, from whence you will dole it out. Hundreds, even thousands, will come down from the north, pitiful and starving. There may not be enough to feed everyone, but you must share it fairly, between our own refugees and the barbarians as well as the locals.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Survival. Drink this.”

  “No.”

  A silence grew between them. Imoshen could hear her own pulse rushing in her head. She felt sick at heart.

  “Isn’t there another way?”

  The old woman’s voice was implacable. “You have no choice. You must ensure your survival. Tulkhan means to kill you. He must or you will become a figurehead for rebellion. To save your life you must lie with him and conceive a child, a son. You know the way to ensure the babe’s sex.”

  “Lie with the barbarian!” Imoshen swallowed hard. Must she compromise her principles to live?

  Would General Tulkhan even want her? She shuddered, recalling how he had stared at her with cold, calculating eyes. He was not a foolish youth driven by the first flush of lust.

  “Even if I did somehow trick him into planting his seed, why would that stop him from killing me?”

  “Listen! I question and I learn, you must do the same. Knowledge is power! General Tulkhan has no son. The Ghebites place great significance on having a male heir. If Tulkhan is to hold this land he must take it into his heart, into his bed, to become one with it. You represent the land, you are the last of the T’En. If you and he are joined you will be the mother to the future heir.”

  “But from what I’ve heard the king is young. He will have heirs of his own.”

  “The king has dominion from here across the mainland to the north as far as Gheeaba. He must maintain control over all of this and ensure his conquered lands remain loyal. What has been won by might can only be held through forethought. Remember your lessons.”

  “Yes. But the General despises me!” It was a cry from the heart. “I see it in his eyes.”

  The Aayel closed Imoshen’s cold, reluctant fingers around the glass vial and raised it toward her lips.

  “Fourteen nights in a row you must drink this and, on the last, trick him into planting his seed.”

  Imoshen’s blood rushed to her head. She felt herself go hot and cold as she considered the steps she would have to take. She had never lain with a male. For most of her life it had been taken for granted that she would never do so.

  She had never told of her secret shame, how Reothe had come to her before their formal betrothal and suggested they go riding. How innocently, because she had never known anything but circumspect treatment from the males of the Stronghold, she had gone with him.

  The memory of it still made her cheeks burn, for she, who previously spurned all males, had been captivated by Reothe.

  He had challenged her to a race across the plains, then along the forest paths. She’d let her horse have its head and matched him, leap for leap. She never could resist a challenge. When they had dismounted, panting with excitement, the blood was singing in her body.

  He’d challenged her to perform the formal defense-offense maneuvers with him, but it had been a ploy. He’d abandoned the standard responses and tricked her, blocked strikes. When she realized he was playing with her, she grew angry. He’d proved that though she knew her moves she could not defeat him physically.

  Finally, he’d laughed at her outraged expression. She’d struck him while he was off guard, knocking him to the ground. When he looked up, his expression told her she would pay for it.

  She’d turned and ran, almost mounting her horse before he pulled her from it. He’d tripped her and pushed her to the mossy ground. She’d fought him fiercely. But she hadn’t intended to hurt him so she hadn’t used the blows to his eyes or throat which might have freed her. Still, she had made it clear with the force of her resistance that she was not giving in.

  At last, panting with exertion, she ceased to struggle and looked up at him. Despite her intention not to cause him harm she saw that his lip was bleeding and she experienced a ridiculous pang of guilt. But it was the intensity of his expression which unnerved her. She had never seen naked desire written clearly on a man’s features before.

  When his lips claimed hers she remained still, unsure. She tasted his blood on her tongue, experiencing the velvet softness of his lips for the first time. It felt strange.

  He explored her mouth with tantalizing little touches that left her wanting more. His breath, his scent and his essence enveloped her, imprinting him on her. A sweet languor stole surreptitiously through her limbs.

  Curious, she had returned his touch, surprised by a savage surge of desire which claimed her consciousness. Suddenly lost, she had forgotten herself in his embrace, forgotten all caution. Seared by a passion she did not know existed, she gave herself up to sensation.

  When their lips parted she had moaned in protest.

  He could have taken her then, but he hadn’t. He had laughed, a wild, passionate laugh which both frightened and fascinated her. And though she could tell it cost him, he had held back.

  It seemed he was pleased with her response to him.

  It was then he revealed that he’d always intended to make her his. A formal request to bond with her fell falteringly from his lips and she’d agreed without prevarication, surprising herself by the surge of heat which flashed through her body. His eyes had widened, as if he sensed her response, and he had smiled.

  At that moment she realized Reothe did not intend a cool, political bonding, but a bonding of the blood, of the soul.

  Looking back, Imoshen decided he must have sensed a sensual liability in her. Maybe it called to him and he had recognized it for what it was—a wild, wanton streak. He had deliberately passed over her elder sister, who by rights should have been bonded before her. He had come to the Stronghold prepared with the dispensation which allowed him to break six hundred years of custom and take her for his bond-partner.

  During their formal betrothal ceremony, Reothe had touched her and she him, they had shared their scents and mingled their blood symbolically, for the approval of the witnesses.

  This was the sum total of her experience with men. Because she had been born a Throwback, destined to live a celibate life like the Aayel, no man had shown an interest in her. The idea of dying chaste had not bothered her. She could not understand the way her sister and friends eyed the young men of their acquaintance. Her own reaction to Reothe’s touch was a shock. He appeared to have awakened something in her.

  Imoshen licked her lips. Before the betrothal she had not received the same formal training as her sister.

  Once she was betrothed she began new instruction. Other young people of a comparative age and social level had started lessons years earlier to prepare them for the pleasures of bonding. She had to make up those lessons to train her in the arts of lovemaking. These sessions did not hint at the depth of sensation she felt in Reothe’s embrace, and they had certainly not prepared her to undertake the seduction of a Ghebite barbarian who despised her.

  Imoshen shuddered.

  “Drink,�
�� the Aayel ordered. “You have it within your power to supplant the barbarian’s victory with a victory of your own, to blend our blood with his, to rule through him and his son.”

  The glass vial felt cold against Imoshen’s lips. It smelled strongly of herbs she’d never had reason to use. What choice did she have? It was not her way to accept her fate calmly, bowing to the inevitable. She would fight it every inch of the way. Even if it meant this!

  She held her breath and drained the vial in one gulp. It burned all the way down, finally forming an intense ball of heat in her belly.

  Imoshen closed her eyes. She’d made her decision. It was begun. She would turn surrender into victory!

  Fire surged through her veins, a passionate conviction. She felt an awareness of her body, a tension which coiled within her. Was it a presentiment of what she intended for the General?

  The next morning Imoshen sought him out. Somehow she had to ensure her survival for another thirteen days and during that last night she must seduce General Tulkhan. The knowledge weighed heavily on her.

  In the cold light of day she did not feel so confident.

  Pausing in the courtyard entrance, she watched him talking to his commanders. She studied the way they interacted. They were all seasoned veterans, some younger, most older than he.

  It was obvious from the timbre of their voices and the way they stood that they deferred to him, not just because of rank or his freakish size but out of respect. In their eyes he had proved himself. She would do well to remember that.

  Whatever she might think of him and his coarse barbarian ways, he had proved himself to his peers.

  She would not approach him until the men parted, for to accept the advice of a female would demean him in the eyes of his men. Imoshen felt a little smile tug at her lips. Already she was learning to think like a Ghebite. As the Aayel said, to know your enemy is to know how to manipulate him!

  She did not want to weaken the General’s position. It would force him to make a show of strength, perhaps force him to sacrifice her to shore up his hold on the command.

  General Tulkhan threw back his head and laughed.

  Imoshen shivered. The men echoed his deep-throated laughter.

  For an instant she experienced an unfamiliar pang—they shared a camaraderie. On the battlefield they were equals. Yet when the General looked at her she read his reaction despite his guarded expression. He despised her.

  Resentment burned in her breast and all her good intentions were forgotten as she stepped into the morning sunshine.

  The men parted and the General spun on his heel, his cloak billowing. She noted how his sharp eyes scanned the courtyard. Imoshen knew instinctively that he missed nothing.

  A shiver of awareness crept up her spine. He was a dangerous animal and she had to seduce him, trick him into spilling his seed in her. Suddenly she was very aware of her body in a way she had never been before.

  The bustling courtyard surged around the General. His soldiers were victorious but forbidden their rightful plunder. Consequently, they laughed too loudly, swaggered too much and looked threateningly on the frightened people who had sought shelter within the Stronghold. The Stronghold soldiers stood by unarmed and resentful, bristling at each unspoken threat. Amid all this ran geese, ducks, dogs and small children. The place was packed with humanity, brimming with tension.

  Tulkhan inhaled the rich autumn air, savoring the scent of wood smoke. This fertile southern island was so different from his homeland where it would not grow cold for several small moons yet. Already he could feel a chill on the air, and it quickened his senses with a strange anticipation.

  He stiffened as the Dhamfeer stepped from the shadows. Her silver hair held an unearthly radiance in the pale early morning sunshine. When she lifted her chin and met his eyes he felt his body tense in response. His heart rate lifted a notch as if anticipating battle.

  There was no mistaking it, she meant him to see her. She was approaching him here where any of his men might see. Had she no shame, no fear?

  She gave none of the signals of deference a Ghebite woman would have given when approaching a high-ranking male. Her rudeness was sure to irritate his men on his behalf. Tulkhan understood she did not know his country’s customs and so did not know any better. Obviously, she considered herself the equal of any man. She would never have grown so bold in Gheeaba. Any sign of independence would have been beaten out of her. Strangely enough that thought caused him a moment’s disquiet.

  As she strode toward him, he could not help but admire the very boldness that set his teeth on edge. Yet, for her own protection he should lead her away, find a private place where his men could not observe her lack of respect.

  Again he felt an inexplicable surge of desire. Obviously he had been without a woman too long to respond this way to a female, especially a Dhamfeer—a creature learned men regarded as less than human.

  Less than human she might be, but the intelligence which gleamed in her feral red eyes was unmistakable and dangerous. His mouth went dry as he sensed her anger, held in tight control.

  When she stepped within what was considered polite speaking distance he caught a faint hint of her scent.

  There was no doubt about it. He would have to find one of the Stronghold women and bed her tonight—anything to rid himself of this need, this unnatural longing for the Dhamfeer woman.

  Inclining her head in a gesture which was the nearest she had come to deference so far, the Dhamfeer met his eyes, yet another unintended insult. “I would speak with you, General.”

  Tulkhan stiffened. She accorded him his title but her face revealed no deference and her body shouted a challenge to his. What trickery did she plan?

  “Speak.”

  She glanced about, wishing perhaps to go somewhere private—perversely he decided to confront her here in the midst of the bustling courtyard. Let her show him what she made of it!

  “In thirteen days it will be Harvest Moon—”

  “The conjunction of the moons—”

  “Yes. It takes several weeks to harvest the grains. Normally at this time we would be midway through it, preparing for our Harvest Feast. I don’t know what it is like in your homeland, but here winter can come on rapidly. Soon the snow will lie thick on the ground and the days will grow short. If we do not fill the storerooms with grain my people, your people—everyone—will starve before the thaw.

  “The fields between here and the northwest coast lie ruined and the farm animals slaughtered.”

  He tensed. “A traveling army must eat—”

  “And empty fields mean little resistance from hungry people. I know!” She eyed him narrowly.

  A frisson of danger danced across his skin as he sensed her animosity. She did not defer to him. She met his eyes, met his challenge. Her mind was as sharp as his and he resented having to acknowledge it.

  “You think like a man!” It annoyed him.

  Her eyes widened, then narrowed. “And you think like a Ghebite!”

  What did she mean by that? Why did she invest it with such mockery? He had the uncomfortable feeling that he had not bested her in that exchange and he resented it. “Make your point, Dhamfeer.”

  She flinched. Good. He had meant the name to be an insult. He wanted to unnerve her.

  But she continued in a measured tone. “Even your Elite Guard must eat and the lands from here south to the coast are the only untouched fields where the grain hangs heavy, spoiling to be harvested. We can’t afford to lose this harvest but the farmers are reduced to the very young and the old. They cannot bring the crops in.

  “You must order your army out into the fields to help harvest the grain, thresh and winnow it. The harvest must be brought in here to be stored, for in no time those survivors from the north will come here pleading for food. We must be able to feed our own people, your army and the refugees—”

  “We?” He bristled. She stood there, telling him what to do without deference to her position as the
representative of a conquered people. But as much as he resented her tone, he knew that she was right. He did not know the climate of this southern island and during his long campaigns he had learned the folly of not listening to those who knew the locality.

  “Your men grow restless. Only this morning I had to stop one of them from raping a kitchen maid.”

  “It is the custom for the conqueror to take the women. It is their right of conquest.”

  “It is uncivilized. By the terms of our agreement—”

  “Your surrender, you mean!”

  Her wine-dark eyes flashed with rage and color stained her pale cheeks. He could see her chest rising and falling under her thin garment, visibly reminding him of her high, milky white breasts. He felt his body react instinctively and scorned his physical response.

  Why, she was hardly a real woman by Ghebite standards, tall and scrawny instead of small and rounded! What was wrong with him?

  The silence stretched between them and the clamor of the crowded courtyard seemed to fade as the moment hung in the balance.

  Imoshen had seen the blaze of desire in his eyes, followed by the contempt he felt for her. The desire boded well for her plans, if only she could get past his disdain. With an effort of will she dropped her voice and continued with a calm she did not feel. “By the terms of our surrender your men are to respect our property and our people. Your men have been well disciplined for the most part, but they grow restless.”

  “This is a poor excuse for a victory, no victory feast, no rights of conquest—”

  “Debauchery!”

  “ Rights of conquest.”

  “I won’t argue!” Imoshen reined in her composure with difficulty.

  Tulkhan smiled. It was as close to losing her temper as he had seen her come. It pleased him. He wanted to see her lose control, to see her plead.

  He had to goad her. “What do you call this?”

  She flashed him a look which said she knew what he was doing and chose not to respond to his taunt.

  “I am here only on behalf of my people and yours. Your men need activity, we all need the grain. Occupy them with a task, have them bring in the harvest. With your army on the move it could be done in half the usual time. By custom we would hold our Harvest Feast on the night of conjunction, let this be your victory feast. Thus they will have their victory celebrations without engendering ill feelings—”