A girl screamed as she ran into the courtyard, her long golden-brown hair matted with blood from a cut to her forehead, her budding breasts bared.
Blind fear filled her face. She took in the crowded Ghebites, and fled in terror as several soldiers lurched after her. In no hurry to catch her, they were enjoying the chase.
With a moan of despair she staggered toward the General and the Lady of the Stronghold, falling at Imoshen’s feet.
“Lady T’En, save me. I am bound till the harvest-feast—”
She gasped as Imoshen impatiently pulled her to her feet.
“Don’t plead! Stand tall. You will be safe with me.” Imoshen pressed her fingers over the cut in the girl’s forehead to stem the blood, but her eyes sought the General’s, offering an unspoken challenge. “According to the people’s religious beliefs they must abstain from pleasures of the flesh while they are harvesting the grain to appease the gods.” She did not add that this abstinence culminated in the Harvest Feast, where the peasants indulged in ritual intercourse as a way of giving thanks and ensuring the fertility of the fields the following spring. Theirs was an old religion, a religion of the earth.
Instead, she held his eyes and nodded toward his men who had come to a sheepish, resentful halt. She was sure he could read her unspoken words—so this was what his Elite Guard had been reduced to?
“Explain!” he snapped and the men blinked, swaying slightly.
It was obvious they’d been drinking. They were nothing but Ghebite barbarians. Rage flowed like fire through Imoshen’s veins.
Let them argue their way out of this one, Imoshen thought with relish. If the General was an honorable man, as he professed to be, he had to chastise his men. Yet, she realized he might hesitate to do so in front of her, for his men would resent her witnessing their dressing down. She should slip away.
As though the outcome of the interchange did not concern her, Imoshen led the girl away to treat her wound.
As she entered the darkness of the doorway she heard the General bellow, using the soldier’s coarse cant. A smile escaped her. They were rough men and they understood rough treatment. It was only as she escorted the girl back to her chamber that Imoshen realized the General spoke her tongue. That meant he was fluent in at least two languages— he was not an uneducated man. Had he deliberately learned their language before attempting the invasion? If her guess was right it suggested a cold, calculating mind, and a determination to succeed which made her shudder.
How was she to seduce this strange man?
Pushing her own troubles to one side, she took the reluctant girl to her chamber to treat her.
“Bring me fresh water,” Imoshen ordered and turned to the girl. “What are you called?”
“Kalleen, but please don’t.”
Imoshen hesitated. The girl was typical of her people, small with warm golden skin and eyes the same shade of light hazel. At this moment she appeared intensely embarrassed because one of the royal family was caring for her.
“Nonsense.” Imoshen snapped. “You are in need. It is my place to serve the needs of the people.” When her servant returned with a bowl of water Imoshen sprinkled purifying herbs in it and rinsed Kalleen’s cut. As she worked, it occurred to her that she had been learning the healing arts at the Aayel’s side since she was a child, yet she had only brushed the surface of the old woman’s knowledge. She was lucky her T’En talent was for healing. It was so practical.
“If I’d had a knife I’d have gutted them, one by one!” the girl muttered.
Imoshen snorted. “If you’d had a knife you’d have been dead. The General’s men are battle-hardened veterans, not farm boys out for fun!”
The girl sniffed as though unconvinced.
Imoshen smiled. She supposed Kalleen was her own age or a trifle younger. She could sympathize with her sentiments.
Rising, she went to the camphor wood box and removed the hidden panel. Selecting a small, well-balanced knife, she returned and offered it to the girl.
She swallowed eagerly and rose, her deft brown fingers closing around the handle.
Imoshen gripped Kalleen’s narrow wrist and tilted her hand so that the blade angled up. She positioned it just below her own ribs.
“There, like that. Strike for the heart,” Imoshen advised. “You will only have one chance, make it count.”
The girl’s eyes widened but she nodded.
“And wear it like this.” Imoshen shifted the brocade panel of her tabard to reveal her own knife, strapped to the front of her thigh. The central seam of her loose pants was open, allowing her easy access to the weapon. “For quick access. Speed may mean the difference between life and death.”
Kalleen’s golden eyes shimmered with understanding.
Imoshen let the panel drop and turned to clear away her healing possets. She felt the girl’s eyes on her and looked up.
Kalleen slipped the knife inside her sleeve for safekeeping and caught Imoshen’s free hand in hers.
“Lady T’En—you give me back my pride,” the girl whispered, kissing Imoshen’s sixth finger.
At little later Imoshen heard the General’s voice in the courtyard below, ordering his men to prepare to move out. So he had taken her advice to heart.
The Aayel sent Imoshen a speaking glance.
She felt dizzy with relief. Their gamble had paid off. She had distracted him from ordering her execution and relieved the tension in the overcrowded Stronghold by finding a fruitful task to occupy the invaders.
With his army out in the fields harvesting the crops and delivering the grains to the Stronghold their winter food source was secure.
It was a small victory, but Imoshen was determined it would be the first of many. All she had to do now was remain in the background and avoid the General for the next thirteen days.
Unfortunately, that was not to be.
Imoshen paced the storerooms overseeing the cleaning and preparation for the influx of grain. When she heard the approach of booted feet on the stone a shiver of fear overtook her.
The Ghebites rounded the corner and stopped. She knew they were Tulkhan’s Elite Guard because they wore his personal insignia.
Her own Stronghold Guard and servants straightened. Again she felt that undeniable tension. Her people had surrendered, but they had not accepted their defeat. The ignominy of it seethed beneath the surface, needing only a spark to bring it to flame and open rebellion.
The General must be aware of it, too.
“Lady T’En. General Tulkhan requests an audience.” The young soldier who spoke obviously found it hard to be civil. He would not meet her eyes and though it was phrased as a request, Imoshen knew it was an order.
She wiped her hands on the smock she wore over her gown and undid the ties, placing the pinafore to one side.
“See to the other storerooms and stop all rat holes. I shall expect it done on my return.” The order was unnecessary as her people knew their job but she must appear in control, just as the General must maintain that aura of command. She turned to the soldiers. “Where is the General?”
“With the one called Aayel.”
“The Aayel. It is a title, not a name,” she corrected instinctively. “It translates as Wise One. You may escort me.”
Thus she strode before them, aware that she had outmaneuvered them. What was meant to be the escort of a prisoner had become an escort of another kind.
What did Tulkhan want? Imoshen refused to let fear undermine her composure. She would take her cue from the Aayel.
When she arrived General Tulkhan was standing before the fire, hands clasped behind his back. The Aayel, as befitted her great age, was seated stiffly in her hard-backed chair. Imoshen had noticed that in the presence of the Ghebites, her great-aunt continued to affect a physical weakness which was misleading. This amused her, but she hid her smile.
At the sound of her approach, the General turned. “Pack your traveling kit. I’m taking you with me.”
&
nbsp; “But my place is here, looking after my people—”
“Exactly. If my men ride up to these farmers very likely they will run into the woods and hide. I need their cooperation so I’m taking you with me as ambassador. You know the farmers’ dialect, they’ll trust you.”
Imoshen’s eyes flew to the Aayel, who gave an imperceptible nod of encouragement.
She drew breath. It was unexpected, but he was right. “In that case. We will visit the nearest village and speak to the head family there. They can send runners to the outlying farms.”
The General nodded and it was agreed. A shiver of anticipation moved over Imoshen’s skin. She had meant to keep away from him over the next thirteen days but now she would be in his company, forced to socialize with him, bedding down in his camp each night. She would have to tread very carefully. But maybe she could turn this to her advantage.
The rest of the afternoon was spent packing and preparing their escort. That night Imoshen took her draft as the Aayel watched.
Wincing at the taste, she sealed the decanter. It was their first chance to speak freely.
Imoshen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “You put the idea in his head?”
“No, he came to me. He is no fool. I merely suggested one of us would make a good ambassador. He chose you because I am so old and frail.”
Imoshen chuckled, then sobered as the old woman clasped her hand.
“You will be with him day and night, Imoshen. It is a chance to observe him. He’s proud and he does not like to rely on others, but he is also a practical soldier. Learn, ingratiate yourself with him. Hush. I’m not finished. Go as far as Landsend. From there the Abbey can send out messengers, they will be trusted. The southern highlands raise little grain. We can not rely on them for food.
“Once that is done you must return here in time for the Harvest Feast.”
Imoshen nodded. She saw the logic of it, but she still felt sick at heart. Would the simple folk view her as a traitor, aiding the invader?
There was an almost imperceptible noise from behind the hangings. Both the Aayel and Imoshen stiffened. With a deft flick, Imoshen slipped her hand under the panel of her tabard and retrieved her dagger. Padding softly across the stone floor of the chamber, she positioned herself in front of the tapestry.
The Aayel nodded. Imoshen tugged the hanging from the wall, dragging their eavesdropper forward by one arm. With the ease borne of years of practice, she twisted the spy’s arm behind her back and held the dagger to her captive’s throat.
“A traitor?” Imoshen hissed.
The Aayel stepped forward to view the eavesdropper. A strange expression flitted across her face. “I don’t think so.”
“Never, my Lady,” Kalleen whispered fiercely. “I am yours. Let me serve you. I want to go with you. I know the farmers, they’re my people.”
The Aayel nodded and Imoshen released her. The girl fell to the floor and kissed the tapestried hem of Imoshen’s tabard.
“Oh, get up!” Imoshen impatiently pulled her to her feet.
Kalleen tilted her head, obviously surprised by the Lady T’En’s outburst.
Imoshen felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips.
“My mother despaired of ever teaching me court protocol,” she confessed.
Kalleen laughed. “Protocol could not make the goose boy Emperor.”
Imoshen did not know what to say. The household servants knew their place, unlike this impudent girl from the fields.
“How true!” the Aayel observed dryly. Imoshen met the old woman’s eyes above the girl’s head. The Aayel approved of Kalleen. “Go and get some sleep. You leave at dawn.”
They set off into the rising sun, riding at the head of a small army. The smoke fires of the morning meal hung on the still, cool air. To the east the rolling hills fell away to meet the distant sea.
Imoshen felt a reluctant surge of excitement. She knew her position was perilous but she couldn’t cower forever, and she couldn’t contain her natural exuberance for life.
Soon she would see the ocean again and visit the villages on the road to the Abbey. Joy filled her at the thought of once again seeing the beautiful port of Landsend. She tried to feel resentment, told herself it was shameful that she was forced to do this as the ambassador of the invader—in reality a prisoner whose cooperation was “requested”—but her naturally buoyant spirits wouldn’t allow her to feel downcast.
Far above on the Stronghold ramparts she knew the remaining Ghebites watched the main body of their army file away into the morning mists. A large force remained to keep the Stronghold secure.
General Tulkhan urged his horse to one side and let the procession flow past. He had placed the Dhamfeer in the thick of the army in case an attempt was made to free her. There were still rebel bands wandering the plains, remnants of the once mighty T’En army who refused to accept the surrender.
The Dhamfeer was astride her horse, riding loosely in the saddle accompanied by the little serving girl whose forehead still bore the wounds of yesterday’s attempted assault.
The Aayel had explained to him the reason for the people’s abstinence at this time and he had informed his men to restrain themselves until the feast, where according to custom they would be able to indulge themselves freely. It amused him to think that Imoshen had chosen not to tell him the form the Harvest Feast celebration took.
But this religious forbearance meant he’d had no chance to take his release with a willing woman and he shifted in the saddle, only too aware of the tension in his body. At his signal the Elite Guard who escorted the last member of the T’En royal family parted, allowing him to weave his way to her side.
Apart from his uneasiness with the Dhamfeer, all was going well. Tulkhan expected any day now to greet a messenger who bore the news that the capital had fallen to his half-brother, King Gharavan. T’Diemn lay two days’ journey west on the River Diemn, which provided safe harbor to oceangoing vessels of the mainland, just as Landsend provided safe harbor for those from the eastern archipelago.
Imoshen looked up, her face bathed in pure, early morning light and he was suddenly taken aback. She was so young and at that instant so transparent. She glowed like a child with a treat.
The air echoed with the rhythmic jingle of the horses’ saddles and bits, the soft mutter of the men and the early morning cries of the birds. It was utterly peaceful, belying the tension which brooded beneath the surface.
Imoshen wondered why the General had fallen in beside her. He gave an odd, reluctant grin and she felt herself smile.
The Elite Guard fell a little behind them, only Kalleen remained stubbornly at Imoshen’s side. They rode in silence, amid the sense of excitement which came with an army on the move.
“I wish to learn the farmers’ speech. From what I’ve overheard it has much in common with your tongue,” General Tulkhan announced. “You will teach me.”
Imoshen felt a flash of annoyance, but even his high-handedness could not deflate her good spirits this morning. She chose to be amused.
“Our tongue is a hybrid of the two, not the original High T’En we first spoke. It evolved to facilitate commerce between the T’En and the locals,” Imoshen said. She always enjoyed tales of the past. “You speak our tongue very well, General. I gather you learned it from our trading partners on the mainland to the west. Surely you don’t make it a habit to learn the language of every nation you conquer?”
He cast her a swift glance and she gave him a bland smile, determined he should know she might be his captive, but she would not be his slave.
The General laughed.
Tulkhan’s reaction was so unexpected Imoshen stared at him.
Heat flooded her body, coloring her cheeks.
“It’s no hardship,” the General told her. “I have a gift for languages. When I take a country I stay long enough to establish a regional governor, garrisons, ensure the smooth running of the colony. Gheeaba supplies the administrators, which leaves me
free to take the time to learn the customs of the new culture.”
“What of your own home, Gheeaba. Don’t you miss it?”
He was silent for a moment and she thought he wouldn’t answer.
“There is nothing for me there.”
“But the old woman who died?” She could have bitten her tongue.
He frowned and shifted in the saddle, his eyes meeting hers fleetingly, unwillingly. Imoshen realized she’d found the chink in his armor and she knew instinctively that he didn’t like revealing his weakness. It was lucky she had attempted to read him or she would never have discovered his hidden guilt.
Suddenly he kicked his mount’s flanks and rode forward at an angle. The troops parted for him so that in a few moments he was out of the column and galloping toward the outlying scouts.
Imoshen ground her teeth, annoyed with the General for being so proud and with herself for not minding her tongue. She was supposed to be insinuating herself under his guard yet with one unwary comment she’d lost any ground she might have gained.
All day Imoshen watched General Tulkhan surreptitiously. She had time to observe the easy way he rode and how he used the strength of his powerful thighs to guide his black destrier with barely perceptible signals. As he rode, he held his head so proudly, his long dark hair streaming behind him. He was a magnificent male, she couldn’t deny that.
But he was also a warmongering, arrogant Ghebite barbarian who held her life in the palm of his hand. Worse still, she’d alienated him, for he did not come near her again.
When she caught his dark gaze as he galloped past to speak to those bringing up the rear with the supply wagons, she felt a shiver of anticipation. But he made no move to acknowledge her.
In the late afternoon they entered the first village. The inhabitants had come out of hiding to meet the invaders, silently watching the procession advance on the village square with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity.
Broken Vows Page 6