Broken Vows

by Cory Daniells

  They had food and warmth, but not peace of mind. Imoshen slept deeply, troubled by threatening dreams where Reothe accused her of treachery and she begged his forgiveness.

  Waking with tears on her cheeks, she found the General sitting across the fire from her, a silent sentinel in the cold predawn. Despite his suspicion of her she found his presence reassuring. Was he regretting his hasty actions?

  “Do your dreams trouble you?” he asked softly.

  “No.”

  “How can you deny you dream of Reothe? You weep for him.”

  She flinched.

  One of the men stirred and Tulkhan rose to walk the perimeters of the camp, leaving her to her cold, unhappy thoughts. Anger stirred in her.

  If Reothe didn’t attack them, capture her and kill Tulkhan he was not the tactician she thought him to be, she thought sourly, rolling over to sleep. But when dawn arrived they were still alive, unharmed. The camp broke up stiffly, leaving their crude shelter for other travelers, as was the custom.

  While mounting up Imoshen marveled at their lucky escape. Possibly Reothe had elected to follow the young king and had already killed that party. Maybe their group would reach the capital unharmed.

  Her only comfort was the knowledge that Reothe and his rebels would find it as hard to move about as they, and that his people were underfed, underarmed and short of horses.

  In the late afternoon of the third day out from the Stronghold they spotted the towers of T’Diemn. Imoshen strained in the saddle, peering across the icy air to see if the town had changed much since her last visit.

  She noted the blackened bones of buildings, the result of Gharavan’s torching of parts of the town. She could not see any signs of revolt but that meant nothing. The townsfolk could have murdered the Ghebite army while they slept and thrown their bodies into the river for all she knew.

  Or perhaps the army had seized control of the town. Had they panicked without their king? Even now they could be lying in wait behind shuttered windows, ready to spring on the General’s small party, trap them in a blind alley and slaughter them all.

  Imoshen shuddered. She was being morbid, letting her imagination run away with her.

  The General was right. The capital had to be secured. It was the center of trade, the source of wealth. If she was to help General Tulkhan hold Fair Isle, T’Diemn had to swear fealty to him and she had to be at his side when that happened.

  Imoshen felt a quiver of fear. She was not well known here. She had been the third child of a minor branch of the royal family, her only outstanding feature the luck, good or bad, of being born a Throwback. As the first pure T’En to be born in her branch of the family since the Aayel, her parents had never ceased to be slightly surprised by her. She was an embarrassing blessing, a potential liability.

  Her family had not wished to be social outcasts, unlike Reothe’s parents who had joined precisely because they had many of the T’En traits. His parents had been eccentric historians who were shunned by the more modern members of the royal family. They had produced only one child, who arrived late in their lives when they had given up hope of children. Reothe was their joy, pure T’En. Yet their end had been so tragic.

  Imoshen frowned, recalling the mocking rhyme she’d learned about them as a child. Only when she grew older had she understood its significance. It told how Reothe’s parents had taken their own lives. No one really understood why. They had become recluses, abandoned by the royal family, served by one faithful servant. This servant found them both dead by ritual suicide, with ten-year-old Reothe at their side, their silent sentinel.

  Reothe had inherited their combined wealth but not their lifestyle. He hadn’t been a recluse. The Empress had been appointed his guardian so he spent his teenage years in the royal palace, where he’d charmed the servants and learned the intricacies of protocol.

  Driven by his restless nature and relentless ambition, he found court life too restrictive. He had invested his capital in ships and men and had sailed south to the archipelago looking for wealth and fame, or so the story went. He forged new trade alliances with the prosperous island nations and recouped his investment so handsomely that he could finance an even more audacious voyage to find his ancestors’ homeland, which was rumored to lie to the east of the archipelago.

  He had not discovered the legendary homeland of the T’En but a rich land eager to trade. The prestige and wealth Reothe gained from his enterprise ensured him a place in minstrel songs and stories which carried his name to every corner of the island.

  Reothe was relying on that popularity to help him escape the Ghebites. Imoshen shivered. How would the townsfolk of T’Diemn react if it was Reothe at the head of a rebel army about to enter the city?

  Imoshen studied her companions thoughtfully. As with their entry to Landsend, General Tulkhan ordered them to stop and don their battle dress for their arrival at T’Diemn. The Elite Guard wore Tulkhan’s vibrant colors and her own Stronghold Guard wore the more subdued and familiar royal colors of her family. What kind of welcome could they hope to receive?

  The townsfolk of T’Diemn might see her as a reminder of the T’En Emperor and Empress who had failed to protect them. They might direct their anger at her. Of all Fair Isle the T’Diemn townspeople had borne the brunt of King Gharavan’s destructive vengeance. They might give lip service to the T’En Church but how would they react to a Throwback like herself?

  The General rode down the ranks inspecting their party with a critical eye. Galloping back to the lead, he met Imoshen’s gaze. She might have doubts about her welcome, but she would not reveal them. Sitting tall in the saddle, she dropped the hood so that her face was not hidden. She would not cower before the townsfolk.

  “Ready?” General Tulkhan asked.

  Imoshen nodded and adjusted the folds of the ornate ceremonial gown she’d changed into and settled the fur cloak around her shoulders. In white fur and red velvet she was dressed for effect and she noted with some satisfaction that it had not been lost on the General.

  The Ghebite battle regalia was also designed for effect— and to show off the might and muscle of its soldiers. However, as impressive as the combination of heavy armor and bare skin was, it was hardly practical in the depths of a Fair Isle winter. She knew he must be cold but there was no hint of this in his proud bearing. His men also bore the chill stoically, setting aside their borrowed furs to make a good impression on the townsfolk. Her own Stronghold Guard wore thick woolen padding beneath their battle gear.

  Satisfied, the General gave the signal to move out. Imoshen urged her horse forward. She was sure their party must have been sighted from the town gates. The people of T’Diemn had opened those same gates and surrendered to the invader only to be betrayed. She was grateful the General was a man of his word. Otherwise the people of the Stronghold might have suffered the same fate.

  People lined the street, silent and sullen. Had they heard about King Gharavan’s defeat? It was unlikely. The trail to the far northwestern port veered before T’Diemn so, unless someone had slipped away from the Stronghold or the town and rode ahead of them, the townsfolk could not know their persecutor had been vanquished by General Tulkhan and herself.

  Imoshen searched the faces of the crowd. They had been a prosperous, almost smug town before this, basking in the patronage of the royal court. To find themselves at the mercy of invaders would have shattered their peace and complacency forever.

  She saw people pointing in her direction. Someone called out the ritual phrase for T’En blessing. A little girl tried to break free from the crowd, presumably to touch her sixth finger for luck, but a woman pulled her back.

  It felt wrong to ride through the gathered townsfolk without making contact. But she noticed children watching her wide-eyed and realized fear was not far from their minds. A horse snorted and shied and those nearest stumbled back. A small boy yelped in fright and was comforted. Imoshen felt a sudden rush of gratitude and relief that her own people had not
suffered at the hands of King Gharavan.

  As General Tulkhan’s party walked their horses slowly up the rise, Imoshen gradually dropped behind. She slowed her mount and let her own Stronghold Guard move on ahead.

  Searching the faces of the townsfolk she tried to understand their position. These were still her people and she felt personally responsible because her family had failed to protect them.

  She stiffened—there, in the front row was an elderly woman, wrapped in nothing but a shawl. Her paper-thin skin stretched over her twisted knuckles as she pulled the material tightly around her stooped shoulders. It was poor protection from the bitter cold. The old woman reminded Imoshen fleetingly of the Aayel, who had stood so proudly to receive the terms of surrender. Her wise counsel had prevented Imoshen from taking rash action. The Aayel had saved them from disaster.

  Before she knew what she was doing, Imoshen swung down stiffly from the horse and crossed the snow-covered cobbles to greet the old woman who stared uncomprehendingly at her.

  “Grandmother, you are cold.” Imoshen unclasped her white fur cloak and shrugged it off, swinging it around the old woman’s shoulders. “Take this.”

  As Imoshen kissed the withered cheek tears stung her eyes.

  The old woman lifted a cold, clawed hand to hers and grasped her sixth finger.

  “Bless you, Lady T’En. Bless you.”

  In a blur Imoshen found herself surrounded by curious townsfolk. A small child tugged on her hand and she picked him up, feeling his fingers twine through her hair which hung loosely down her back. Others stroked her hands or her clothing. Voices were raised around her in exclamation. She lost track of what they were saying but tried to answer them, to reassure them. Theirs were the eternal questions of hope and fear for their families, their homes.

  Yes, she assured them repeatedly, the wicked king was gone, banished by his half-brother.

  They could hardly believe it.

  Tulkhan wheeled his horse, tension stiffening across his shoulders. He had been only too aware of the resentment emanating from the townsfolk.

  What was that disturbance? The crowd muttered, watching him uneasily. He glanced along the column of his small escort, automatically counting heads. Imoshen was missing!

  Fear closed a cold hand around his heart. Had she been dragged from her mount, abducted, murdered?

  Cursing fluently, he urged the horse back between the column of his men.

  “Crawen, where is your lady?” he demanded of the leader of the Stronghold Guard. The woman flinched at his tone.

  “Right behind me, General.”

  But when she turned Imoshen was not there. “I don’t understand—”

  “Come.” Tulkhan had no time for the guard’s excuses. He rode on with the Stronghold Guard at his back until he saw a knot of people growing larger by the minute. At its center was Imoshen’s tall, fair head.

  They’d tear her apart.

  Even as he thought this, he realized the crowd’s voice was reverent, excited—almost hungry—as they surged eagerly toward Imoshen.

  There was no menace, as yet, Tulkhan thought grimly. But all it took was one disgruntled individual with a knife and a grudge to settle with the T’En who had abandoned them, and Imoshen would be lying in the snow, bleeding to death. The image flashed through his mind, spurring him on.

  Anger flooded him. What was she doing risking her life pointlessly like this? What if there was an assassin in the crowd, someone who was loyal to King Gharavan? They had too many enemies!

  Furious, Tulkhan urged his horse into the crowd. They pulled back, stumbling in their haste to escape his battle-hardened mount. He saw nothing but Imoshen’s fair head, rising above their heads. His heart pounded, his hands ached to grasp her. He would throttle her, he would . . .

  Swinging down off the horse, he thrust the last person aside. “Imoshen?”

  She turned, surprised. The smile died on her lips as she took in his expression. He noted her cheeks were flushed and if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she’d been crying. She held a small, golden brown child in her arms.

  Soothingly, she returned the boy to his mother, touching the tip of her sixth finger to his forehead in T’En blessing.

  Tulkhan breathed a sigh of relief. Imoshen was perfectly all right. This time. Even now he could sense the crowd’s resentment of him and all he represented.

  “Come.” Tulkhan felt like an interloper. He grasped her arm, pulling her toward his horse. Where was her mount?

  As his hand closed around her upper arm he realized Imoshen was wearing nothing but the rich red gown she had donned to enter T’Diemn.

  “Where’s your cloak?”

  She glanced over her shoulder and he noticed an elderly woman wrapped in the white-tipped fur. What was Imoshen thinking?

  “Yours?”

  She caught him as he went toward the old woman. “Stay. The old woman needed it more than I.”

  He caught a flicker of warning in her eyes. The crowd was muttering, drawing back, women pulling children behind the ranks of the able-bodied men.

  Tulkhan cursed softly. With one action, Imoshen had won over the townsfolk of T’Diemn, then he had come along and undone her good work.

  “You could have been killed.” He kept his voice low. “One assassin with a knife—”

  “I know.” Her voice was as soft and intense as his.

  They had lost their entire escort now. The Stronghold Guard were cut off from them, surrounded by a sea of townsfolk. Even if they were to try to come to their aid they would have trouble forging through the packed streets. Tactical training told Tulkhan they were hopelessly vulnerable.

  “Take me up on your mount. Mine must have followed the others,” Imoshen whispered. “Wrap your cloak around me.”

  He focused on her face, on her compelling wine-dark eyes and, almost in a daze found himself swinging into the saddle, hauling her up after him. As he settled her across his thighs and pulled his cloak about them both he sensed the crowd’s mood change.

  There was a tentative cheer. Imoshen waved then swung both her arms around Tulkhan’s neck and kissed him. The impact of her hot lips on his mouth broke the daze which had gripped him. He experienced an intense, overwhelming physical desire for her. It went beyond conscious thought. It was the call of her body to his. His hands slid inside the cloak to pull her toward him. All the frustration and rage which had engulfed him spilled over into his instinctive response to her.

  Roaring. There was a roaring in his ears.

  The crowd was cheering them. It could just as easily have torn them to shreds.

  Trust me. He heard her voice distinctly in his head, yet her lips were melded to his.

  Suddenly he understood what had happened. She had manipulated him with her T’En gift, clouding his mind, prompting him to act the way she wished. Somehow she had slipped past his guard. When had he become so susceptible to her?

  A shudder of alarm swept through him.

  What had she said? She feared the power that lying with T’Reothe would give him over her? Tulkhan flinched. Surely then, in joining their bodies he had given her access to him, placed himself in her power?

  Furious, Tulkhan broke the kiss, and found his hands gripping her face. He could feel the fragile bones of her skull cupped in the merciless cradle of his hands. One twist and he could break her neck.

  The thought horrified him. Yet with one action he could be free of her creeping power over him.

  Fear flared in the depths of her eyes. Had she read his mind, again?

  “Get out of my head!” The words were torn from him. Barely audible, they grated from between his clenched teeth.

  She grimaced, whether in shock or annoyance he couldn’t tell, and took his hand, prizing the thumb from her throat. To the watchers it could have been a fond touch, but he knew she was releasing a death grip.

  “You’re choking me. Ride on, while we still can, General.”

  Her advice was sens
ible, as much as it galled him. He urged the mount forward. She did not have to tell him to wave as the crowd saluted them.

  The goodwill Imoshen had won surged forward with them, changing the mood of the people as they rounded the bend, flanked by the Stronghold Guard. Suddenly his entrance to the capital had become a triumphant welcome and he had Imoshen to thank for it.

  He felt the sway of her body against his and the scent of her hair filled his nostrils. She had invaded his mind again, albeit to save them both when the crowd threatened to turn hostile. But he knew he had no protection from her and the knowledge ate at him like an insidious poison.

  Even now as they rode she waved, smiling at the crowd, who responded eagerly. He could not be sure how much of their response was natural, how much might be trickery. After all, she had convinced everyone in the great hall that she was his half-brother. Mass hallucination—what next, mass mind control?

  Tulkhan shuddered. He hated not knowing the extent of his enemy’s power . . . That thought pulled him up sharply. When had Imoshen become his enemy?

  Rather, he thought grimly, when had she ever been anything but? She had allied herself with him to ensure her survival, nothing more. He must not forget that. She was Other, not True-woman at all.

  When they entered the square before the royal palace it was filled with milling men-at-arms. Those loyal to General Tulkhan were standing in ranks. He could identify his commanders in parti-colored cloaks which named them Ghebite first, his men second. Those loyal to the king who had made the shorter journey with him to T’Diemn were congregated in a resentful mass.

  Imoshen stiffened as she took in the scene. There might yet be bloodshed. What if King Gharavan’s men refused to swear allegiance to his half-brother, the General?

  She felt Tulkhan tense and would have slipped from her perch across his thighs, but his grip on her tightened. She had an excellent view of the gathered army as he walked his mount between the orderly ranks of his own men. He paused here and there, speaking softly to individuals, inquiring after an old wound from one, a toothache from another. It confirmed what she had come to believe. General Tulkhan’s men loved him, and he knew every one by sight if not by name.