“Reothe!”
Her knees crumbled. Terror robbed her of coherent thought.
His thoughts sliced like a blade through her identity, shutting down all rational thought. Communication went beyond words. She recognized his anger and his determination. He would not relinquish her, not while he still lived.
While he held her thus she could not even lift her head, let alone flee, and now that he had located her, he was coming to claim her. She sensed his triumph.
Despair flooded Imoshen. Fool! By using her powers she had unwittingly drawn him like a magnet.
Something soft and moist touched her cheek. Horsey breath engulfed her face, making her choke. Suddenly she was free, blinded by the night but alone with her horse, kneeling in the steadily building snow.
The horse was a dark bulk. Its soft nostrils nuzzled her face. She didn’t need to probe its mind to know it wanted food and thought she would provide it. Tears of relief stung her eyes as she staggered to her feet. She had to get away from here, had to be invisible to Reothe’s questing talent.
She was just another gray patch, as gray as the snow which fell in the inky blackness, just another piece of the night. She pressed her face into the horse’s flank, savoring its warmth, for she had grown deathly cold while Reothe held her in thrall.
Then frustration seized her as she realized that without her hands she could not climb into the saddle. Still, it was reassuring not to be alone and maybe, just maybe, she could use the animal to deflect Reothe.
Her horse shied, its animal intelligence recognizing the T’En power Reothe was harnessing to search for her. She could feel it, too. It made her teeth ache, triggered that strange taste on her tongue again. She almost wanted to answer it to feel that flare of mental recognition. Until that moment she had never known how completely alone she was.
The temptation to touch minds was insidious, startling her with its intensity. She thrust the thought aside, clamping down on it. Placing her face in the hollow of the horse’s neck she inhaled its earthy scent. She would hide her presence, assuming the horse’s identity. She was anxious for warmth, for her stall and food. The beast began to move and she moved with it, her booted feet already numb with cold. But the thought of what lay ahead of her drove her on, while the thought of what lay behind drove her to push herself when cold and weariness threatened to overwhelm her.
Time passed. The ground passed beneath her boots.
Walking became automatic.
Thought was a luxury she did without. The night stretched out before her.
When she raised her eyes and saw the huddled outline of the houses below the Stronghold, the smoke lifting from their chimney tops and their lights almost hidden behind the shuttered windows, she was too weary to feel any joy, only relief.
Her horse hastened and she kept pace with it, stumbling forward on numb legs.
The snow-mantled streets of the new town were empty, the houses tightly shuttered. The wide avenue that led up to the outer gates of the Stronghold stretched before her, one last obstacle. The heavy gates were open, the passage dark, its far opening lit by a glow from the courtyard beyond.
Strange, Imoshen thought. Why weren’t they searching for her? Why weren’t they alarmed? Where were her Stronghold Guard and General Tulkhan’s Elite Guard?
She stumbled down the passage, thinking it was not that long since Tulkhan had entered these gates at the head of his army to lay claim to the Stronghold, yet it felt like a lifetime ago to her No one challenged her. Odd.
The horse threaded its way through the courtyards toward the stable where the soft glow of lamplight told her someone was waiting. She let the horse go, deeply grateful for its unwitting protection.
Imoshen could hear the sounds of revelry in the great hall but everything sounded wrong to her ears. Why were they celebrating? Why weren’t they searching for her? She felt an odd sense of dislocation, as if this weren’t her Stronghold at all. Had the use of her T’En gifts distorted her perceptions so that she would never feel normal again?
She shuddered with more than cold.
Would every use of her gifts cause her to drift a little further from True-people until she lived isolated in a trap of her own making?
She was shivering uncontrollably now, partly with delayed reaction to her ordeal.
The great hall held a crowd of brightly costumed people. Music played, but it was not her native music. It had that vivid intensity of the Ghebites. So unexpected was the scene that greeted her, Imoshen wondered if she had unwittingly transported herself to another time. She did not recognize the brightly garbed young men. They were Ghebites, that much was certain, but wearing those outlandish clothes? Then amidst the newcomers she was relieved to recognize her own Stronghold servants scurrying about to serve the newcomers.
Strange. Her people looked right through her.
Suddenly a man came to his feet and shouted for silence. The general din instantly died away. He lifted a goblet in salute to his companion, another man, a young man who reminded her vaguely of ... Tulkhan.
“To our King Gharavan and to the jewel in his crown, Fair Isle!”
There was a shout as the others drained their drinks and called for more.
The young king rose, good-naturedly accepting their shouted comments. “To my half-brother, may he find the rebels and kill every last one!” They roared. “And to my loyal courtiers. I lay claim to the Stronghold and declare the Princess Imoshen a traitor, to be hunted down and executed without trial.”
The breath left Imoshen’s body in one exclamation of amazement.
The Ghebites roared, while Imoshen noted her own servants kept their eyes downcast.
This had gone far enough.
Rigid with anger, she strode forward into the center of the hall. This time her people noticed her.
“My Lady,” one lad cried, dropping his jug. It smashed on the stone floor, shockingly loud.
An old woman would have come to her, but Imoshen shook her head, her eyes fixed on the young king’s face. She watched his features go slack with surprise, then harden with a mixture of fear and hatred.
“Welcome to my Stronghold, King Gharavan!” She greeted him formally. “On behalf of General Tulkhan, with whom we made our terms of surrender, I bid you and your people welcome. And if someone will cut my bonds and bring me some warm food I’ll tell you how I was abducted and how I escaped.”
She noticed the young king cast a swift glance to the man who had first spoken and instantly recognized the power behind the throne.
“Abducted you say, yet you are here?” the dark man remarked in such a way that she could not take offense, but clearly it was designed to undermine her veracity.
She felt someone slit the bonds which held her arms from wrist to elbow and brought her arms forward. Her shoulders ached fiercely. Lifting her hands, she stared at them. They were blue, the fingers curled up like the unfurled petals of a flower. She couldn’t feel a thing. It was as if they belonged to someone else.
She tried to rub them together but though she was able to move her arms and her wrists met, her hands remained useless. Would she get frostbite? Lose her fingers?
Imoshen did not know, but she understood she could not afford to show a moment’s weakness here.
“I was abducted.” She stepped closer to the table and held her hands out toward the king and his confidant. “Or do you think I would strap my hands behind my back and stagger through the deep woods in the snow for hours till my feet and hands went numb for the joy of it?”
“Who tried to abduct you?” the king asked. There was no more talk of doubting her word.
Imoshen went to speak but even now she could not bring herself to turn Reothe over to these self-serving barbarians. “Rebels. My horse bolted. I was knocked from the saddle. My head ...” She tried to feel the extent of her head wound, but her hand wouldn’t open and she only succeeded in starting the bleeding again.
Warmth seeped into her, melting the ice on her clothes.<
br />
Little droplets landed on the stones at her numb feet, which were beginning to burn as circulation returned. She was so hungry she could feel her body trembling at the sight and scent of food, but she couldn’t use her hands to feed herself and she would not bury her face in the nearest platter of food like an animal.
Imoshen lifted her gaze from the meat on the table, aware that the gathered Ghebites were staring at her in horrified fascination. If she didn’t get help soon she would fall at their feet, and she couldn’t afford to do that. Unlike Tulkhan, these men had no compassion. They saw weakness as an opportunity to be exploited.
“Forgive me greeting you like this. I will go to my chambers and clean up.” She stepped back and made formal obeisance, then turned and walked from the great hall.
As she stepped through a doorway her knees buckled and she sagged against the wall in the shadows, listening to the din of voices raised in exclamation.
The woman who ran the kitchen was there to meet her as well as the housekeeper who oversaw the bedchambers and galleries.
The first clutched her arm. “They arrived at dusk, my Lady. Just marched in and took over.”
The second massaged Imoshen’s free hand. “They ordered us about and you could not be found! We had no idea . . .”
Imoshen lifted her hand for silence. “Treat them as honored guests, of course—”
“My Lady!” Kalleen ran down the steps to join them. “I thought they’d taken you!”
Was Kalleen in league with the rebels? Imoshen frowned. Had the girl betrayed herself to the other women? But no, they were still chattering on, excusing themselves for condoning the king’s behavior. A laugh escaped Imoshen. She bit it back when she heard the odd lilt to her voice. In another breath she would be crying.
Kalleen hugged her, then studied her face. “I heard you’d been abducted by rebels and escaped. How—”
“I need a warm bath and food, and then I will tell you.”
On the stairs her legs gave way and several of the servants who had followed her ran forward. Kalleen pushed them aside, offering her slender shoulder.
Imoshen accepted her help, amused by the girl’s proprietary air.
Up in her room Imoshen waited while the hot bath water was carried up and poured into her tub. She had to clench her teeth to stop from crying out as Kalleen massaged sensation back into her hands and feet.
“We did not know what had become of you. Last anyone saw of you, you were down in the town speaking with the blacksmith,” Kalleen reproached her. “Then when the king marched in around dusk you couldn’t be found. Wharrd was worried but he would not admit it. There has been no word from General Tulkhan and now the king is here. What does it mean?”
Imoshen did not know, but her instincts told her it was not good.
When the tub was full she sprinkled soothing herbs on the warm waters. “Send them all away, Kalleen.”
When the girl returned Imoshen lowered herself into the tub. She winced as she attempted to bathe the blood from her hair, studying her progress in the polished metal mirror Kalleen held up for her. In the royal palace they had real glass mirrors and hot running water but the Aayel had not believed in such things.
“I saw Drake today,” Imoshen said, watching the girl’s face closely.
Kalleen leaned closer. “Was he well? Has he reconsidered?”
“He abducted me.”
“No!”
“Yes. He’s with the rebels.” She caught Kalleen’s hand as the girl put the mirror aside to rinse Imoshen’s hair. “I need to know where your loyalty lies. Do you stand with me or against me?”
Kalleen’s golden eyes widened with hurt, her body stiffened. “You have to ask!”
Imoshen flushed. “I’m sorry, Kalleen, forgive me. All about me I see enemies. That young fool the king for one, but even more so his companion. Then ...” She bit her lip. She feared Reothe more now than before. “Where is the General?”
“Hunting rebels in the southern highlands,” Kalleen answered automatically.
Fear for General Tulkhan’s life assailed Imoshen and her heart sank. Did he still live? They’d had no word from him.
How could Tulkhan compete with Reothe? Her once betrothed was T’En and his men were fanatics, while Tulkhan was a canny leader of True-men whose soldiers loved and respected him. But he did not have T’En gifts. How could he hope to stand against Reothe?
In a flash it came to Imoshen.
If she stood at Tulkhan’s side, she could help him defeat the rebel leader. Was this what Reothe feared?
No wonder her betrothed would not take no for an answer. She could not be neutral. She had to take sides, had to choose which man would live or die.
Imoshen groaned.
“Do you hurt, my Lady?” Kalleen whispered. “I will call Wharrd.”
Imoshen laughed. “My hurts can’t be healed by a bone-setter.” Morosely she watched as Kalleen laid out her night garment and warmed the bed with a pan of hot coals. Such luxury. She was sure Reothe did not have his bed warmed, if he slept in a bed at all.
But she didn’t want to think of him. Thinking of him called to mind the memory of his essence when their minds touched. Imoshen shuddered. What would she give to know such a bonding? What would it be like to share a mind-touch that was bathed in love instead of fear and dominance?
She now believed what she suspected Reothe already knew, that if they were to bond, they would be able to defeat the invaders. But at what cost to the people and where would it end? Would Reothe be content with Fair Isle?
Her head hurt and her limbs trembled.
“I’m hungry, Kalleen. Find me something to eat.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now!” She noticed Kalleen’s expression. “I’m sorry. I spoke harshly.”
“You seemed . . . strange,” Kalleen confessed. “For a moment I did not recognize you. It must be the bruising.”
But when the girl left and Imoshen looked in the reflective metal she knew it wasn’t that. Something inside her had changed. She had lost her innocence tonight. She was no longer so naive and trusting.
Tonight she had used her T’En skills to lure a predator to kill True-men. She had faced Reothe with her naked mind and run from the pain of his knife-sharp gifts.
If she had to choose sides, and it appeared she did, then let Tulkhan be her General. Strangely enough, she did not fear him. But they were all threats—the king, his advisor, Reothe and the General. She would use whatever tools came to hand to ensure her survival.
Suddenly Imoshen realized she was thinking just like Reothe, and she shivered.
Thoughtfully she stood before the fire to rub her body dry. Apart from a few bruises she had survived the ordeal physically, but her inner certainty was gone. She knew something lay deep inside her, the buried T’En power that could surface, would surface in times of stress, and if it did, Reothe would know because the same ability lay in him. And he was hungry for her.
Tulkhan sat tall in the saddle despite his weariness. His men slumped, wrapped in their inadequate winter cloaks. Their land to the north would be much warmer now. The snow still fell and the lookouts he’d posted at their flanks were lost in the whiteness. They were probably so weary they hadn’t the energy to keep watch.
Was it only one small moon cycle ago that he’d left his half-brother in T’Diemn and entered the southern highlands to hunt rebels with three companies of men behind him?
He had led pitifully few of those men back to the capital. Ever since they’d seen one of their own commanders drop dead two days after T’Reothe’s touch, the men had whispered of black sorcery.
They spoke of haunted dreams.
While their General dared not reveal his secret fears. Reothe had said he was the man destined to kill Tulkhan. He seemed so sure . . . Tulkhan told himself it was only bluff. But his sword had passed through the Dhamfeer, while that unnatural being’s laughter mocked him.
The rebel army had proved
as insubstantial and impossible to catch as its leader. Even knowing that Reothe’s warning about Imoshen might be a trick, Tulkhan had chosen to believe him.
So he had returned to T’Diemn with the pitiful remains of his three companies, only to find his half-brother had left for the Stronghold.
Why did that worry him?
Surely he could trust Gharavan?
But he feared for Imoshen. Was Reothe the real threat or was it the lies of Kinraid, the Vaygharian? It would not take much skill to weave a story to convince his lack wit half-brother that Imoshen was a liability.
Tulkhan grimaced. He had nearly had her killed himself. Yet now he was urging his weary men on to reach the Stronghold in an attempt to avert that very thing.
Imoshen was a focal point. The fate of Fair Isle lay in her lap and his own fate lay entwined with her choices.
Tulkhan didn’t like feeling helpless. He was used to taking the initiative, not reacting to the challenges of others. Urging his horse on, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the tower of the original keep rising above the naked branches of the trees. The Stronghold was still distant but within reach before nightfall.
His men and their horses seemed to sense their journey would soon be over and their pace increased. When they broke from the trees and rode down into the basin of the plain, he marveled at the changes. A real town had sprung up. The steep pitched roofs were coated with snow. The same white snow hid the newness, and the bare earth he guessed he would find in the streets instead of paving. They had accomplished much in one small moon cycle but he doubted they would have had time to pave the roads. People saw him returning with his men and though he did not expect cheers or happy greetings, he was surprised to see the doors and windows being shuttered. The people anticipated trouble.
His own men muttered uneasily. Tulkhan was grateful he’d left the wounded and sick behind, taking only those well enough to travel. It had been a difficult balance to strike. If he approached his half-brother with the better part of his army at his back the young king might take alarm. Now was not the time for a show of strength. Tulkhan knew the loyalty of the army lay with him. He smiled grimly. At least he believed it did.
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