“What were you thinking of, to murder your subjects like this?”
“To teach them respect, these townsfolk were over-proud. True, they surrendered, but they smirked behind my back, called me a barbarian king!”
“So you proved them right?” Rage flooded Tulkhan. “What possessed you?”
“I had to break them, to show them I had ultimate power. Only fear would bring them to their knees—”
“With hate in their hearts and a knife at the ready behind their backs!” Tulkhan paced to the tall windows and looked into the courtyard, where embers from the fire blew on the breeze. What was Gharavan burning? A charred manuscript lay in the cinders. Tulkhan ground his teeth, knowing this evidence would only confirm Imoshen’s opinion of the Ghebites.
“Now they jump to do my bidding!” Gharavan muttered with surly defensiveness.
“Only because they fear you.”
The young king laughed, an odd, high sound, almost unsteady. “And don’t they fear you, Tulkhan the Ghebite General?”
Tulkhan turned and caught his half-brother by the shirt-front, smelling wine on his breath. It disgusted him.
“They respect me. I keep my word.” He watched as Gharavan blinked uneasily. “I can’t believe you gave this order. Who advised you on this mad venture? Didn’t you realize you were fostering insurgence?”
“Insurgence?” a voice repeated.
Tulkhan spun to see the dark-haired Vaygharian who had suggested they use this room. He had never liked the Vayghars. In his father’s youth the Vayghar nation had chosen to form an alliance with Gheeaba rather than do battle. Since then they had grown rich feasting on the wealth of Ghebite conquests and their merchant-aristocracy had infiltrated the upper echelons of Gheeaba.
Tulkhan turned to his half-brother, who made the introduction.
“My advisor, Kinraid of the Vayghar.”
Kinraid inclined his head, offering the merest civility of greeting. Tulkhan felt an instinctive dislike.
“You spoke of insurgence?” Kinraid smiled. In Gheeaba it was said a Vaygharian could smile while he traded you out of your home and wives. “You, who harbors Imoshen, last princess of the T’En? Even now rebels gather in the heavily forested highlands to the south, plotting to steal back Fair Isle. The Princess will be their rallying point, a Throwback, a Dhamfeer bitch. Was bedding her worth the risk?”
Red anger blazed through Tulkhan’s veins. He wanted to cross that space between them, to take the Vaygharian by the throat and throttle the life from him. He’d already taken two steps when he collected himself.
The Vayghar smiled.
The man was no fool—Tulkhan could read malevolent intelligence in Kinraid’s gaze. With a start he realized this Vayghar was his real enemy. This was the man who had been whispering poison in his half-brother’s ear.
Tulkhan felt them both watching him, waiting for his reaction. He ran through the options. If he were to answer the provocation now his half-brother would be justified in calling in his own guards. Gharavan could have him executed in self-defense and his own men would be helpless to come to his aid. They would be fed a pack of lies they wouldn’t believe. But their allegiance was to the throne and if he was dead, what was the point of opposing their king?
All this flashed through Tulkhan’s mind in less than a heartbeat and he knew he must tread warily.
“T’Imoshen has given me her word,” he said, giving the Dhamfeer her title. “She will not urge the thousands of peasants who have fled to the Stronghold for safety to rise against us.”
“And why should we believe this Dhamfeer bitch?” his half-brother asked, belligerence lighting his dark eyes.
Tulkhan met Gharavan’s gaze and knew at that moment he trusted Imoshen, the Dhamfeer woman, more than his own flesh and blood.
He had made this boy his first wooden practice sword and taught him to fight. He had picked him up when he fell off his horse, dusted him off, soothed his hurts and loved him like a father. Their own father had been too obsessed with ruling his growing lands to take the time to father his sons.
Tulkhan lifted a hand and saw his half-brother flinch, but he laid it gently on Gharavan’s shoulder. “Unless you want the whole country rising against you, you must stop this vindictive slaughter. Offer them an honorable peace. There is much we can learn from these people. Theirs is an ancient culture.”
Gharavan’s eyes searched his face and for a moment Tulkhan was reminded of a younger, charming youth who had listened breathlessly to tales of his campaigns.
“It is much easier to rule by love than fear. Fear must be enforced, love is given.” They were old lessons, learned at the knee of his tutor who had stood in for his absent parent. Gharavan nodded and Tulkhan forged on, hope rising in his chest. “We must win back their trust, their respect. Make reparation to the families of the Guildmasters, call on the leaders of the city to help govern T’Diemn. They know the needs of the city and its people—”
“And all of this will stop the rebels?” Kinraid asked.
Tulkhan turned to him. “No, but it is better to fight on one front than two. We need to secure the townspeople’s loyalty.”
“And what of your loyalty?” The Vaygharian strode toward them, placing a protective hand on the young king’s shoulder. “I did not see you swearing fealty when Gharavan was crowned. You walk in here, criticize his judgment and order him about! Who is king here?”
A spasm of anger gripped Tulkhan. He could already see the doubts taking root in his half-brother’s febrile mind.
“My loyalty is not at doubt. I serve the king. I have secured Fair Isle for his glory—”
“Secured it?” Kinraid remarked scornfully. “Not when the rebels congregate in the southern highlands and prepare to make forays against us.”
“True.” Gharavan was ready to find fault with Tulkhan. “What of this T’Reothe? I hear he’s a Dhamfeer prince, betrothed to the bitch you are so hot for.”
Tulkhan winced. He noted the Vaygharian’s eyes gleam with satisfaction.
They could not know whether he had bedded Imoshen or not. It was simply speculation, but it revealed the way their minds worked. They were united against him, unwilling to listen to reason.
Tulkhan could see the Vaygharian maneuverings as clearly as if they were laid out on a chart before him, but could think of no way to avoid the coming confrontation. The man was dangerous.
“If you were truly loyal to King Gharavan,” Kinraid announced, “you would take those men who serve you and lead them in the service of your king. Clear out the rebel camps.”
“Yes. Wipe them out like the vermin they are,” Gharavan’s face glowed at the thought.
Tulkhan could not afford to hesitate; it would only confirm his disloyalty. Yet . . . “The highlands are inhospitable. In places a whole army could disappear and not find its way out. The rebels have chosen well.”
“You refuse my order?” his half-brother demanded.
“No.” Tulkhan tried not to let reluctance tinge his voice. “I serve my king. My advice is not tainted by personal gain. Remember that, Vanny.” He’d used the diminutive, the nickname he had given his brother as a child, with the intention of reminding him of their shared background. The Vaygharian might be a clever, cunning man, but he did not have their history. “I will stay a few days and help to restore order and placate the townspeople. Then I will take my forces south and seek the rebels.”
It took four days to calm the people of T’Diemn. Tulkhan lost count of the number of times he needed Imoshen’s sage advice. He did not know these people, their customs or their beliefs.
Acting under vague orders from his half-brother, he saw to it that fires were extinguished, food distributed and the damaged homes were rebuilt by the king’s own soldiers.
He met with the various leaders of the city, from the civil administrators and Guildmasters to the head of the T’En Church. The Beatific was a woman, which once again reminded him of the differences in their c
ultures. In T’En society there were many women in positions of authority. They were mature women who by Ghebite standards would have been considered non-persons. But they spoke with the weight of experience and he could not fault their advice.
He saw to it that businesses and produce markets reopened and normal services were resumed.
Tulkhan offered his personal apology to those who had lost loved ones and was abused or berated for his efforts. He took this as a good sign because it meant the townspeople did not fear him. Through it all he focused on the outcome. If he did not win over the people of T’Diemn they would be against him. Should the countryside rise against him and harbor the rebels, they would be welcomed into the capital at the first opportunity.
He could not afford to lose the support of the people of T’Diemn.
If there was an overwhelming swing against the Ghebites he was doubtful of Imoshen’s loyalty. She was a pragmatist and he had to admit that if he were in her position he would side with the winning army whether it was invader or rebel. Imoshen wanted peace for her people, not years of protracted warfare.
On the evening of the fourth day Tulkhan strode into the private entertainment wing of the royal palace looking for his half-brother. He wanted to return to the Stronghold to be certain of Imoshen’s loyalty but he told himself this was unnecessary. Unless other factors changed Imoshen would keep her word.
It had been a harrowing six days, six days apart from Imoshen when he had been living day and night with her. He could have used her reassuring presence and her diplomatic skills on many occasions while dealing with the townspeople, and he had even considered sending for her.
But the knowledge that he had sworn to enter the southern highlands to hunt the rebels stopped him. Much as he needed her, he could not bring Imoshen to the palace and leave her at the mercy of his half-brother and that treacherous Vaygharian. Instinct told him that once Imoshen was in Kinraid’s power he would relinquish her. Let Imoshen remain safely among her own people of the Stronghold.
Tulkhan grimaced as he heard the usual sounds of revelry. The room was full of young Ghebite nobles for whom the campaign had been one good billet after another, one party after another while the foot soldiers moved on ahead and cleaned up resistance. Sprinkled amidst them were the fawning advisors who had curried favor with King Gharavan, offering him the words he most wanted to hear and nothing else. Tulkhan was surprised by a surge of hatred for them all.
Those nearest the entrance looked over at him. No one offered a friendly greeting.
He had noticed a definite change in these young men. A subtle rot had set in. They cast him sly, mocking looks, and there were barely whispered jokes about the man who lay with the Dhamfeer. His part in the Harvest Feast was now common knowledge, not that he regretted it.
Despite this, Tulkhan remained hopeful. On the few occasions he had been alone with his half-brother he had managed to talk some sense, to plan for the future of Fair Isle. Now he hoped for one last talk before he left. He had to impress his loyalty on the youth.
The smaller antechamber where he and Gharavan had had their first private meeting seemed a sensible place to look for his half-brother. Someone tittered as he strode toward the door. Tulkhan ignored them. There wasn’t a man amongst them he would choose to have at his back in a fight.
He thrust the door open and stepped inside, expecting to catch his brother with one of the wenches. Instead he found Gharavan and the Vaygharian naked on the fur before the fire.
Gharavan lifted his head, visibly annoyed at the interruption. Tulkhan cursed. This was worse than he expected. It was common for young Ghebite men to take a male lover. It was encouraged in the ranks because it made a stronger fighting force. But now Tulkhan understood the hold the Vaygharian had over his half-brother. No wonder he would not listen to Tulkhan. While Kinraid was Gharavan’s lover the youthful king would always give more weight to his words.
The Vaygharian raised himself on one elbow and studied Tulkhan calmly, making no attempt to cover his nakedness.
“What do you want?” Gharavan snapped.
“I ride at dawn,” Tulkhan’s voice revealed nothing of his feelings. “The townspeople are resigned. They will bring their disputes to your tribunal for satisfaction. It is your chance to prove just.” His brother waved this aside, irritating Tulkhan. He wanted to say more, but with the Vaygharian’s insolent eyes on him he knew it was pointless. “I will go to my bunk. Good night.”
“So early? Why don’t you take one those willing girls or boys?” Gharavan’s smile was vicious and vindictive. “Ah, but I forgot, your tastes do not run that way. I’m afraid we haven’t any Dhamfeer to indulge you. In my court we draw the line at bestiality!”
It was a deliberate insult, delivered with more venom than he expected of his half-brother. Tulkhan knew from the satisfied smirk on Kinraid’s face that something similar must have passed his lips recently.
Seething with anger Tulkhan turned and left them, marching through the cluster of men and women who had fallen silent when he opened the door to the outer room. They watched him, amused by his disgrace. It struck him with a savage sorrow that he was watching the decline of his father’s power. The old master who taught him tactics was right—a monarchy is only as strong as its king.
Imoshen finished braiding her hair and tossed the heavy plait over her shoulder. So far so good. Nothing had arisen that she could not deal with. As appointed leader of the Elite Guard, Wharrd was responsible to her. The Ghebites had responded to her orders promptly, without a grumble. They were vastly outnumbered by her own Stronghold Guard and the refugees, and very aware of it.
To keep everyone occupied and because it served a useful purpose, she had set the able-bodied adults to building a new town on the plain below the Stronghold. Sturdy wooden houses were springing up with broad paths between. If the refugees were to survive the bitter winter as well as the threat of disease through overcrowding, simple sanitation had to be observed, fresh water supplied and waste disposed of.
Already people were setting up shops to ply their trades—seamstresses, carpenters, bakers, cobblers. From the battlements yester-eve she had marveled to see the town emerging, one that would rival T’Diemn in size and population, if not in cultural accomplishments.
“Oh, Mistress,” Kalleen gasped as she ran into the room. “I would have been here to do your hair but for . . .” She rolled her eyes expressively.
Imoshen did not need further explanation.
“It is nothing. I could not sleep.” Imoshen rose and stepped closer to her maid. She could smell lovemaking on Kalleen’s body and recognized the scent of the youth, Drake. “Should I look to find a place for Drake in the Stronghold? We don’t have a silversmith since old man Larkin died and his apprentice went off to war and got himself killed.”
Kalleen glowed and preened. “It’s not as if he has said anything yet.”
Imoshen laughed and pulled her cloak on. Even inside the Stronghold it had grown colder. The sooner they finished the shelters the better for those on the plain.
She was climbing the stairs after taking inventory of the food stores when Drake suddenly stepped from the shadows. His intense gaze held hers, their faces level. Something was amiss. His over bright eyes worried her.
Imoshen touched his forehead instinctively, checking for fever. “What is it, Drake, are you unwell?”
When he caught her hand his trembled with energy. She assumed he had come to speak of Kalleen and nervousness held his tongue.
“Tell me what you wish,” she urged.
“Lady T’En.” He fell to his knees, bringing her hand to his lips. “I am here to serve you. I know how General Tulkhan has forced you to serve him. But he is gone and I’m well enough now. I have two horses saddled. You can escape to the forests, to the rebels. I hear T’Reothe himself leads them—”
“Hush!” Imoshen stiffened. For the moment the Elite Guard were obeying her, but she knew their ultimate loyalty was to Tulk
han. “You mustn’t speak that one’s name here. The Stronghold and all who live here are sworn to General Tulkhan’s service. Besides,” she hesitated, looking into his earnest face. The bruising over his eye had faded to a greenish yellow now. He was so young, so sincere and so eager to die for a cause.
She felt immeasurably older than he, though they were about the same age. With a tug she urged him to rise. “Who knows if Reothe lives? They say he leads the rebels, but it could be some imposter using his name. Winter will be upon us soon and the rebels will have to suffer through it in the deep woods, without shelter or safety from pursuit.” She paused. Drake did not look convinced.
“The Stronghold needs you,” she tried again. “We have no silversmith.”
Servants came up the stairs eager to consult Imoshen about household arrangements. The youth uttered an impatient exclamation. She smiled and squeezed his hand sympathetically, then turned to deal with the servants’ requests. When she had finished he was gone.
Imoshen sighed. Instinct told her Drake was unconvinced.
That evening as she sat before the fire calculating how to bring water from the underground caverns into the new town, Kalleen came to prepare her for bed. The young girl’s hair was untidy, her face truculent and her eyes red-rimmed. Intent on her work, Imoshen didn’t notice the signs for a moment.
“I need an engineer like ...” she muttered softly as she looked up. “Why, what is wrong, Kalleen?”
The girl brushed her cheek impatiently. “He’s gone, my Lady.”
“Drake?” Imoshen’s heart sank. She did not have to be told where he had gone—in search of Reothe, glory and death. “I offered him a place here.”
“I know.” A bitter sob escaped Kalleen. “It was not enough. I was not enough for him.”
Imoshen came to her feet, hugging the girl. There was nothing she could say.
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