Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  His fingers were cold but gripped hers firmly.

  “They will hold a trial. I am the king’s half-brother. He couldn’t have me executed without the formality of a trial.”

  “And me?”

  He hesitated.

  “I see.” Her throat was tight with anger. “When will they come for me?”

  “Dawn.”

  “So little time?” Her heart wrenched within her.

  She had dodged death so many times in these last few moons, how ironic it was to die like this at the hands of a petty king and his vindictive lover.

  Would her people revolt? What would General Tulkhan’s Elite Guard do? Would they remain loyal to their rightful king or to the man they had served so faithfully?

  She’d been right. Gharavan was not to be trusted.

  Rage warmed her. Would she have a chance to take that spiteful tyrant with her? If she did, she would only have the one opportunity.

  Imoshen considered her chances. Hopefully they wouldn’t bind her. Seeing how contemptuous they were of a mere female they probably would leave her arms free. Then if they let her get near enough to King Gharavan, she would go for his throat. A killing blow would crush his windpipe and he’d suffocate even as his men gutted her.

  She smiled, that was a pleasant thought.

  “Imoshen?” General Tulkhan interrupted her reverie. “I ... I should have heeded you when you warned me not to trust him.”

  She knew it was true. What did he want from her, absolution? Strangely enough, she felt compelled to give it.

  “You loved him.”

  “Yes.” The word was torn from him. “Even though he was my half-brother and destined to inherit what I could not earn.”

  Her arm ached, but she didn’t want to release the General’s hand. That contact was her one point of humanity. Without him she would be nothing but a weapon primed to kill. She was glad he would not see her die. Once she had killed Gharavan there would be confusion. Tulkhan’s Elite Guard would surely revolt. The General was next in line for the Kingship. If the Elite Guard turned on the king’s Vaygharian advisor . . . Was that the meaning of the foretelling she’d seen?

  Imoshen’s heart raced in anticipation. She would like to have a hand in his death. Of course, it meant her own and that of the child she carried. A cold chill ran through her body. Did she have the right to decide the fate of her unborn child? A black laugh threatened to escape her. What was she thinking? She was as good as dead anyway.

  If only she had let Drake take her to Reothe, but what then? She would be his captive as surely as she was King Gharavan’s. What did it matter if the cage was stone or silk? It was still a cage.

  Imoshen sighed, the Aayel had been right. There were no simple answers.

  The sudden pressure of the General’s fingers on hers recalled her to the present.

  “The first time I saw you, your breasts so pale, your eyes so fierce, I wanted you,” he whispered.

  Imoshen swallowed. “I hated you.”

  “I know.”

  She could tell he was smiling.

  “But you proved an honorable enemy and ...” her voice grew thick, “a true friend.”

  She wanted to tell him that he had become so much more to her, but the words stuck in her throat. She did not want to weep before him. She had to remain strong, to focus her will on killing Gharavan.

  There were muffled footsteps, voices, the glow of an approaching torch.

  “So soon?” Imoshen whispered, flinching as Tulkhan’s fingers tightened their grip on hers.

  “Imoshen?” he hissed.

  She could see the outline of his bruised face, his mouth and throat stained with dry blood. She knew she must look as battered.

  Suddenly a group of the King’s men strode into the narrow corridor. Their two torches blinded Imoshen and their cruel laughter seared her soul.

  Through a blur she saw one of them dart forward, weapon drawn ready to slash her extended arm. Though stiff and sore she pulled back, only too aware how easily her arm could be broken even with the flat of the sword. She needed the use of her limbs if she was to carry out her plan.

  Several cloaked figures blocked her view through the door’s grate but she could hear them shouting insults at General Tulkhan.

  “Lady T’En?” a soft voice whispered.

  Imoshen looked to see Kalleen restrained between them and her heart sank. What were these barbarians planning? The girl was innocent.

  One of them moved forward to unlock her prison door. Stiffly she stepped back.

  Kalleen gave a soft cry of distress. “What have they done to you, my Lady?”

  Imoshen tensed at her tone. The Kalleen she knew was not so weepy. Had they been brutal with her?

  The youth who had opened the door was barely out of his teens, richly dressed, out to conquer the world on a great adventure at the king’s side. Imoshen saw it all in his face, and knew instinctively that he had never shed blood in anger or fear.

  He flinched when Kalleen turned on him.

  “How could you mistreat my lady so? She is the last of T’En, a princess in her own right. Get out while I help her dress!”

  Shuffling, his face hot, he backed out.

  Imoshen caught a glimpse of the others pressed against the far prison door, taunting General Tulkhan, then her door swung shut.

  “My Lady,” Kalleen whispered and Imoshen found the girl pulling her into the shadows.

  “It’s all right.” Meaningless words, but she said them anyway. The girl hugged her fiercely. Once released, Imoshen indicated the basket. “So I am to die dressed, they allow me that much dignity.”

  Kalleen stepped back and tugged at her cloak, dropping it to the stones.

  “What are you doing?” Imoshen asked uneasily.

  “I’m here to take your place.”

  “No. I won’t do it—”

  “My lady,” Kalleen said sternly, her voice a fevered whisper. “They will behead you at dawn. If you leave now, you can slip away from the Stronghold, run into the forest and contact the rebels.”

  Even as she spoke she was pulling on Imoshen’s rich fur cloak. Urgently, the young woman dragged the poorer cloak over Imoshen’s shoulders.

  “They will kill you,” Imoshen croaked.

  Kalleen blinked, her face barely visible in the spears of light which came through the grate.

  “They will be angry, probably beat me. It does not matter.”

  Imoshen’s heart twisted within her. They both knew Kalleen was lying.

  “I am taller than you, fairer—”

  “Pull the cloak up, hunch down.” Kalleen gave a start as the door shook on its hinges. “They come.”

  There was no time for more. It was a trick they were sure to expect. Yet, hope fluttered in Imoshen’s breast. If she managed to escape she could turn on the king, rouse the Stronghold Guard. She had to succeed.

  Too much was at risk to fail.

  Her captors must believe she was the serving maid. They must perceive Kalleen as the captive Imoshen.

  The girl proudly turned away from the door, acting a role. Someone tugged on the back of Imoshen’s cloak. Her heart pounded with urgency. What should she do? She’d never tried to befuddle the minds of men before.

  If only the Aayel had lived long enough to help her to understand and harness her T’En gift. Panic threatened to steal her wits then, like a fog lifting, her mind cleared and only ice cold determination filled her.

  She would be Kalleen, the faithful servant distraught because her mistress was to die. A thousand stinging ants picked their way over her skin.

  The youth dragged her away from the proud, fur-cloaked figure.

  “My Lady!” Imoshen wept and thumped the youth. He caught her hands and looked down into her face. It seemed she was smaller than she had been. Fear flickered in the back of her mind, but she was Kalleen and words leapt to her tongue. “Ghebite barbarian!”

  He laughed and pushed her through the open
door. “Get out, or you can stay and keep your mistress company with the headman’s axe.”

  Imoshen dared not glance in Tulkhan’s direction and risk breaking her concentration. She was Kalleen the former farm girl, an unimportant creature in the scheme of things.

  With every step she took out of those dank, oppressive chambers terror warred with elation. The guards jostled her in their eagerness to escape the dungeon. Any moment now she was sure they would look into her face and see through the illusion.

  At the entrance to the kitchen wing they marched off, talking amongst themselves. Imoshen sniffed and scurried away into the warren of storerooms and then into the great kitchen itself, where the woman who ruled this domain was already up, preparing fresh bread and warm broth for their first meal of the day.

  Imoshen paused to catch her breath. How long did she have? Dawn could not be far away.

  Running lightly through the empty corridors, she headed for the wing she had put aside to house the Elite Guard. Wharrd was pacing the floor, arguing with several of the men when she entered.

  A man grabbed her as she ran into the room, lifting her off her feet.

  “Kalleen, what are you doing here?” Wharrd rounded on her. “Have you a message from Tulkhan?”

  As she slid from the man’s grip Imoshen remembered Kalleen and Wharrd had had a falling-out over Drake and, as far as she knew, they had not made up their difference. But she was no longer Kalleen. She must resume her own identity now.

  At the thought her skin crawled with a thousand pinpricks of pain.

  She must take control of the Stronghold defenders, trap Gharavan’s men, convince the Elite Guard to ...

  Wharrd swore softly and made the sign to ward off evil. Several men turned their faces away, others went for their weapons.

  By their reaction Imoshen knew the change must have taken effect, she felt like herself again. The cloak did not brush the ground as she drew it tightly about her.

  “Princess.” Wharrd made a soldier’s attempt at a bow.

  “Dhamfeer!” someone hissed behind her. She ignored him.

  “I need clothes, breeches, boots and a jerkin. Kalleen has taken my place. I won’t let her die in my stead. And I won’t let them make a mockery of the General’s devotion to his king. Tulkhan is innocent of any treason.”

  “I know,” the grizzled campaigner muttered. “We all know that.”

  Imoshen moved toward the bone-setter. He flinched as she approached though he tried to hide it. She didn’t have time to reassure him. “The Vaygharian poisons Gharavan’s mind with lies. The king is weak, not half the man General Tulkhan is. Where does your loyalty lie?”

  Wharrd did not hesitate. “With Tulkhan—”

  “Aye, the General.”

  “General Tulkhan!”

  Their voices joined the bone-setter’s, gaining conviction.

  Imoshen’s hand closed on Wharrd’s arm. “Will you fight beside my people?”

  “What would you have us do?”

  She smiled. “First find me some clothes.”

  Tulkhan shivered. He had called to Imoshen repeatedly but she would not answer. She was going to die at dawn and the knowledge was bitter. He would also face the headman’s axe once they were through with the mockery of his trial. And he had only himself to blame. He had thought he could reason with his half-brother, wean him from the influence of the Vaygharian, but he’d overestimated his own influence with Gharavan.

  On the battlefield you could not afford to underestimate the enemy. But this was not the battlefield and backroom politics was not his style.

  He had thrown away Imoshen’s life and his own, as well as Fair Isle, which should have been his. He had won it while his half-brother and his army had ridden on his coattails, mopping up survivors, swaggering through crushed villages.

  He had misjudged his man and must face the consequences.

  Shivers wracked his body. He despised himself. But it was the empty cold ache within that troubled him most. They would lead her away, proudly defiant to the last, and he would never see her again.

  Tulkhan did not believe in an afterlife. How could he when he had seen too many religions in too many countries to hold on to the faith of his Ghebite homeland? But just this once he wished he were a believer, that there was some way he could ensure they would be reborn and meet again in another life.

  Contempt seared him. It was this kind of woolly thinking that had led him astray. He should have assessed his half-brother’s character flaws and recognized his weakness for what it was. A stronger mind could lead Gharavan to great things, but it could also lead him to evil.

  Booted feet struck the stones.

  “Imoshen, answer me. They come!”

  But she stubbornly refused. Was she frightened? Tulkhan longed to offer comfort. Yet he dared not. She probably despised him for leading them into this. Self-disgust seared him. What right had he to offer her anything?

  Knowing they would taunt him, he moved back from the grill, but not too far. He wanted to catch sight of her face this one last time.

  “Let’s see this Dhamfeer Princess,” one of them growled.

  “See her die like any other woman. Where is your Dhamfeer magic now, Princess?”

  They flung the door open.

  Tulkhan could see nothing but their backs. The afterimage of flickering torchlight danced on his night-blinded eyes.

  Why the silence? He had expected cruel mockery.

  The king’s men staggered back. One of them cursed.

  Between their shoulders Tulkhan saw Kalleen’s truculent, frightened face as she walked determinedly out of the cell.

  The men broke into a gabble of accusations and counter-accusations. They swore the switch was impossible.

  One of them grabbed Kalleen and shook her. “She’s real.”

  “The last one was real too, remember I held her, looked into her face,” the youth cried. “Dhamfeer magic!”

  They swore and called on their gods to protect them. Not surprisingly, their greatest fear was who would tell their king.

  Tulkhan rejoiced. Imoshen was free. But he dared not draw attention to himself. The men were angry and frightened. They would turn on anyone.

  One of them grabbed Kalleen, twisting her arm so that she cried out. They dragged the girl away and Tulkhan knew there would be no mercy for her. Gharavan would be enraged.

  In the same breath fierce joy coursed through him. Imoshen was free.

  What would she do?

  What could she do, an outlaw in her own Stronghold? The servants would be on her side, unless his half-brother had them all cowed by fear. No, he doubted if they would betray her.

  “What was he thinking? He had seen the king’s men lead Kalleen away twice and he had not known one of them was Imoshen. He’d had no idea she could change her appearance. She constantly surprised him. He shuddered as he remembered how she had described the Vaygharian’s death. Was she using foreknowledge? She had said it with the same certainty that Reothe had spoken of his own death!

  Tulkhan repressed a shudder.

  What was the extent of Imoshen’s Dhamfeer heritage? Could she retake the Stronghold on her own and leave him to rot down here?

  Self-loathing filled Tulkhan.

  She didn’t need him. She had said herself she only took him as an ally for practical purposes.

  Why had she taken him to her bed then? He flinched. Was that quicksilver passion of hers an incandescent coal ready to leap into flame for any man who knew how to ignite it?

  Imoshen had admitted Reothe moved her.

  Even now she was probably far from the Stronghold. Why shouldn’t she flee into the woods and take Reothe’s side? If this was but a glimpse of her T’En gifts, how much more powerful would the two Dhamfeer be when joined?

  No wonder she had abandoned him. He had proved himself incompetent so she had cast him aside.

  Despair cut through Tulkhan. He was a fool.

  It was love for hi
s half-brother that had undone him. Love had clouded his vision. That would never happen again, he vowed. He only wished he might live long enough to see his half-brother brought low by Imoshen’s hand. A grim smile tugged at his lips.

  King Gharavan had made a bad enemy in the Dhamfeer woman. Tulkhan knew as surely as the Vaygharian’s days were numbered that Gharavan would meet death before his time.

  Marching feet sounded on the stones again and he tensed. Surely it was not time? They couldn’t have summarily executed the little maid already.

  Three different king’s men approached his cell. Tulkhan wondered grimly what had happened to the others. These men flung the door open and hauled Tulkhan out. He tried not to flinch but the torchlight hurt his eyes. Chilled to the marrow by the cold, he tried to walk with dignity down the length of the dungeon chambers.

  He expected them to be rough with him but they were circumspect. Still, a pair of breeches wouldn’t have gone astray. If he was to meet death he’d have preferred to do it clothed.

  He was sure the oversight was deliberate. But if they thought to cow him they would discover they were wrong.

  The upper floors of the Stronghold were abuzz with activity and suppressed excitement. Servants scurried about but he could not see his own men or the Stronghold Guard. He understood why when the men marched him into the great hall.

  His own man, Wharrd, stood behind the king’s chair, flanked by the Elite Guard, who it appeared had sworn allegiance to Gharavan. Tulkhan’s gut twisted at the thought. He had believed his men, especially the Elite Guard, were bound to him through years of service, years when he had sweated in the sun, shivered in the cold, slept on rocks and faced death at their sides.

  Did it count for nothing? Fury made him stand taller. He would not flinch before his own half-brother. He would meet his end with dignity.

  He met Gharavan’s eyes and something traveled between them, some acknowledgment of his humanity. Was there a chance he could reason with the youth?

  Then he noted the arrogance in the Vaygharian’s eyes, saw the way his hand rested on Gharavan’s shoulder. The hopelessness of his situation threatened to overwhelm Tulkhan. His brother had sold his soul to a soulless man who wanted only power.

  Tulkhan surveyed the hall. The king’s men were gathered around in clusters, some still buckling on their weapons, adjusting their cloaks. He was right—he had been called prematurely.