Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  The cold might have put out the fire in his body, but it did not cool his temper. His men felt the sharp edge of his tongue that morning as he rounded up those who’d slept overlong after their night of drinking and dancing.

  It annoyed him to find Imoshen already mounted and waiting, her breath misting in the fresh dawn air.

  “Lady T’En,” Tulkhan acknowledged as he approached her, maneuvering his black destrier to her side. He saw her eyes narrow warily. He never addressed her by her royal title. “It is obvious you haven’t made a practice of camping.”

  “No, when we traveled my family and I stayed in lesser noble houses,” she replied cautiously. “Why, what have I omitted to do?”

  “Nothing, if it was your intention to display yourself to my men last night.” Her shocked expression was a balm to his irritation. Tulkhan plunged on. “The next time you disrobe, put out your candle first, then you will not cast your shadow on the tent wall for all to see. Unless it was your intent to entice my men—”

  “You know very well it was not!” Her eyes flashed red and he knew he’d pierced the polite facade she maintained to keep him at bay.

  His accusation was unjust and he was secretly pleased that he had been the only man to witness her innocent display.

  Imoshen flushed delightfully to the roots of her pale hair. “It won’t happen again, I can assure you.”

  She went to urge her horse past him, but he caught the bridle and pulled it closer so that their thighs were pressed together. She glared at him, her lips white with fury.

  “It had better not happen again because my men are due their rights of conquest. I’ve told them to wait till Harvest Feast, but with you flaunting your body before them I cannot answer for their deeds. They might forget you’re a precious Dhamfeer, sworn to celibacy, and recall only that you are a woman!”

  For an instant he caught a flicker of fear in her eyes, quickly cloaked, and regretted baiting her.

  But she lifted her proud chin and fixed those exotic eyes on him. “The females of Fair Isle aren’t compliant Ghebite women fit only for breeding sons! I’m more woman than any of your barbarians could handle!”

  With a flick of her reins she freed the mare’s head and forged past him. Tulkhan watched Imoshen’s stiff, straight back, his heart pounding with the intensity of their exchange. She was magnificent. She hadn’t backed down, hadn’t deferred to him. Instead she’d met him with a challenge of her own and he did not doubt her boast for a moment.

  Irritated by the turn of his thoughts, he cursed and pressed his knees to his horse’s flanks. His men were in formation, waiting. He stood in the stirrups and bellowed the signal to move out. As he watched the column file from the clearing of the village he found he had to consciously force his hands to relax their grip on the reins.

  There she went, infuriating Dhamfeer!

  Honesty made him admit no one but he had seen her disrobe so innocently and enticingly. No one but he had ached for her, torn between duty and desire.

  What was wrong with him? Never in all his years campaigning had he let his emotions rule his head when dealing with the enemy. And Imoshen was definitely the enemy. He only had to look at her to see her differences. She was one of the feared and revered Dhamfeer, as the children’s rhyme went.

  But she was no nursemaid’s invention to scare naughty children. This Dhamfeer was all too real. He shuddered, recalling how she had plucked a thought from his mind.

  Tulkhan compressed his lips in annoyance and vowed not to let the Dhamfeer pierce his guard again. He would be polite but distant. The gods knew he had enough responsibilities to occupy him without creating complications by acting on his base physical desires.

  Imoshen rode away from the General without so much as a backward glance. Crude barbarian! He had enjoyed baiting her.

  She was furious with herself. Her shoulders ached with tension. She could still feel his eyes on her, but she refused to acknowledge him.

  What had possessed her? The General must think her a wanton creature, boasting like that. She, who had never lain with a man, who had only theoretical knowledge of the procedure, claiming to be more woman than any man could handle! Her cheeks flooded with heat as she recalled her ridiculous challenge.

  She hadn’t even been particularly good at her studies! It had all seemed a little bizarre to her when she had looked at the illustrated texts.

  She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, appalled at the implications of her boast. Why, she had all but challenged him to bed her!

  Was she any better than the Ghebite women she had so cruelly mocked? She had to admit she planned to trap the General, bait him with her body and steal his seed. The conception of a child should be a joyous event, shared by bond-partners. Shame flooded Imoshen, for she planned to steal General Tulkhan’s son and use him as a tool to save her own life.

  Just then Tulkhan galloped past her, rounding up the last of the men as the column moved out. She felt her eyes drawn to him, despite herself.

  What if the Aayel was wrong?

  What if he thought nothing of his own flesh and blood? Would he order her execution, knowing she carried his unborn child? Could he be so inhuman?

  She didn’t know.

  The Aayel’s gift was scrying, interpreting what she saw and reading people. Imoshen could only trust in the old woman’s advice and hope. And she vowed to keep a rein on her tongue when next Tulkhan spoke to her.

  But when Tulkhan did join her it was only for his language lesson and he was scrupulously polite. Imoshen found it easy to instruct him. He was a fast learner, quick to pick up the nuances of the language. She would do well to remember that.

  The short days passed uneventfully, and each village they entered wanted to entertain them. Minor noble families vied to outdo their neighbors in providing hospitality. They shed more and more men as they progressed, leaving groups behind to bring in the crops. Everywhere they went the locals consulted Imoshen with Wharrd at her side. The man even slept on the ground at the entrance to her tent, much to Tulkhan’s irritation.

  His plan had backfired. Instead of inserting a spy he had provided the Dhamfeer with a willing servant and lost one of his most trusted men.

  They were only a few hours’ ride from Landsend when Tulkhan called for a pause to take lunch. They were skirting an expanse of hilly country covered with virgin wood which, according to Imoshen, took days to traverse if you were lucky enough to reach the other side. The men eyed fearfully the encroaching forest warily.

  Like the thickly wooded ranges of the southern highlands this forest was ancient and for the most part untouched. It was said ancient spirits roamed the thickly clustered trees, unfriendly spirits which took a human toll from those who passed through their domain.

  More superstition, Tulkhan cursed impatiently, as he signaled his troops to stop. He knew the value of presentation. He ordered his men to clean their weapons and deck themselves out in full regalia, so that when they marched into Landsend that afternoon they would be an impressive sight.

  They had stopped in a pleasant glade. Great shafts of autumn sunlight fell through the canopy, illuminating the silver trunks of the trees which ringed the clearing. As the men ate, the camp grew quiet and the vast silence of the deep, virgin forest seemed to absorb every man-made sound.

  Imoshen wasn’t hungry. She felt restless and strangely uneasy. She looked around the clearing. The midday sun was brilliant but gave little warmth.

  Kalleen was teasing Wharrd and, as usual, he was trying to outdo her. Imoshen listened absently as they compared the kinds of food their countries considered delicacies.

  The girl snorted as he described how a mainland beast with a single horn would be killed solely so its horn could be crushed into a powder believed to help men maintain their sexual potency.

  If he thought to embarrass the farm girl he failed, for she winked at Imoshen and asked innocently, “Of course a man like you would never have need of that horn’s medic
ine, now would you?”

  For once Wharrd had no reply and Kalleen preened, having won that encounter.

  Imoshen found it confusing. The Ghebite men were quick enough to talk of their prowess with women, but confronted by a woman who would talk of such things, they became offended. It was not at all like the court where the Empress and her friends recommended each other’s lovers.

  Not that she had belonged to that circle. Her family had preferred the quiet of their country estates and held old-fashioned values such as fidelity between bond-partners. She hated to think what they would say about her plan to seduce the General and steal his son.

  Imoshen stood, arching her back, and decided to stretch her legs. She wasn’t planning to wander too far away, but then she caught the scent of a familiar herb and on impulse followed her nose, intending to pick some leaves to bolster her supplies. Then she noticed the heart-shaped leaf of a plant renowned for treating conditions of the heart and another which was ideal for bringing down fevers and protecting against the poisons which could take root in a wound.

  As she picked the leaves she hummed the little songs the Aayel had taught her to use when selecting herbs. She twisted the leaves neatly upon themselves and tucked them inside her jerkin to keep her hands free.

  Pleased with her find, Imoshen didn’t pause to wonder why the locals hadn’t come by to collect herbs so near the main path to Landsend. She supposed the plants had survived this late in the season because this was a northern slope and caught the sun for most of the day.

  Around her the insects hummed, filling the air with their busy song. She came to the top of a small rise and carefully picked her way down the slope, through waist-high ferns surrounding the massive trunks of trees which rose above her like the columns of a great building. She could no longer hear the occasional comment from the Ghebites or the snicker of their horses.

  The ground sloped away and in between the cleft of two great rocks a bracken-cloaked spring seeped from the ground, pooling in small rock ponds as it made its way downhill.

  Pleased, Imoshen picked up her pace. This was excellent, just the place she needed to find the moss which aided the healing process. She got down on her hands and knees and crawled amid the bracken, turning over the smooth river stones, searching out the best specimens. She was careful to leave some moss so that it could regrow.

  Imoshen followed the little stream downhill between the rocks. Despite the shafts of autumn sunlight the cold was intense near the water’s edge. The brook grew wider, spreading into a pool bordered by large rocks.

  It was so good to escape the Ghebite General’s presence. For days she had been on her best behavior. The villagers and minor nobles expected her to be the Lady T’En, a healer who could advise them, while the General treated her with aloof indifference. But his gaze, when he thought she wasn’t looking, devoured her. She had been so controlled and circumspect, never acting without thinking of the consequences.

  It wasn’t natural for her. Here she could let her guard down and delight in simply being herself.

  Unplaiting her hair, she massaged her scalp, feeling the faint warmth of the sun seep into her skin. The cool water tempted her but she wasn’t foolish enough to strip. The cold would be intense and, besides, the General might send one of his men to bring her back.

  Imoshen sighed. The Aayel would be pleased with her, she was behaving with great maturity. Still, it couldn’t hurt to paddle her feet. Slipping off her boots, she dipped her toes in the pool. The cold was fearful but it was also invigorating, so she splashed some on her face and drank from her cupped hand.

  Feeling suddenly vulnerable, Imoshen looked up.

  A presentiment of danger made her mouth go dry. She had the distinct feeling that someone or something was watching her. Instinctively, she froze and strained to hear.

  Her heart thudded in her chest. A prickle of fear lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. It was not the earthy, natural response to danger she’d felt when she first confronted the General. This was an eerie, preternatural instinct.

  Listening intently, she could not discern the faintest sound from the men in the glade. Even the knowledge that if she were to scream they would hear and come crashing through the undergrowth brought her no comfort. Instinct told her that their hearty barbarian ways could not protect her from what threatened here.

  She had teased the General with old tales about special places where ancient spirits dwelled, spirits which predated even the locals. Her old nurse, long dead now, had told tales of a dawn-people who predated the golden-skinned locals and worshipped a race of Ancients.

  Fleetingly, Imoshen wondered if it was an eternal cycle. Fair Isle was taken by force and settled, then the invaders were absorbed by the island. So that they in turn were subjugated by new invaders. The thought made her head spin, but she had no time for such questions.

  Something was threatening her here and now.

  She had heard rumors of places the locals avoided in the deep woods, places of power—evil, greedy power—but she had dismissed these stories as superstition. They were traditionally associated with the hot springs where steam seeped from the cracks in the stone.

  Slowly Imoshen rose to her feet. There was definitely something here, and her T’En senses told her that this something was not friendly. She wished it were a product of her imagination.

  Tightening the laces on her jerkin to keep her herbs safe, Imoshen bent and hastily retied the straps of her boots without dropping her apparently casual gaze about the pool. As yet there was no physical evidence to back up her terrible sense of foreboding. Finally, she straightened and shaded her eyes against the sparkle of the autumn sun on the pool’s surface. Get away from here, her instinct screamed.

  She backed away from the pool but the feeling did not ease, instead the space between her shoulder blades ached. Slowly, she turned to face the unseen threat.

  Her eyes widened as she took in a patch of bare earth where nothing grew. It was surrounded by tall, slender-trunked trees which towered over her. The trees and bracken grew right up to the bare circle but from that point nothing flourished, not even a weed. Instinctively she knew it was a sacred, accursed place where innocent blood had been shed—no seed could take root on such soil.

  Bordering the empty patch was a circle of low, worn stones. Her heart lurched as her theoretical knowledge confirmed what her senses had known all along. This was not a natural phenomenon—it was an ancient site where the dawn-people had worshipped.

  Imoshen focused, trying to pierce the veil of time. This was not her skill, the Aayel would have been better at it. She frowned in concentration, her heart thudding erratically. At first there was nothing but the writhing squiggles in her mind’s eye, then a brooding darkness gathered. Distant voices grew closer, chanting, bringing with them the unmistakable scent of fresh blood.

  A hand closed on her shoulder. Imoshen gasped, reacting instinctively. Clenching her fist, she brought her arm up and swung the point of her elbow back to catch her attacker in the midriff. Even as she darted forward she heard a grunt of surprised pain. There was only one way to run—across the clearing—so she did.

  A man cursed.

  She felt the impact of her running feet on the bare earth through the thin soles of her boots. She caught the scent of her attacker. It was familiar but the need to escape dominated all thought.

  The impact of a heavy body knocked her off her feet. Flying forward, she flung her hands out to take the force of her fall. Even as she hit, she attempted to writhe out of his grasp, but he had her upper thighs wrapped in his arms. His heavy chest pressed on her buttocks.

  The chanting grew stronger as the darkness closed in on her. The smell of blood was nauseous, overpowering.

  They had her!

  “Imoshen, it’s me!”

  She twisted, desperate. A flurry of images filled her mind—blood, death, a great power grown old and vindictive.

  Because she was pinned she couldn’t reac
h the knife strapped to her thigh. Arching her back, she tried to bring the back of her skull into contact with his face, to smash his nose.

  “Imoshen, it’s Tulkhan. Stop!”

  The General?

  Panting, she froze. The confusion faded from her mind. She’d panicked, the Ghebite meant no harm. Or did he?

  “General?”

  Her voice hung on the air as she lifted her upper body and twisted beneath him. Grudgingly, he released her, letting her slide from under his weight. She was aware of the hard planes of his belly and thighs.

  Relieved to escape him, she raised herself up onto her knees to catch her breath. He remained crouched before her, watching her thoughtfully. She could still feel the imprint of his body on hers and a strange languorous feeling of longing.

  Blood on the stones. Passion in the voices.

  A surge of excitement flashed through her. Imoshen gasped and licked her lips. She saw a flicker of awareness in his coal-black eyes. He felt it too, for all that he was a True-man.

  For an instant the victor and vanquished faced each other in the center of an older, greater power, grown malevolent with the passage of time.

  Tulkhan had felt the ridge of a hidden knife on Imoshen’s thigh as she slid from underneath him. He knew if she could have retrieved it his life would have been forfeit. The Dhamfeer had been a heartbeat away from slitting his throat.

  Until now he hadn’t known she carried a knife. He should punish her for concealing a weapon. His heart raced at the thought of taking her in his arms, exacting payment for all the tortured nights he had lain awake wracked with his need for her.

  “No!” she spat, about to spring to her feet.

  But before she could, he tackled her, driving her backward onto the dirt.

  She grunted, the air knocked from her lungs.

  With her body pinned beneath his he felt the hard ridge of her knife. She sucked in a painful breath and writhed furiously, trying to slide from beneath him, forcibly reminding him of both her feminine curves and the knife. He must not let her get to it. Fury darkened her T’En eyes to a mulberry black.