Her supple dress boots hit the floor with a soft thud, thud. She flung open her bedchamber door and darted across to the worktable. Intent on riffling through the scattered documents, it was only when the vital scroll was in her hand that she heard an angry voice coming from Kalleen’s antechamber.
Imoshen’s mouth went dry. She listened but could not detect a second voice. Still, she could not walk off knowing Kalleen was in distress. She hated to witness another’s hurt, even a stranger’s. It had always caused her physical discomfort, but even more so since her gifts had been awakened.
Stepping lightly across the rugs, she pushed the connecting door ajar. It looked as if Kalleen had flung herself across her bed. Even as Imoshen took in her silent despair the girl noticed the open door and rolled off the bunk, silently wiping her face on her sleeve. Meeting Imoshen’s eyes with a steady gaze, she almost dared the T’En to accuse her of crying.
Instinctively Imoshen’s hand reached out to touch her, but Kalleen jerked away.
“I won’t have you seeing my thoughts, Lady T’En,” she explained stiffly.
A shaft of pain stabbed Imoshen. Kalleen, too?
No, she was certain the girl trusted her, which was more than could be said for most of the palace servants. She’d overheard the whispers, talk of how she’d assumed Gharavan’s form to save General Tulkhan. She’d seen the hastily averted eyes, experienced the sudden absence of conversation when she entered a room. Since the night they had deposed Gharavan, Imoshen had noted the shift in her people’s perception of her.
“I would never do anything against your wishes, Kalleen.” Imoshen was surprised to hear how reasonable her voice sounded despite the pain. “I sought merely to comfort you.”
“So you say.” Kalleen sniffed, wiping her nose inelegantly with the cuff of her sleeve. “You’d do it without thinking. Ten times a day I’ve seen you anticipate what people are going to say.”
Imoshen’s heart sank. Was Kalleen right? Was she unconsciously alienating the palace servants? She licked her lips, forced herself to face this unwelcome revelation.
The girl took a step closer, very obviously placing her hand on Imoshen’s arm. “I do trust you, my Lady, no matter what they say.”
Imoshen smiled wryly. Kalleen was a friend in the truest sense of the word. Who else would speak the unpleasant truth? “I’m glad to hear it. So, if you trust me, tell me what’s wrong.”
A tremor rippled through the young woman’s features and she broke contact. “Wharrd has asked me to bond with him, to be his wife, as he calls it, his.”
So she was to lose Kalleen. Imoshen said nothing.
The girl drew a shuddering breath. “I told him no.”
“Why? If you care for him, surely—”
“I love him! But I won’t be his slave.”
Imoshen’s eyes widened.
Kalleen walked to the small window. The exterior of the thick glass was crusted with ice crystals glistening in the direct sunlight. “Wharrd says the General will give him an estate and a title. I have nothing. I can already see it happening. I will be his wife-slave, part of the estate.” She spun to face Imoshen. “I might only be a farm girl but I am not stupid. I’ve been asking questions. Ghebite women don’t own their share of the family property. They are part of the property.” Kalleen shuddered, visibly revolted. “They belong to their men!”
Imoshen stepped closer, pierced by ready compassion. “Of course, I see your dilemma!”
Kalleen’s golden eyes blazed. “No matter how much I love him, I won’t be his slave. I told him I’d rather stay here and serve you!”
Again a smile tugged at Imoshen’s lips. So she was an acceptable alternative to slavery.
She could understand Kalleen’s decision. As long as the girl’s mistress retained her position, Kalleen ranked above almost all other palace servants.
Imoshen had no trouble empathizing with Kalleen. If the girl bonded with one of her own people she would be an equal partner—half owner of a farm was better than the kept slave of a nobleman.
Imoshen took Kalleen’s small, golden brown hand in her own. “Simple. I will gift you with an estate. I wanted to find some way to reward you for taking my place in the dungeon. I’ll make over the Windhaven Estate to you and your heirs . . . damn!” Imoshen dropped Kalleen’s hand and strode into her own room, her cheeks hot with frustration.
Windhaven was no longer hers to give. It lay to the north and had probably been gutted by the Ghebite Army. But the lands would still be good. She would have to ask General Tulkhan to release it to her so she could gift it to her maid. She hated to ask him for anything. The thought galled her.
Imoshen was aware of Kalleen watching silently and turned to her.
“General Tulkhan took that estate when he took Fair Isle. I will have to speak with him.” The words left a bitter taste in Imoshen’s mouth. Kalleen’s golden eyes held ready sympathy.
Pacing the room, Imoshen tried to come to terms with her position. It infuriated her to know she had so little control over her own life. In truth, even the Stronghold was no longer hers. She had surrendered it to Tulkhan.
As long as she strode the corridors of the palace and advised the General it was easy to forget that she was his captive, a prize of war.
She needed a lever on the Ghebite General.
The Aayel had indeed been wise.
She had to maintain her hold on the General, and what better way than through his own flesh and blood! She would see to it that her children held the reins of power, made the decisions of government. Fair Isle would not slide into barbarism in one generation.
“My Lady?” Kalleen whispered. “Even if you gift Windhaven to me, the moment I give Wharrd my vows he will own everything including me. Ghebite women have no rights. I know what will happen.” Her top lip curled contemptuously. “The Cadre has been most helpful. According to him I don’t even have a proper soul!”
“Absurd!” Imoshen looked down into Kalleen’s indignant face and had to smile. The girl was right. She could not let that happen, not to Kalleen, not to herself. “True, you would lose everything if you married by their religion, but what if they were to recognize our church and its laws? Bonding is another thing entirely.”
Suddenly Imoshen understood what she had to do and she was sure if she handled it correctly the Beatific would comprehend the benefits for the T’En Church. Imoshen’s greatest opponent would become her ally!
Delighted, she hugged the smaller girl. “Don’t worry, Kalleen. I will see to it. You will own your own home and yourself. Every female of Fair Isle will retain her dignity.”
Kalleen searched Imoshen’s face, hope warring with despair. “We surrendered, my Lady. We have nothing but what they choose to give us.”
Imoshen chewed her bottom lip. It was true. They were fine words, fine sentiments, but how realistic was she being? Yet possession was nine tenths of the law. As of this moment, by custom she and Kalleen possessed the rights of ownership and self-determination. Imoshen vowed she would not give up these rights without a fight!
The basilica bells sounded again.
“Wait and see. I must go, I’m terribly late for my meeting.”
Imoshen tucked the document within the brocade vest she wore and strode off, her mind racing with ideas.
As the last of the royal family she was the titular head of the church, a position she found bizarre. Since the Aayel had opened her eyes she had been observing the T’En Church officials. It was clear to her now that the current religious leaders gave lip service to her status but jealously guarded their positions of power within the church structure.
Maybe long ago the T’En race had been regarded as being touched by the gods, but as the T’En began to die out the church had gained more and more control over the temporal world. Imoshen could understand why the religious leaders resented anything which rivaled their position. She was an anachronism, an embarrassing reminder of the spiritual side of the church which had
lost significance as the church’s hold on temporal matters of law expanded.
Imoshen frowned. She had to have the church’s blessing.
It was a powerful, multilayered beast whose fingers of influence spread into the smallest isolated village, but here in the city the greatest power lay in the basilica. This served as the religious and administrative center for the church’s many branches. In her elected position the Beatific held the position for a term of five years. Imoshen suspected much maneuvering behind the scenes had gone into securing that position.
The Beatific rose as Imoshen entered the semiformal private room, her attendants rising with her. If the woman was annoyed by Imoshen’s late arrival she did not show it.
Etiquette demanded Imoshen make a formal apology.
Commander Peirs hardly let her finish before opening the inner doors to a circular table laid with food and drink.
“Everything is ready, Lady T’En,” the grizzled commander announced. At his side Cadre Castenatus resumed a heated discussion with one of the high ranking T’En priests. For once Imoshen understood Peirs’s impatience. The Cadre could be trusted to irritate a saint.
Imoshen offered the formal invitation to the table and the group moved into the inner room. The correct ceremony had to be observed. It was only after warmed wine and sweets had been consumed that Imoshen was able to broach the real subject of their meeting and she did it tangentially.
“Beatific, before we begin our discussions I thought the Cadre might like to tell us a little about his homeland, Gheeaba.”
The woman’s sharp, golden eyes fixed on Imoshen. This was off the subject. The Beatific had been holding out for an increase in church powers before agreeing to officiate at the wedding ceremony or give the church’s blessing to the crowning ceremony which followed.
“Tell me, Cadre Castenatus.” Imoshen turned to the northern priest. His righteousness was so ingrained that she hoped he would speak without considering his audience. “How many sisters do you have and which positions do they hold in the governing council of your country?”
He blinked at her. “I have three sisters, but they hold no official places. Their husbands sit on the council.”
“How then do they use their education to mold the laws?”
He laughed. “They have no education in such matters.”
Imoshen turned to Commander Peirs. “You, sir. Will you take a wife and settle here?”
He was startled by her sudden change of subject. Imoshen caught his worried eyes. He knew she was up to something but not what it was.
“I don’t know,” he began slowly.
“Commander Peirs could take several wives. His position allows him up to four,” Cadre Castenatus explained.
Imoshen sensed the stiffening of all the women present but did not allow herself the luxury of looking at the Beatific.
Instead, she turned to the old commander. “Surely that is a Ghebite custom. You would abide by our customs here?”
He hesitated, obviously aware that his answer could be detrimental to the negotiations. “I am a simple soldier—”
“If women do not sit on council then they must serve their country in some other way,” Imoshen remarked ingenuously, turning to the Cadre. “What do they do, administrate the townships or disseminate information through schooling? Or do they officiate at the religious ceremonies?”
He laughed. “Everyone knows a woman has but a poor weak soul which cannot sustain itself without guidance.” With the conviction of absolute certainty he launched into a long speech about the learned doctrines on the weakness of a woman’s soul and the female’s need for protective guidance. Imoshen had no trouble translating this into a justification for the males of Gheeaba to dominate the women of their society. It was clear every other woman present had come to the same conclusion.
It was only at this point that Imoshen allowed herself to meet the Beatific’s eyes. For a fraction of a heartbeat the handsome woman’s political mask slipped and she exchanged a knowing look with Imoshen. It was underlaid with pure fury.
Neither the Beatific or Imoshen could afford to let secular differences divide them when their enemy was so obviously determined to grind them down.
Sitting back, Imoshen let Cadre Castenatus win her argument for her.
When he paused to draw breath, she remarked, “I am a little lost. Your system is new to me. If a man were to die, which of his wives would inherit the property?”
“The man’s eldest son by his first wife, of course.”
“Not the first wife?”
“None of the wives. The property belongs to the man.”
“But surely the women—”
“No woman can own property.”
The Beatific rose suddenly. The movement was at odds with her usual stately grace.
The Cadre fell silent as her assistants also rose. His expression of surprise revealed how little he understood his companions.
Imoshen came to her feet. Stepping around the formal table arrangements, she placed a hand on the Beatific’s arm. “I feel we have a great deal in common, Beatific. I think we could work for the good of Fair Isle, particularly the women of Fair Isle.”
It was a simple, honest statement but the Beatific only gave Imoshen a sharp look before formally taking leave of those present.
Imoshen was sure she had convinced the Beatific to give her support but could not understand the woman’s suspicion. Of all the people she had met since coming to the palace, the Beatific remained elusive. Because she could not find the woman’s Key Imoshen could only wait and hope her ploy had worked.
In the late afternoon she received a communication from the leader of the T’En Church. Heart pounding, hardly able to let herself hope she opened the brass cylinder and unrolled the vellum. Feverishly, she read the covering missive.
A surge of triumph flooded her. The communication contained two copies of a formal agreement in which the Beatific offered to host the ceremonies on Midwinter’s Day on the understanding that the church’s current systems of law, particularly those pertaining to ownership and inheritance regardless of sex, would remain in place. It meant General Tulkhan’s position had the support of the church, but in acknowledging the church he had to give credence to their laws.
It was exactly what Imoshen was hoping for.
Returning the documents to their brass cylinder Imoshen left this on the table. She felt very pleased with herself as she went looking for the General to give him the good news. The servants sent her to the stables where the Ghebites had organized entertainment. Trudging across the courtyard, Imoshen heard the throaty growl of the crowd and tensed.
She stopped, undecided.
Rumors of the Ghebites’ penchant for bird-baiting had swept the palace. But her workload had been so heavy she had not had time to investigate and Imoshen had to admit she did not want to know the full extent of the Ghebites’ barbarism so she had avoided the stables. She’d heard that the birds were reared especially for this fate, bred winner to winner. Their only purpose in life was to die at their owner’s whim.
It was a typical example of the Ghebite mentality! Everything must serve their purpose and damn the feelings of lesser creatures, be they female or dumb animal. To the Ghebite way of thinking they were probably one and the same. Imoshen smiled wryly—she felt an unwilling sympathy with the birds.
It was no good. She wouldn’t ignore the cockfighting. Everything that happened in the palace set the tone for the city. The townsfolk would take their cue from her and if she condoned this barbarism what else might she condone?
Gritting her teeth, Imoshen strode toward the closed double doors. Her excuse to consult the General was legitimate. He could not accuse her of prying. She would just take a casual look while delivering her good news. Perhaps it was all exaggeration.
Imoshen slipped unobtrusively inside the stable. The sound and stench hit her like a physical blow.
The long barn was crowded, filled with strid
ent voices. Men bellowed as they placed their bets, competing with the music to be understood. The Ghebite musicians who had traveled with the army as camp followers were set up in a stall playing their rowdy, raucous excuse for music.
Wine flowed freely, as did the opinions of those who considered themselves experts. They argued over the skill exhibited in the previous match and the likelihood of the surviving bird beating the new contender.
As Imoshen forged through the thickly packed crowd of sweating bodies, disgust and frustration filled her. The Ghebites thought nothing of inciting birds to kill each other, feeding their own blood lust with the male bird’s frenzy.
Deep within her, Imoshen felt an innate sense of injustice. The cockerel was only doing what nature intended it to do. How could these men take perverse pleasure from so pointless a death?
She wanted to banish them and their sordid entertainment from the royal palace. At the very least she wanted to confront General Tulkhan. How could he condone this?
But she was frustrated, unable to join him, because though she could see him standing on the far side of the fighting pit, she knew she couldn’t simply march over and upbraid him.
Like herself, the General was treading a fine line. He had to retain the support of his commanders and she could not afford to undermine his position. His men would resent it if she didn’t show the General proper deference. Tulkhan would have to retaliate by treating her as he would treat a Ghebite woman. If he didn’t, he would lose the respect of his soldiers.
Imoshen drew a short, tight breath. Frustration welled in her. She looked around, tried to be fair. Was she overreacting? Was this only harmless entertainment?
It worried her to see so many of her own people present. There were male palace servants, stable hands and entertainers. No women, she realized. But the men of Fair Isle were obviously enjoying the spectacle. It concerned her to see how quickly they forgot themselves. They were only too happy to immerse their senses in mind-dulling violence. Was the beast so close to the surface in even the most civilized male?
Were they really closer to the animal than females? Was it only the strength of the women of Fair Isle that maintained their society’s level of civilization? It was a sobering thought!
Broken Vows Page 34