Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  So he rode through the streets of the new town with a mere sixty men, all of whom had seen service in the woods fighting rebels. There were practicalities involved in his decision to bring such a small force. When he reached the Stronghold he would have to house and feed the men he brought with him. He knew how overstretched the Stronghold’s resources were.

  The lookouts on the battlements watched their approach stonily. Tulkhan knew news of their arrival would have been reported long ago. It galled him to think he was walking into the Stronghold which he thought of as his own, more his own than any other keep he had taken, to report failure to his half-brother who was only looking for a reason to find fault with him.

  A deep sorrow gripped him as he passed through the claustrophobic passage to the courtyard beyond.

  When had it changed? Once Gharavan had looked up to him, loved him.

  Tulkhan swung down from the saddle weary and stiff, but he couldn’t show it. Wharrd and the members of his Elite Guard who had been left to maintain the Stronghold had contrived to be present in the stables on his arrival.

  Amid the jostling of horses and stable lads, Wharrd made his report. Without so much as a flicker did he betray that he was doing anything other than reporting to his General, but in effect he was passing information about their king, who had invaded the keep in the role of usurper.

  Tulkhan hid his surprise. Normally he trusted Wharrd’s judgment. Yet the grizzled bone-setter felt the king was a threat. Surely he was mistaken. In the time it took Tulkhan to unsaddle his horse he learned the number and nature of the men his half-brother had brought with him.

  As usual Gharavan had surrounded himself with a court of young, unseasoned nobles, but he had also brought a company of men who had served under Tulkhan on other campaigns. They were seasoned fighters, loyal to Gheeaba. If it came to trouble would they stay loyal to Gharavan?

  Tulkhan was still considering the ramifications when Wharrd lowered his voice and told him of the attempted abduction.

  It rocked him to learn Reothe had nearly succeeded. So the T’En warrior’s challenge hadn’t been a bluff. Apparently only Imoshen’s determination to elude her captors had foiled the rebel leader’s plans. That she rejected her betrothed and returned to the Stronghold gave Tulkhan a fierce surge of satisfaction.

  Why should it?

  He forced himself to look at Imoshen’s actions rationally.

  True, she had given him her word that she would not lead an uprising of Stronghold Guards against him while he was calming T’Diemn. But at Reothe’s side she might have been at the forefront of a rebel army determined enough to retake Fair Isle, aided by their accursed Dhamfeer gifts. Why hadn’t she joined her betrothed?

  Was it loyalty to Tulkhan or was it simply that she had weighed the odds and thought the Ghebite was the more likely victor?

  He felt a cynical smile tug at his lips. At least the Stronghold was still under his control. If it had fallen and Imoshen had turned against him the king would have had good reason to doubt his general’s judgment.

  Whatever Imoshen’s true reason for not joining the rebels, Tulkhan could now face his half-brother secure in the knowledge that the Stronghold was behind him.

  He hesitated, suddenly confronted with the enormity of it. He’d been preparing to challenge his king’s authority in anticipation of a threat. No, impossible! His half-brother would never turn against him. It must not come to that, he told himself.

  He was a warrior, trained to think in terms of battle tactics. His mind had been automatically weighing factors— nothing more. It was an almost instinctive response arising from years of campaigning.

  As Tulkhan strode through the Stronghold halls, rounding the now familiar corners, he found himself thinking of Imoshen when he should have been preparing for his interview with the king. The escort led him upstairs to the Great Library where he had first met Imoshen.

  A vivid memory, a flash of her beautiful white breasts stained with her dark red blood returned to him, making his body race in anticipation. He ached to claim her. Time and distance had not dulled his craving for her.

  Even as he made his sign of obeisance to the king his gaze slid past Gharavan’s, searching for Imoshen’s familiar, tall form. For a brief moment she held his eyes, her wine-dark gaze intense, urgent. The intimacy of it made his heart leap in his chest but the planes of her face were too sharply denned, belying her supposedly composed features. After one brief instant of unspoken communication she looked away, her expression carefully neutral.

  What was she trying to tell him?

  He was very aware of her standing proudly behind the Ghebite conquerors. On a purely physical level the sight of her jolted him. An almost painful longing to touch her swept over him.

  Tulkhan came to his feet. He had been weary beyond belief but now his body answered his commands without complaint and his mind felt startlingly clear.

  “My king,” he acknowledged his half-brother.

  Abruptly his mind registered what he had seen and again his gaze was drawn to Imoshen’s face. A great purple bruise marred her forehead, making his stomach lurch sickeningly. Instinctively, his hands flexed. Outrage flooded him. The thought of anyone hurting her was abhorrent to him. It made him inexplicably angry.

  Imoshen’s garnet eyes narrowed as she tilted her head ever so slightly toward the Ghebite King in what Tulkhan interpreted as a warning. His heart pounded. Imoshen was warning him against his half-brother? Why should he trust her?

  She was an enemy who had vowed never to surrender to him. If he believed Imoshen only dealt with him because it suited her purposes, why should he heed her warning against his own flesh and blood?

  “Well, General?” Gharavan prodded impatiently. “What have you to report?”

  “When you stop lusting after the Dhamfeer bitch!” the Vaygharian muttered.

  Tulkhan stiffened as Gharavan gave a snort of laughter. But the Vaygharian only shrugged when Tulkhan’s eyes challenged him.

  The casual insult had been directed at Imoshen as well as himself. Tulkhan swallowed his instinctive reaction. Had his preoccupation been so obvious? Offense was always the best defense.

  He focused on his half-brother. “I looked for you in T’Diemn—”

  “Well I am here, as you can see.” The youth indicated the ancient manuscript which was opened on the table. “You advised me to study this Island and its inhabitants.”

  Was it a threat? Was Gharavan saying I have this Island, this Stronghold and this woman you want. I am king, not you. It is all mine to do with as I will?

  Tulkhan began to doubt his own judgment. Perhaps he was seeing threat where a young man stood, merely flexing his newfound power?

  Tulkhan felt the sands shifting beneath his feet.

  He knew his arrival at the Stronghold had been noted when he entered the valley. His half-brother had had time to set up this meeting in the chamber of knowledge and to choose the participants. Was Gharavan planning on using Imoshen against him?

  And as for the Vaygharian, Tulkhan wished him elsewhere. How was he to reason with Gharavan when the Vaygharian stood there, insolent, indolent, undermining Tulkhan at every turn?

  “As you see, the Princess has been translating the history of Fair Isle for me,” Gharavan remarked, indicating the illuminated vellum. He flicked a page of the heavy tome with an idle finger. “But the first chapter of a new and glorious book will have to be written in our tongue, not some long-dead script.”

  Another insult, or youthful bravado?

  “The Island has seen many invaders. They came to conquer but stayed to become one with the land,” Imoshen remarked. “Only Fair Isle endures.”

  Tulkhan saw his brother flinch.

  Why was Imoshen drawing his brother’s anger?

  The young king slammed the book shut and slid it across the polished wood to the Keeper of Knowledge who shuffled off with it, stroking the offended tome as if to reassure himself it was unharmed.


  The Vaygharian’s hand rested lightly on Gharavan’s shoulder. The youth drew a slow breath then turned glittering dark eyes to Tulkhan, who read impatience, anger and an underlying fear in his half-brother’s face. “Well, General? Have you brought me the rebel Reothe’s head, or at least news of his death?”

  Tulkhan stiffened. He hated reporting failure but it was best to be frank. Besides, Imoshen knew the man she had been betrothed to still lived, and despite that she was here facing Gharavan with him and not in the woods with Reothe and his rebels. “Reothe escaped. The southern highlands are a death trap and the rebels know them intimately. They ambushed my men then disappeared without a trace. We weren’t properly provisioned to camp out in the depths of winter. The cold was so intense our water-skins froze.”

  While he spoke he felt Imoshen’s eyes on him. He wanted to look at her, but he disciplined himself to make his report. “If the rebels didn’t kill us, cold and fever would have. My men have returned to the capital and I have decided to call the hunt off until spring.”

  King Gharavan came to his feet slowly. “You have called off the hunt?”

  Tulkhan felt suddenly weary of games. Why should he explain himself to an untried youth and a conniving merchant?

  “A good tactician knows when to retreat,” Imoshen said, softly but forcefully.

  Tulkhan noted that his half-brother and the Vaygharian both ignored her. Was it because she was female and Dhamfeer? Or was it simply because her comment, though true, was not what they wanted to hear?

  “I won’t risk my men uselessly,” Tulkhan stated simply. “Besides, our latest information places Reothe far from the forests where we were hunting. He’s come north, this way, if my informant could be believed.”

  He repressed a shudder, recalling the way the breath left his commander’s body, taking his life with it. One touch from the T’En warrior, one word, and a man was dead.

  The Vaygharian’s eyes narrowed. A flash of something passed swiftly across his face and Tulkhan wondered what it meant. But his head buzzed with conflicting thoughts.

  He realized his half-brother was speaking.

  “... Take fresh men into the southern highlands—”

  “No. I won’t risk any more men until the thaw. The rebels will go to ground through winter. We’d never find them.” With a start Tulkhan realized he had interrupted and contradicted his king, spoken to him as if he was still the boy he had once been.

  Gharavan rose, anger suffusing his face.

  Tulkhan considered apologizing but he was right, he knew his war craft. He simply refused to obey a foolhardy order.

  Imoshen moved around the table, filling the ominous silence. “I will have food prepared and see that the General’s men are quartered.” She stepped between the two brothers. “King Gharavan, you do not know this land. Your Ghebite soldiers do battle with more than the cold or the rebels or the predators in the highlands. There are ancient powers in the deep woods, dating from a time before the dawn-people came here. And the Ancients do not like to have their peace disturbed.”

  A flicker of something akin to fear traveled across the young king’s features, even the Vaygharian’s knuckles whitened on the tabletop. Tulkhan recalled the stone circle he and Imoshen had stumbled into on their way to Landsend and his more recent encounter with the Ancients’ powers. He shuddered.

  The ancient, sexless child had fled before Reothe when Tulkhan had unwittingly tripped the guide’s trap. Could Reothe be in league with ancient evil?

  Was Imoshen guessing? Or was she using basic statesmanship, bluffing to distract the attacker?

  And since when had his half-brother become his enemy? If he could only get the lad alone and talk some sense to him, Tulkhan fumed.

  “Dhamfeer bitch!” Gharavan hissed. “Do you think to frighten me with nursery tales? Ancient evils!” He cursed fluently, calling on their gods to exorcise such things.

  Tulkhan saw Imoshen’s shoulders stiffen. She did not flinch when his half-brother strode around the table to glare at her, his face only a hand’s breadth from hers.

  “Milk-faced bitch.” he snarled. “Don’t try to play your Dhamfeer tricks on me. If your people had such great powers, why didn’t they use them to stop my General and his army? No. They died like the dogs they are on the battlefield, bathed in their own blood! Kneel!”

  When Imoshen remained frozen, Gharavan became enraged. He lifted his hand to strike her.

  Even as she went to block the blow, Tulkhan moved. His knee struck the backs of her knees so that she fell to the floor at his half-brother’s feet.

  A gasp of surprised pain escaped her. Tulkhan winced. She would hate him, he knew, but it couldn’t be helped. His half-brother was just looking for an excuse to execute her.

  “Bow, woman,” Tulkhan commanded. His fingers bit into her shoulder, holding her there. He could feel her fine bones grinding. He knew he must be hurting her. Slowly, Imoshen’s head of silver hair, topped by an intricate knot of small plaits, dipped before his half-brother.

  King Gharavan’s dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction. His gaze went to Tulkhan, demanding an unspoken response. The General sank stiffly to his knees to kneel at Imoshen’s side.

  “I swear, the rebel Reothe will be captured and executed in your name, King Gharavan,” he ground out.

  Tulkhan was aware of Imoshen at his side. His hand still rested on her shoulder, though not gripping as cruelly as it had before. Her profile was a perfect mask, hiding her fury.

  “Very good,” Gharavan purred.

  When Tulkhan heard the satisfaction in his half-brother’s voice, the crazy pounding of his heart began to ease. How had it come to this?

  He must get his brother away from the Vaygharian. Given the chance, Tulkhan was sure he could make Gharavan see reason.

  “You may go.” The young king dismissed them.

  Tulkhan rose to his feet, his fingers linked around Imoshen’s arm, so that he drew her upright with him. He expected to see hatred in her eyes as they both bowed and turned to leave, but instead her expression was carefully guarded. Two spots of color burned high on her cheeks. Her eyes glittered and her mouth was a tense line.

  When they stepped out into the hall Tulkhan was aware of his half-brother’s courtiers gathered in clusters. Their conversations died as they turned, watching and weighing, awaiting the return of their king. How was he going to get Imoshen past them before her temper erupted?

  “General Tulkhan?” Imoshen’s voice was an imitation of itself, but only he knew that. She offered him her arm. “Allow me to show you to your chambers. I had them prepared when your party was sighted. A bath has been drawn for you.”

  He laid his arm along hers and closed his hand over hers. Avid, unfriendly eyes watched them. He searched his mind for a neutral topic. “The buildings surprised me. There will be a thriving town on the plain in no time.”

  As they walked the length of the gallery, maintaining their innocuous conversation, Tulkhan sensed their every word was being memorized, every gesture observed and cataloged. He hated it.

  Now that the threat was passed, his heartbeat returned to normal and weariness fogged his brain.

  They turned the corner to enter the wing where he had slept the last time he was here. Several Stronghold servants scurried past with empty buckets.

  Imoshen opened the door to his chamber, inspected it and dismissed the rest of the servants. Tulkhan watched her, waiting for the outburst, willing it to come. He found the tension unbearable.

  There was a bath already drawn before the fire. She stepped toward it, her back to him. “Strip. You smell of horse sweat and death. And your brother hates you.”

  He lifted his hands. “I had to do it. He was only looking for an excuse to have you executed.”

  She spun to face him, eyes blazing, chest heaving. “Do you want me to thank you for saving my life? Very well. Thank you!

  “My knees will be bruised for a week. I should have knelt faster but my stupid
pride wouldn’t let me. There! Are you satisfied?”

  He could see a sheen of unshed tears shimmering in her eyes and he longed to take her in his arms but he suspected that if he took one step closer she’d pull her knife on him.

  She drew a deep, ragged breath and blinked fiercely. “How does it feel to kneel to a brother who hates you?”

  “Half-brother,” he corrected. “And he doesn’t hate me, at least he didn’t. He’s been led astray, badly advised by that Vaygharian—”

  “Is that what you call it?” She laughed bitterly, then seemed to hear the hysterical edge to her voice and clamped her mouth shut.

  There was a sudden silence in the large chamber. Imoshen shivered, then moved closer to the fire. Tulkhan watched her. True, she was one of the Dhamfeer, but he could not regard her as less than a True-woman. She was a challenging mix of vulnerable and fragile yet she exuded an inner tensile strength which he could not ignore.

  Today she was ornately dressed in an elaborate embroidered gown which was laced under her breasts and fell in heavy brocade folds to her knees over a fine underdress of soft white material. Strands of her pale hair were plaited and threaded with small, semiprecious stones into a crown. She looked every inch a T’En Princess, regal and somehow older than he remembered her.

  Suddenly he felt awkward. Imoshen had changed since they were last together. Was this the girl-woman who had clung to him on the battlements?

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she demanded.

  So many things threatened them both, so many things stood between them, suddenly he wished he was simply a soldier and she a camp follower who had come to bathe him.

  “I don’t trust that smile,” she whispered, an answering smile lifting her lips.

  By the gods, he wanted her. “Why are you here?”

  She indicated the bath. “Strip. The bath is going cold. I’m here to speak without being spied on.”

  “You’re going to watch while I bathe?”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “What will they think?” He gestured to the corridor, his tiredness suddenly gone.