DESPERATE ALLIANCES
Page 3
“Until I return victorious, I name you leader of the capital’s garrison, answerable only to me.”
Wharrd accepted this position, renewing his fealty by kissing the naked blade, as was the Ghebite custom.
“Jarholfe?”
Imoshen recognized the man as one of Tulkhan’s Elite Guard, fond of good clothes but deadly with a sword.
“Jarholfe, I name you leader of the Elite Guard who will remain on Fair Isle, sworn to protect me and mine.”
Jarholfe accepted the honor and stepped back.
Tulkhan’s arm slid around Imoshen’s shoulders, drawing her close in what appeared to be a fond embrace. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “Kneel and swear fealty before my men.”
Anger constricted her throat. “Do you doubt me?”
“Should I?” His eyes narrowed. “Imoshen, I ask my men to risk death. What guarantee do they have you will not reclaim the throne while my back is turned? Swear fealty before them and you will be my Voice while I am gone.”
Though she understood the necessity of this oath, it did not make it any easier. She beckoned Kalleen, passing her son into the little woman’s arms. “He’s tired. Take him to my chamber.”
Silence fell as Imoshen knelt before Tulkhan and looked up at him. The General was dressed in full Ghebite armor. His helmet hooded his eyes, his cloak billowed in the stiff sea breeze. The last of the sun’s rays had left the tower, and flickering torch flames illuminated the narrow blade of his nose, the line of his jaw. His wide cheekbones were hidden by the helmet guards. Imoshen marveled that she had once thought Tulkhan’s Ghebite features harsh.
“T’Imoshen, Lady Protector.” He combined her old title with her new. “I name you my Voice. Until I return, your words will be obeyed as mine.”
The joy of vindication filled her, for this publicly acknowledged not only Tulkhan’s trust in her loyalty but his belief in her statesmanship.
“Protector General.” Imoshen pitched her voice to carry. “On behalf of the people of Fair Isle, I thank you for defending our shores.” She did not kiss the blade but came to her feet, offering her left hand to Tulkhan, palm out, forearm toward him. He copied the gesture, threading his fingers through hers. Their wrists met, arms joined to the elbow, mimicking the T’En bonding ceremony. “I vow to keep your trust and pray that one day soon our people will sit by their hearths in peace and plenty.”
Her words were greeted with a cheer from the Ghebites and polite finger-clicking from the townspeople.
Tulkhan smiled ruefully. Imoshen had worded the oath so that his men heard her vow of fealty but the people of Fair Isle heard their empress thank her war general. “Then let us break open the Vorsch and drink to victory!”
“Yes, but first the people of Fair Isle wish to give your army due honor.” She cast him a cat-with-the-cream smile and beckoned a little townswoman. Birdlike, the woman scurried forward with a bundle over her arm. “To you goes the honor of releasing the first star-bird, my general.”
The woman’s gloved hands produced a cylinder, and she blew on the embers in her coal pouch to bring them to flame.
“The Pyrolate Guild?” Tulkhan recognized this procedure from their coronation celebration on Midwinter’s Day, when fountains of light had poured from the palace towers to celebrate the joining of the old royal line to the new. He lit the star-bird’s tail and it leapt, rising high to burst, a bright flower of light against the night sky. Sparks of gold rained down upon the Citadel.
On this signal a series of star-birds left the highest tower, lighting up the night sky over and over. His men gave their piercing war cry, and the townspeople murmured in awe.
With a smile of delight, Imoshen linked her arm through his and gestured to the mainland. “I’ve heard that on a clear day the people of Port Sumair can see the white stone of the Citadel’s towers. Tonight your half-brother will see the sky above Fair Isle light up and it will be remembered as an omen of his fall. Let him quake in his bed, for his days are numbered!”
Imoshen inspired him. With her at his side Tulkhan felt anything was possible. Pulling her close, he claimed her lips, savoring her sudden intake of breath. He sensed the moment her quicksilver passion ignited and gloried in the knowledge that the last princess of the T’En was his.
Tulkhan pulled back to gaze down on Imoshen’s upturned face. Patterns of sparkling light played across her features. He was not blind to her T’En beauty, but it was her mind and spirit he valued. “Truly, I am a lucky man. If you had been the Empress, I would never have conquered Fair Isle!”
Imoshen stiffened. “Please excuse me, General. I sent Kalleen to put our son to bed. I must see if he has settled.”
She would have left him but Tulkhan caught her hand. “Imoshen, I did not mean—”
“In winning Fair Isle you lost your half-brother and your homeland, while I...” She could not finish, managing only a sad smile. “Neither of us has won, Tulkhan. But we may yet.”
Imoshen paused at the tower door to let her eyes adjust. Then she sped down the steps and entered a passage to the great hall. This part of the Citadel dated from the early Age of Consolidation, but later owners had added gleaming mosaics, mirrors, and gilt. She smiled grimly. Four hundred years of prosperity had done much to hide the gracious lines of the original building.
No servants or guards were present in the public hall. She suspected they had climbed to the parapets and balconies to watch the display. Tables were piled high with food, and crystal glittered in the candlelight awaiting the revelers.
Suddenly, Imoshen’s vision was overlaid with laughter and people. She saw herself as a child sitting at the high table, looking lonely and lost. Only she had never been here before.
The T’En girl, probably some distant ancestor, stiffened and looked straight across the room of phantom feasters into Imoshen’s eyes. With a shudder, Imoshen slammed a mental door on the vision.
Nausea threatened as she fought for control. She needed Reothe’s advice, but all along he had held his knowledge to ransom. Anger curled through her, turning her hands into fists. When she had heard that Reothe had woken weak but clearheaded, she had not been to see him, using the valid excuse that she was needed in the hospice.
Moving on soft, indoor slippers, she entered the passage to the central courtyard, where T’Ronynn’s Tower stood and Reothe lay, still too weak to rise.
Light flashed above, illuminating every stone of the courtyard. Little gold sparks fell like rain. Delighted by the beauty, Imoshen held out her hand to catch a spark. It faded before her eyes, and in the sudden dark a man grabbed her. His blade pressed between her ribs.
“Keep walking,” her captor growled.
She obeyed the familiar voice, her legs stiff with fear.
“Drake!” It was a relief to identify him, even though she knew Drake served Reothe. “What do you want?”
“I have come to free T’Reothe.”
“He cannot be moved.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Take me to him.”
Recalling Drake’s reverence for everything T’En, Imoshen did not believe he would kill her. “There is no need to threaten me. I will take you to T’Reothe. He is my honored guest.”
“Don’t play word games with me. And do not dream of giving me away. I will slide this knife between your ribs quicker than you can say my name.” Hatred laced his words. “I know you for what you are, a traitor to your T’En blood.”
Her mouth went dry and a familiar taste settled on her tongue. She fought the urge to use her gifts. Drake was but one man; she had to win the support of all rebels if she was to hold Fair Isle.
“I’ve been searching for a way to get into the Citadel since you captured Reothe. Unlike you, I would willingly die for him, so do not think to call the guards. Move.”
Imoshen walked toward the tower that rose before them solid and windowless on the ground floor. She climbed the steps to the door, positioned so that defenders could resist exposed a
ttackers. This caution did not help her now, not with a knife at her back. “If you serve Reothe, then you serve me, because he is in my service now,” she bluffed.
Drake gave no answer.
As they climbed the steps Imoshen considered calling for help from Reothe’s guards, but she didn’t want Drake to have to prove his loyalty by killing her.
At last they stood outside Reothe’s chamber. Every nerve in Imoshen’s body screamed in protest. The guards sat opposite, speaking with two of their brothers-at-arms, who were urging them to take a look at the Pyrolate display. The men hardly spared Imoshen and Drake a glance.
“Open the door,” Drake hissed.
Before Imoshen could take her door-comb and run its teeth across the door’s metal groove to announce herself, the door swung inward, revealing a corner of the canopied bed. But confronting them was Kalleen, possibly the only person in the whole of the Citadel who could identify Drake and knew him for the rebel he was.
Imoshen froze, cursing the trick of fate that had brought Kalleen to Reothe’s room. Would she recognize this hardened Drake as the youth who had briefly been her lover a year ago?
“My lady?” Kalleen’s smile faltered as she looked past Imoshen to the man behind her. “D-Drake?”
He cursed.
“What are you doing here? I heard—”
He lunged. Imoshen saw the knife flash. Kalleen’s cry was cut short by the impact of his strike. Too late to save Kalleen, a useless scream of protest tore from Imoshen’s throat.
Drake darted into the room. The guards exclaimed and their chairs scraped on the floor. Kalleen’s small body hit the doorjamb. She slid to the floor, her skirt belling around her, the rich brocade stiffer than her limbs.
Imoshen dropped to her knees, horrified to see pink bubbles dripping from Kalleen’s chin. A knee thumped into Imoshen’s back as men charged through the doorway, but she felt no pain. From the angle, it appeared the knife had plunged between Kalleen’s ribs, carrying with it all Drake’s anger and frustration. Guilt lanced Imoshen.
“I’m dying.” Kalleen’s words frothed on her lips.
“No.” Imoshen’s denial was instinctive. She used the hem of her gown to wipe the blood from Kalleen’s face. Once, when Reothe had dealt Tulkhan a mortal wound, she had saved him by drawing on the General’s own willpower. “Think of the child you carry. That life depends on you!”
Beyond Kalleen, Imoshen was aware of struggling men, smashing crockery, grunts of pain, and hoarse shouts. She ignored the turmoil.
Bending over Kalleen, she willed her to believe. “You are stronger than you think. Trust me.”
Kalleen’s eyes fixed on Imoshen’s face. She nodded, but when she coughed her fingers tightened, the nails biting into Imoshen’s flesh.
A man’s death scream made Imoshen flinch.
Shutting everything out, she sought the familiar source of her healing gift. Somehow she must stem Kalleen’s blood loss, repair the torn tissue, and ward off festering. But anger swamped her senses. Its source was the life-and-death struggle unfolding across the room. Imoshen felt that energy’s primal force pool within her. It rose, flooding through the pores of her skin, almost beyond her control to channel. The origin of this power was a death struggle, but she would turn its purpose, using it to save Kalleen’s life.
Desperation lent Imoshen the strength to focus the power and channel it into healing. Kalleen’s hazel eyes widened.
“We have him, my lady,” a man bellowed.
Imoshen ignored him.
“He killed—”
“Silence!” Imoshen concentrated on willing the knife to slide from its resting place between Kalleen’s ribs. The effort required to knit the tissues behind the withdrawing blade caused beads of perspiration to gather on her forehead, stinging her eyes.
Dimly, she heard the man call on his warrior god to protect them from sorcery. Imoshen clenched her teeth. Kalleen’s eyes never left her face, her fingers never eased their clawlike grip. When the knife fell onto the stiff brocade of the gown, Imoshen grabbed the blade and slit the bodice of Kalleen’s gown, dragging it apart to reveal her small golden breasts and the bloodied flesh where the knife had penetrated.
Imoshen leaned forward, only just stopping herself from licking the wound clean. Instead, she tossed the knife aside and slid her fingers over the flesh.
“Bring water.” She hardly recognized her own voice.
The man stumbled away and returned with a pitcher.
“Pour a little over the wound.” Imoshen used the hem of her gown to wipe the blood away, revealing a fresh scar.
“Great Akha Khan deliver—” The man’s curse was cut short as the pitcher smashed at his feet. Water sprayed them. A pottery fragment stung Imoshen’s cheek.
Kalleen’s gasp had barely left her lips when Imoshen swept one arm under the little woman’s knees and the other under her shoulders. As she stood, the muscles of her thighs flexed, empowered by anger.
“Fool!” She spun to face the man, with Kalleen in her arms. “Take the Lady Kalleen to her bedchamber and send for Wharrd.”
The man’s features flushed with something that could have been anger or shame. As he extended his arms to accept the burden, Kalleen’s mouth opened in a protest.
“Sleep and heal,” Imoshen whispered, touching the sixth finger of her left hand to Kalleen’s forehead. Her eyes closed and the tight contours of pain eased. “Go now.”
The same fury that had enabled Imoshen to rise with Kalleen in her arms drove her into the room. Two men held Drake on his knees, his wrists twisted up behind his shoulders. He glared at her.
The fourth man lay in a puddle of dark blood, un-moving. There was nothing she could do for him.
Disgust filled Imoshen. “Death dealt in the name of honor. Is this what you want for Fair Isle, Drake?”
Winding her fingers through his hair, she hauled him across to the bed, freeing him from the guards. “Here is your rebel leader.” She snatched the sword from the nearest man and flung the weapon so that it lay across Reothe’s chest. “Rise up and strike down your captors, T’Reothe!”
On reflex, one of Reothe’s hands closed on the hilt, but he did not have the strength to lift the blade, let alone rise.
“You are cruel, Imoshen!” Reothe thrust the weapon off the bed in disgust. It clattered on the floor at their feet.
“Are you satisfied, Drake?” Imoshen demanded.
“Order your dogs to kill me, T’En traitor!”
Dismayed that he still courted death, Imoshen faltered. Drake wrenched free. Snatching the sword, he reared up. With dreamlike slowness she watched the sword point arc toward her throat. One clean slice and she would be dead.
Something snapped inside her head. She saw nothing, heard nothing but the rush of blood in her ears. A pole struck between her shoulder blades, driving the air from her chest. Her head hit the upright at the bed’s base, jarring her teeth and filling her sight with pinpricks of light.
Chest burning, she fought to drag in a breath. She had sprung backward the length of the bed to escape Drake’s strike. He knelt before her, sword hanging from his limp fingers. As she watched, a great gout of blood erupted from his mouth, spraying across her skirt.
One of the men must have stabbed him in the back. But they were too far away and staggering backward.
Imoshen drew a painful breath and stepped around Drake. His back was free of injury.
Reothe hung half off the bed, supporting himself with one trembling arm. “Help...”
“What goes on here?” Tulkhan demanded, thrusting his men aside as he strode into the room.
Imoshen could not speak.
Reothe’s expression was an odd mixture of wariness and admiration. “Imoshen turned her gift on Drake, just as she turned it on me.”
“No!” she protested.
“No?” Reothe mocked. “He has no visible wound.”
She shook her head, but even as she denied it, Drake collapsed.
She threw open the door, startling an old woman who was changing the bedding. Imoshen tore at the fastening of her stained gown and flung it into the fire. Ashmyr woke with a cry. She longed for the balm of his touch. “Bring me the baby, Dyta.”
Feeling unsteady, Imoshen backed away from the hearth until her thighs met the bed. She sat abruptly, recalling the guard’s expression as she put Kalleen in his arms, the way his companions had fled from her. She hadn’t meant to cripple Drake. It had been self-defense, but that would not stop the rumors. In a few heartbeats she had undone all the good she had achieved at Tulkhan’s side these last few days.
She opened her eyes to find Dyta watching fearfully. “Bring me a damp cloth.”
The old woman scurried to obey.
“Help me sponge the blood from my hands.” But it remained under her fingernails. A rush of despair flooded Imoshen. In her mind’s eye she saw Reothe’s expression. Yet unlike Reothe, who coveted her growing powers, General Tulkhan feared her T’En legacy. But the gifts were nothing more than a tool. Tears of determination stung Imoshen’s eyes as she silently vowed to use her powers only for good.
Tulkhan stepped aside as, with due solemnity, the guards removed the body of their dead brother-at-arms. Then he faced the man he had been avoiding.
“Why don’t you kill me?” Reothe demanded.
“You insult me, Dhamfeer.” He made the Ghebite word an insult. “Do you think me some crude barbarian who would kill his sworn enemy as he lay helpless?”
Reothe lifted his head to glare, then winced. His hands spasmed; one clenched in a fist, but the other twitched feebly. So it was true—one half of his body was crippled, as well as his T’En gifts. And Imoshen had done this to the man whose power she had feared.
“She cripples me, despises me, yet she keeps me alive,” Reothe whispered. “Cruel love.”
“You assume much,” Tulkhan said, but Reothe’s suffering struck a reluctant chord with him.