Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  He shrugged this aside and she knew the moment of knife-edged danger had passed.

  She dared to take his crushed hand in hers. At first he stiffened then he let her examine it.

  “You will need treatment.”

  “My—”

  “I have the unguents here in my chamber. Your people need not know.” Imoshen led him by his ruined hand across to the window seat. She had succeeded in facing him down, now she had to win his trust.

  She shivered. It had been close. If she hadn’t fought him he would have raped her there and then. Imoshen knew instinctively tonight would have been wrong. The Aayel had been specific. She must seduce him tomorrow night, after she had taken the last of the brew.

  With simple unhurried movements, Imoshen lifted a plain nightgown over her shoulders and knotted it under her breasts. Gathering her hair, she combed it with her fingers and tilted her head to watch him. Good, the spark was still there. She could see the desire in the tight planes of his face.

  Let it simmer. Tonight was not the night.

  Taking her private key from the chest on the mantelpiece, she unlocked the medicine cabinet and made her selection of herbs, powders and fluids.

  “How could this Reothe be your betrothed? Aren’t the females of your kind sworn to celibacy?”

  Imoshen restrained the urge to respond to his mocking tone. It was a fair question.

  “Normally, yes. But Reothe was granted special Dispensation by the Emperor and Empress. The Beatific witnessed the—”

  “Did you love him?”

  Startled, Imoshen’s gaze met his. Did she love Reothe? She burned at his touch but perhaps it was her body’s sensual frailty and not some deeper, pure emotion?

  “I ... I don’t know. It was so long ago.” She reminded herself that as far as Tulkhan knew Reothe was dead. She had denied knowledge of her betrothed’s fate. “For all I know he is dead.”

  “So you will forget your betrothed as easily as that!” he scorned.

  She grimaced, annoyed with him. According to the General she could do no right. “I have enough to worry about with a Stronghold full of hotheaded Ghebites, without borrowing trouble!”

  Placing the medicants on a low table before him she explained what they were for as she worked. “This one will bring down swelling. It is used on the skin. This one aids the knitting of flesh and bones. You drink it. This one sprinkled on the flesh stops the ill-humors that cause the flesh to poison.” Seeing how painful it was, she bound his hand with great care before strapping it gently to his chest with a sling. Finally she presented him with the liquid.

  “Drink this.”

  “You could be poisoning me.”

  She felt a reluctant smile tug at her lips. “I had considered it.”

  “And decided against it. Why?”

  Imoshen licked her lips, unable to come to terms with her conflicting emotions. Yet the words flowed from her. “I know you. If I kill you it will not change matters. Your Elite Guard will turn on the castle and kill as many of us as it takes to put down the rebellion and there will still be the king to reckon with.”

  “Honest, at least.” A wry humor lit his face, eliciting a smile from her.

  Still he hesitated. The General held the small cup in his hand, his dark eyes on her. Finally she took it from him, lifted it to her lips and sipped half of it, wrinkling her nose at the taste.

  He accepted it from her then, turning it so that his lips touched where hers had been. Deliberately he met her eyes as he drained it.

  A strange sense of fear and anticipation rushed through her, settling low in her belly, an insistent reminder of her secret plan.

  The General could not know he had unwittingly shared with her one of the bonding ceremony symbols. If it was an omen, it was a good one.

  Later as Imoshen lay in her bed, she recalled that moment and many other things about the evening. Her body sang with an unexpected energy and her breasts ached. Her nipples felt tender, irritated by the light garment.

  Was this all part of the brew’s effects?

  Tomorrow night she must seduce the General. She would use the mental tricks her instructor had taught her to ensure she conceived a male child.

  Imoshen buried her face in the cool material of her bedding.

  Her life hung by a thread. She could only hope the Aayel had read General Tulkhan correctly. For the T’En, life was sacred, but she seriously doubted the Ghebites held life in such high esteem. Why would the General value the life of an unborn child?

  But she mustn’t doubt herself or the Aayel’s plan. Doubt was deadly.

  Tomorrow night was her one and only chance. If he rejected her, she was lost.

  Chapter Five

  The day of the feast dawned bright and cold. Tulkhan’s Elite Guard complained of the chill, which made Imoshen smile because this was mild compared to full winter.

  She dressed with care, aware that tonight she would seduce the General, take his seed and begin a boy child who according to the Aayel would ensure her survival, binding Tulkhan to her.

  Imoshen felt fragile and alone. She missed her great-aunt this cold morning on the cusp of the seasons.

  Her breasts were tender and her head felt thick and muzzy, probably from lack of sleep, for she seemed to have spent most of last night tossing and turning, waking from fevered dreams, recalling her close escape. Just the thought of how he had forced his hard muscled thigh between hers made her heart race.

  Hearing the General’s voice in the courtyard, she ran to the window to observe her prey, taking in the way he strode through the throng, the way the others stepped back from him. He spoke to his Elite Guard, then suddenly turned and looked up to her window. She remained motionless, hidden in shadow. She saw his dark brows crease almost as if he could sense her plotting to ensnare him.

  When the General turned his back on her to consult with his guards she felt an irrational annoyance. This was not like her. It must be the Aayel’s potion that made her restless, her thoughts like quicksilver. She wanted to run down into the courtyard to taunt him, to elicit an angry response from him. She wouldn’t be ignored, she wanted him to admit his attraction to her, to take her in his arms like he had last night.

  She knew the General was not impervious to her. As much as he seemed repelled by her, he was also fascinated. Last night he had desired her but instinct told her she had done the right thing in fighting him off. Not only was it wrong to let him take her before the appointed time, but if he had done it in that manner the basis of their battle would have changed—and she would have lost the initiative.

  She might have surrendered the Stronghold to the Ghebite General, but theirs was a personal battle which was still being fought.

  General Tulkhan gestured in answer to one of his men and Imoshen stepped back from the window, released from her own spell. She called Kalleen and hurriedly finished dressing.

  The day was a frenzy of activity for her. As head of the Stronghold household she had to vet all plans for the Festival of Harvest Moons, then personally oversee the decorations and aspects of the food preparation because they were part of the time-honored religious rites of this ancient festival.

  Massive bonfires were being built on the plain. Normally the people would have thronged to their local villages, but because so many refugees had clustered around the keep it had become a huge township, almost rivaling the T’En capital in population, if not in size.

  Homeless, hungry and fearful for their future, the people were more eager than ever to celebrate the Festival of Harvest Moons. Imoshen understood their need. The familiar feast offered reassurance. If the festival went well tonight they could expect a good crop next year. Food and shelter, that was what these people cared about, not the identity of their rulers. And who could blame them!

  As was the custom, she fasted all day. By rights her great-aunt would have conducted the ceremony but her people had made it clear they expected her to do it, even though she was not recognized
by the T’En Church.

  One of her first and most important responsibilities was to oversee the construction of the harvest bower. It was essentially a primitive hut, decorated with fresh hay and the last ripe fruits and flowers of the season. Here the participants would consummate the union of the double moon. Usually the elders of the village chose a young man and young woman. They were singled out because they best represented the future of the village—young, healthy, ripe. After much feting they would be escorted to the bower to consummate their brief but vital bonding. Their joining in the field both ensured fertility the following spring and thanked the powers for the recent harvest.

  While she dealt with practical matters, on a deeper level Imoshen fought to come to terms with what she must do this evening. If Tulkhan guessed for an instant that she was manipulating him into her arms he would resist, and she couldn’t afford to miss this opportunity.

  She studied the small, low-roofed hut, inhaling the scent of the fresh hay. Her cheeks flooded with heat as she imagined what would take place here tonight. Her body craved a mating and that disturbed her. She didn’t like to think her actions were dictated by her body. Again she told herself that it must be the Aayel’s potion that was making her feel this way.

  With a word of congratulations to the eager refugees who had constructed the bower, she stepped out into the chill of late afternoon and took a deep breath to steady her thudding heart.

  There he was, striding toward her. Did his step falter slightly as he caught sight of her? She hoped so. The General gestured to the man at his side, indicating the fire pits.

  Food for the crowd was being prepared in great fire pits. The night before, the heated stones and coals had been raked over the meat and vegetables. Feeding the masses was a nightmare of logistics, but the Harvest Feast had to be done properly.

  As she watched Tulkhan pace the plain, giving orders, Imoshen realized he was not wearing the sling she’d fashioned for him. He wore dark leather gloves and he was careful about how he used his injured hand. She understood immediately why he was disguising the injury. To explain how it had happened would diminish him in the eyes of his men and undermine his power. And, above all, he had to maintain control.

  She had to admire his tactics and the force of his personality. No other leader, not even the Empress herself, had impressed her with their ability to inspire respect and loyalty the way General Tulkhan did.

  Mentally she amended that. Reothe had impressed her with his courage and daring. Among all their kin only he had gone voyaging to open new trade routes, seeking adventure.

  T’Reothe, last prince of the T’En.

  Had she made the right choice?

  A little shiver passed over her skin. Only time would tell.

  It was growing dark. Imoshen left the plain and walked toward the Stronghold. A different flag flew over the battlements, but the sounds and scents were familiar enough. If she ignored the occasional Ghebite accent she could close her eyes and pretend it was last autumn and her family were inside, preparing for the ceremony.

  A twist of pain curled inside her, intimate and intense. She hadn’t had a chance to mourn their loss. And she was unlikely to have the opportunity now.

  In the great hall a central dais had been erected to sacrifice a pig or lamb. Rumor had it that long ago the sacrifice had been more than this.

  Many ancient customs and rituals had been absorbed by her people. After the initial invasion the original inhabitants had continued practicing their ancient ways, but over time their earth-close secrets had intertwined with the more formal customs of the T’En so that it was difficult to know where one left off and the other began.

  Looking back over six hundred years Imoshen wondered if the original inhabitants of Fair Isle had not vanquished the T’En in the end through sheer force of numbers. Through interbreeding the pure T’En had all but disappeared. The language, customs and values of the golden-skinned locals had gradually permeated even to the highest levels of society so that now a Throwback like herself was an outsider amongst her own people.

  Would this happen to the Ghebite barbarians?

  She smiled at the irony of it. Six hundred years from now who would care whether Imoshen, last princess of the T’En, cemented her future by seducing General Tulkhan?

  “My Lady?” Kalleen appeared at her side. “They told me to tell you that the room is ready for purification.”

  Imoshen felt a grin tug at her lips. The girl’s tone told her Kalleen’s ongoing battle with the long-established servants of the Stronghold had flared up again. They resented a farm girl being raised above one of their own to the position of Imoshen’s private servant.

  “Then we mustn’t disappoint them.” Imoshen smiled.

  She followed the young woman, mentally preparing herself for the task ahead. Whatever her personal opinion of the T’En Church, the people of her Stronghold expected her to follow tradition. She could not dishonor them.

  Imoshen stripped and entered the little wood-lined room. Herbs had been sprinkled over the heated stones so that when water was poured on them a heady, humid scent engulfed her.

  She had fasted since the death of the Aayel, preparing her body for the purification ceremony. Her hair hung in heavy damp ropes over her bare shoulders and down her back. She cleared her mind and sought to recall each step of the ceremony, praying that she wouldn’t forget a line or gesture.

  In the past her parents had shared the ceremonial roles with the Aayel, right up until the final stage of the ceremony when the Harvest Feast platter carrying the ritual corn sheaf and bull’s horn were presented to her father and mother, who passed it to the Aayel to ceremoniously bless the items before returning the platter to the village elders. The elders then presented these items to the chosen male and female. The young man received the bull’s horn. It was a symbol of potent masculinity, associated with the beasts of the fields. The young woman received the corn sheaf, a symbol of fertility associated with the plants of the fields.

  Imoshen’s stomach growled with hunger but the only thing she planned to swallow was the last portion of the potion the Aayel had prepared for her and later the sacramental wine, which she had to bless during the ceremony.

  To her surprise the enforced idleness and privacy did bring her a measure of inner peace and after the prescribed time she left the heated room feeling calm and restored. Kalleen escorted her to the sacred garden to fulfill the last step of the purification ceremony.

  “There she is,” Wharrd whispered.

  Tulkhan’s heart lurched. He was not spying, he told himself. He had asked for an explanation of the ceremony tonight and Wharrd had learned the details from Imoshen’s maid so he could instruct his master.

  That was how they came to be in the secluded balcony of the private courtyard which housed the Stronghold’s sacred garden. Even through his boots he could feel the chill of the stones. The sun’s setting rays no longer reached the walled garden and Tulkhan shivered in sympathy as Imoshen dropped her cloak to stand naked by the pool.

  Her pale skin glowed eerily in the twilit courtyard. Kalleen took the cloak and retreated to the entrance, leaving her mistress alone. Imoshen raised her arms and her small breasts lifted, the darker tips peeping through her long silver hair.

  The General felt his body stir in response. He wanted her even more after last night. His injured hand throbbed as if to mock him. What would have happened if her teeth had closed around his throat? She would have crushed it, killing him, possibly at the expense of her own life, but he doubted she would count the cost too great.

  He wished Wharrd gone, he wished Imoshen’s T’En religious rites were his to witness alone. He didn’t want anyone else seeing her strong, perfect body. How could he have thought her too tall and scrawny? True, she was long-limbed and more slender than the women of his race but the more he saw her the more her form pleased him. It became the standard by which he judged all else.

  “Leave me.” The intensity of
the voice that ground out the order surprised him. He sensed Wharrd moving off through the connecting doors to the inner chambers.

  Alone, General Tulkhan, leader of the invading forces, watched the last of the T’En with an intensity which ate at him. His heartbeat hastened until it was a heavy, solid drum which reverberated through his body. He was enthralled, unwilling for the moment to end.

  Why was she standing there? She held something in her hands, crushed it, then sprinkled what looked like petals on the surface of the dark, stone-edged pool.

  Then she surprised him by stepping off the edge down a number of shallow steps into the icy pool. Pausing to take a breath, she sank below the waters until only the swirl of her long hair remained on the surface. Then even that grew heavy with moisture and sank.

  There was no sign of her presence other than the gently moving petals on the dark surface. Alarmed, his hands tightened on the stonework.

  He was about to leap over the balustrade and drop the body length to the soft garden bed below when Imoshen rose from the depths. She glided up to the rim like an albino seal he had seen while making the crossing to Fair Isle.

  As Imoshen surged up the steps he could hear her fey laughter. It made his skin prickle with fear and excitement. She called out to Kalleen, who ran forward with the cloak. Tulkhan could see Imoshen was shaking with cold as the little serving maid enfolded her mistress in the cloak.

  “I’m glad that part’s over!” Imoshen’s voice carried, echoing off the stone walls of the courtyard. They hurried from the courtyard.

  Ritual purification. The phrase returned to him. According to Wharrd, as the last of the T’En, Imoshen would lead the ceremony tonight right up until she was presented with the symbols of fertility for plant and beast, the corn sheaf and bull’s horn.

  Tulkhan shifted, staring down into the empty courtyard. Damn, he was as tense and apprehensive as a bridegroom. Her continued presence and the unspoken challenge in her eyes only made it worse. He was as bad as any of his foot soldiers. They were excited, edgy. Rumors of the excesses condoned on the night of the Harvest Feast abounded. There had been much boasting in the ranks. Tulkhan suspected even his men might be astonished at the behavior of these Fair Isle farmers.