Golden afternoon light enveloped Imoshen as the wagon rolled out onto the well-worn road to the plain. When they were well clear of the city, she ordered a halt and firewood brought to build a funeral pyre around the dray.
As servants from the Stronghold unhitched the horses and dragged wood from nearby shacks to make the pyre, Imoshen remained seated, her arms closed protectively around her great-aunt’s body. She dispatched a message to Kalleen to bring the Aayel’s ceremonial robe and the sacred oils needed to perform the death rites.
Imoshen wrapped the frail old body in the robe then placed the Aayel on her funeral pyre. She would let no one else touch her kin. Awkward and stiff with grief, she climbed down.
The chill of winter came through the thin soles of her indoor shoes, sending a creeping chill through her bones. Imoshen stepped back and turned to the west to see the sun setting beyond the hills. It seemed fitting that the last of the Aayel should die as the sun set and the winter closed in on the end of the reign of the T’En.
In Imoshen’s family the Aayel had held the reins of religious power, hers was the voice which had called down a blessing. Other families not blessed with a Throwback had the services of members of the T’En Church. The Aayel had never trusted the church. She would have preferred that Imoshen say the words.
Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She did not have time for grief now. This had to be done properly.
All around her they waited, the Stronghold servants and guards, the refugees, the locals and the Ghebites. They waited for her signal.
Imoshen shuddered. She was without guidance now in a world where all the rules had changed and death stalked her.
With an effort she recalled the blessing and spoke the words. From a great distance she heard her voice carry on the still evening. Then she stepped aside and retreated to stand on the rise and watch the sun.
Around her the people sang their ancient songs, songs which were old when her namesake invaded their land and placed them under her yoke of servitude. Was it human nature to take and take?
As the sun sank in a blaze of autumn glory, Imoshen stood over the pyre and sprinkled oils from the Aayel’s private cabinet then raised her hand. On her signal a servant of the royal household ignited the Aayel’s funeral pyre.
As the greedy flames laid claim to the pyre, Imoshen retreated, her cheeks scorched. She fingered the cupboard key in her hand. The Aayel’s private medicaments were hers now. She could mix a potion to kill General Tulkhan as easily as she could mix a healing posset.
She need not continue tonight and tomorrow night to take the herb of fertility.
Cold crept up through her bones. She felt chilled to her very heart, despite the heat of the pyre. What did it matter if the Elite Guard turned on her and killed her, so long as she took General Tulkhan with her?
All around her the refugees, the harmless, blameless people of Fair Isle, raised their voices in an ancient song of lament as glowing cinders spiraled upward from the leaping flames.
Soon the skies would grow leaden with snow and these same refugees of the war would freeze in their makeshift homes on the plain. Imoshen flinched. There would not be enough wood to keep them warm. It was a terrible thing to see the old, the very young and the injured suffer, and they all relied on her.
She glanced around her at the scene, noting that the General and his men kept their distance. Perhaps they sensed that they’d had a lucky escape, saved from rebellion by the Aayel’s actions.
All about her as the plain grew dark, faces were turned to the funeral pyre, its pungent smoke floating on the still autumn air as the sky faded to a pearly opalescence.
Finally, all that remained of the funeral pyre was its glowing embers. The twin moons, male and female, met in union to flood the plain with silver light, cloaking its squalor and its desperate inhabitants.
Trembling with the effort of will, Imoshen signaled it was over. Later the royal household servants would gather the ashes and sprinkle them on the Stronghold’s sacred garden.
Imoshen retreated to her rooms where she ordered hot water and placed oils in the bath. She took no food and no drink other than the drug the Aayel had entrusted her to take. And she didn’t know why she took that.
After dismissing Kalleen, Imoshen sank into the hot water and stared into the flames of the open fireplace. She was numb. Without the wise counsel of the Aayel she was truly alone, and it frightened her more than she wanted to admit.
On the parapets were three round objects—the heads of those who would have killed the General in Reothe’s name, in her name. She shuddered. These grisly trophies mocked General Tulkhan’s claim to culture. Truly, he was a barbarian. He’d been ready to kill her.
Imoshen pressed cold fingers to her burning eyes. A soul-deep ache settled in her core. Her great-aunt was gone. How could she go on without the Aayel’s advice?
But the old woman’s choice of death made her smile with grim pride. She could only admire the Aayel and hope if she ever had to face the same choice, her decision would be as honorable.
Imoshen sighed. In a way death was simple. It was living that was hard. With her death the Aayel had succeeded in buying them time, but the risk was still present.
Noises came from the hall outside. Imoshen heard Kalleen’s voice raised in angry denial. Heart pounding, she twisted around in the bath, looking for her robe. Before she could find it, the door to her chamber was thrown open and General Tulkhan marched in. Bounding around him like a small ineffectual puppy, Kalleen was making a valiant effort to stop him.
The General was alone, which relieved Imoshen of her immediate fear. If he meant to execute her, she sensed he would send his Elite Guards for her.
The immediate danger past, she felt a burst of defiant anger. What was he doing here? Was it not enough that the Aayel should die by her own hands? Did the man have no consideration?
When Kalleen tried to block his view the General brushed the girl aside.
“You may leave, Kalleen,” Imoshen said, coolly.
As her serving maid backed out bristling, Imoshen decided how to handle this encounter. Rather than rise and attempt to cover herself she remained in the tub. “Whatever you may do in Gheeaba, here we do not invade a person’s bedchamber—”
“Who is T’Reothe?”
Despite the warm water, Imoshen’s skin went cold but she strove to remain outwardly impassive. Only she could feel the pounding of her heart. “Why do—”
“Answer me!” The General’s voice was a whip crack.
Imoshen took a slow, deep breath to steady herself. “He was one of the Royal House, reared by the Emperor and Empress, a second cousin of mine. You must have met and defeated him in one of your battles during this campaign. As far as I know he lies unburied on a bloodied field somewhere.”
“Then why did the assassin scream his name as she tried to gut me?”
So her scrying had been accurate? Reothe had sent the assassins. Didn’t he realize he’d put her life at risk? Would Reothe discard her so easily? She doubted it. Maybe the assassins were zealots who had acted independently of him, but in his name.
Imoshen did not know what to think. She looked down only to find her shoulders grasped ruthlessly by General Tulkhan as he hauled her to her feet. Bath water cascaded out of the tub onto the floor, hissing where droplets hit the embers of the fire.
Tulkhan had seen the flicker of knowledge as Imoshen lowered her eyes. The Dhamfeer was hiding something.
He’d hauled her to her feet and out of the tub before he knew he meant to do it.
Now he shook her. “Look at me!”
For an instant he stared into her startled face. Her eyes were luminous dark pools, like red wine held to the candle flame. His large hands gripped her white shoulders, his fingers dark against her skin. He could feel her fine bones.
Her hands hung at her side. She was too proud to cover herself. Her damp silver-blond hair clung to her body in long tendrils. Dark nipp
les peeped from this tenuous covering but his gaze returned to her mouth.
She dragged in a ragged breath, parting dark lips to reveal those sharp little teeth and he was forcibly reminded yet again that she wasn’t one of his race, that she was a T’En, from the mythical land beyond the rising sun.
Irritation gripped Tulkhan. He could feel the heat exuding from her body. That carnal scent he’d come to associate with her made his nostrils dilate. It called up a primal response in him, a response that went beyond rational thought—and one that must be crushed.
He shook her once again. “Who is T’Reothe? Has he been in contact with you?”
She gave a wild laugh, unshed tears glittering in her eyes.
“T’Reothe was my betrothed!” Her eyes narrowed, tears spilling unheeded down her cheeks. “He’s probably dead like everyone else I ever loved, killed by you and your king.” With a practiced flick she brought her arms up inside his guard and used his own strength against him to break his grip on her shoulders.
Her six-fingered hands curled into fists and she struck him fiercely, repeatedly on the chest, weeping freely. “They’re all dead. My mother, father, brother, sister, and now the Aayel!”
The blows were not meant to hurt, but to express her frustration and anger. As they thudded into him his heart lurched, each strike slipping further past his defenses so that he felt her despair.
He caught her elbows and pulled her forward, pinning her to his chest. Her hands were caught between her breasts, her fists closed. She gasped, lifting a shocked face to him, the tears glistening on her cheeks like crystals.
As he looked into her eyes, he felt a terrible yearning. He wanted her. How he wanted her, this Dhamfeer woman. Who would have thought he would find her Otherness so alluring, so intoxicating? Yet here he was, ready to take her, to throw aside all sense and caution. Wasn’t she his right of capture?
The fire crackled on the hearth. The scented oils of the bath hung on the steamy air.
Imoshen was pinned to the General’s chest, transfixed by the twin flames of desire which raged in his eyes. He smiled down at her in anticipation.
No.
She was not a victim, certainly not his victim!
Her heart pounded and fury heated her blood, singing in her veins. She sucked in a breath then pulled back sharply, transferring her weight, but he anticipated in time to twist his hips so that her raised knee skidded past his broad-muscled thigh, allowing that hard male thigh to press intimately between her naked legs.
Imoshen froze.
The sudden pressure triggered a wave of unexpected heat. She gasped and saw his eyes widen as he registered her response.
He was going to rape her, here in her own bedchamber.
“That’s right,” she hissed, rage making her voice tight. “Take me by force, just like you took my lands by force. You haven’t the wit to be anything other than a brutal plunderer.”
His great arms tightened so that she gritted her teeth as the air was forced from her lungs. Star points of light danced across her vision.
He held her so close she felt his voice rumble in his chest when he spoke. “You surrendered!”
“Only to save my people.” A roaring filled her ears. Each short breath was hard won. “I will never surrender to you. You can never subdue me. Not by brutality, not by forcing yourself upon me, not—”
Her mouth was covered by his and she knew a moment’s despair. She was too close to wrestle, arms pinned against his chest. She had no leverage when her toes barely touched the ground.
His presence overwhelmed her senses. She registered his distinctive male scent, the heat of his body, the abrasive material of his jerkin against her breasts. His hard thigh pressed between her legs lifted her ever higher. A strange and unfamiliar sensation swamped all conscious thought. His demanding mouth overwhelmed hers, its hot velvety depths so alien, so unknown.
She was drowning in him, barely able to think.
His ragged breath filled her mouth as he groaned. The utter abandonment of the sound tugged at something deep inside her, robbing her limbs of their strength. She heard an answering moan, and realized that it was her own.
How could she feel any desire for this man when only a few nights ago she had been stirred by her betrothed? What kind of woman was she?
Tulkhan lifted his head and his eyes blazed with triumph. His expression speared her delirium.
No. She would not be his conquest!
She sucked in a breath and bared her teeth, lunging for his throat. He barely had time to bring his hand up to protect himself before her teeth found his flesh.
With delight she felt the small bones of his hand crack and tasted his blood. Suddenly she was released. Her feet hit the ground, but she would not relinquish her hold. She clung to him, her hands twined through his clothes, her teeth embedded in his flesh.
With a snap Imoshen registered a direct blow to her forehead. Stunned, she staggered back, colliding with a low seat.
Even as she fell, her head was clearing and she recoiled, springing catlike to her feet. She didn’t know this wild creature she had become.
Delight flared through her as she saw his eyes widen in alarm. He stood there breathing as raggedly as she, his injured hand clasped protectively to his chest. Blood seeped from between his fingers.
Fear and disgust traveled across his face.
His eyes narrowed and she knew he meant to kill her.
For the second time that day Imoshen faced death.
General Tulkhan slowly drew his ceremonial dagger. What had possessed him? he wondered.
A heady intoxicating desire still rode his body, but before him he saw a savage alien being. Even now she called to him to give up all rational thought, abandon himself in her flesh, drown in her exotic scent.
Naked and defiant, the Dhamfeer stood before him, poised for attack, her long silver hair hanging in twirling tendrils. Her intelligent, calculating eyes flashed feral red. Her lips and breasts were stained with his blood, confirming it—she was no more than a beast, with merely the outward trappings of a True-woman.
Tulkhan tried to flex his injured hand. He grimaced as pain lanced through it. He’d sustained enough injuries to know there were broken bones.
For an instant he debated calling his men to hold her, but it would demean him before them to reveal that she had injured him. He should be able to better a mere woman, a naked, unarmed female at that, even if she was a Dhamfeer.
He licked his lips. Unbidden, his mind presented him with the image of her writhing beneath him, not in agony but in abandonment.
Suddenly she straightened and the animal in her retreated to be cloaked by the regal woman. “My people venerate the old. We appreciate their wisdom, we treasure them. We would not deny our old ones medicinal herbs.” Her voice vibrated with contempt and she stepped forward. “You were saved a mutiny this afternoon when the Aayel took her own life. Our people would have risen up and the stones would have run with blood.”
He swallowed and watched with disbelief as she approached, making no attempt to cover herself.
The dagger stayed poised between them as he hugged his throbbing hand to his chest. Even now he could smell her distinctive scent.
She was breathing as rapidly as he, her pale shoulders lifting and falling, her lips parted. “You must kill me to be sure of your command.”
He couldn’t speak.
She continued. “You would have taken me by force.”
“It is my right.”
“Rights that make a person less than human?”
“Dhamfeer!” He made the word an insult.
Her eyes narrowed. “Barbarian!”
He gulped as she flicked her long hair back over her shoulders to reveal her pale, strong body. She stepped closer until the tip of the dagger pressed into her bare breast.
His eyes were fixed on the delicate mounds which rose and fell with each rapid breath. The sharp blade of the dagger dug into her flesh, not ye
t cutting it.
There was nothing but the sound of her rapid breathing and the pounding of his own heart as he raised his eyes to her face. Those intense, wine-dark eyes were fixed on him. Her skin was so unnaturally pale that even her lips were almost colorless, except where they were stained by his blood.
Something stirred within him, acknowledging the power she had over him.
Tulkhan flinched. This was his chance, one determined thrust between the ribs and he would be rid of this infuriating female, this source of rebellion—yet he couldn’t move.
He could see the pulse fluttering in her throat.
She was taking a terrible gamble. Reluctant admiration stirred in him.
He didn’t want to kill her, he wanted to claim her!
Time stood still as their fates hung in the balance.
Imoshen couldn’t hear for the blood rushing in her ears. Every sense was strained, focusing on him, watching, evaluating. She could hardly breathe. Then she saw it, the slightest waver of determination.
A ragged gasp escaped her. She almost fainted with relief.
The General uttered a heartfelt groan and covered his face with his forearm in despair. He could not bring himself to kill her. Instinctively, she realized that by his standards she had shamed him.
With a cold shudder she understood she was just as much at risk this instant as a moment before. To cover his shame he might turn on her. He might call his men in to kill her.
She cleared her throat. “A great leader must know when to show mercy.”
He glared at her. “A leader must know when to be ruthless.”
“And when to bind her people to her with acts of kindness.” She felt light-headed. “Your teacher must have studied the same manuscripts as mine.”
He gave a grimace that might have been a smile. “Only my Master was not speaking of a female leader.”
“Man comes from woman. She makes up half the world. Would you deny half of yourself?”
Broken Vows Page 13