“May the Parakletos feast on that Vaygharian’s soul,” Reothe cursed. His thoughts followed another path. “I should never have trusted him to be Gharavan’s go-between!”
Tulkhan shuddered. Reothe’s curse was intrinsically T’En. The Parakletos were legendary T’En warriors, bound by a terrible oath to serve beyond death. They answered the priests’ summons to escort the dead through death’s shadow to the realm of the dead. Yet, like everything else on Fair Isle, the truth was not so simple.
Several moons ago Tulkhan had stood at Imoshen’s side as she said the words for the dead, unaware that she risked her own soul if her hold on the Parakletos faltered. She had revealed that the Parakletos were not the benign creatures of legend. No, Reothe was not wishing the Vaygharian’s soul a safe journey. “For all I know, the Parakletos have feasted on his soul,” said Tulkhan. “No one has claimed responsibility for his death. His charred remains were found in the fire’s ashes, as Imoshen foretold.”
Reothe gave Tulkhan a sharp look, reminding him that the rebel leader might be physically crippled and his powers destroyed, but he still had his wits.
Imoshen stood over the sleeping baby, exhaustion battling with her need to know how Drake and Kalleen fared. After Dyta left, no one had come near her, but she had heard them whispering in the hall long into the night. Suddenly the door flew open and the General stalked in.
Tulkhan studied Imoshen. Blue shadows haunted her pale skin, and her eyes held a lambent glow as though she was consumed by an inner furnace. He hated seeing her so fragile. “I will order the rebel executed at dawn and his head spiked on town’s-gate tower.”
“That is sure to convince the rebels to support you.”
“You can’t be suggesting I let him live?” But she gave no answer, rubbing her temples. Remorse pierced him. He knew how healing exhausted her. “You saved Kalleen’s life.”
“And terrified your men, I fear.”
“You could have helped Drake escape with Reothe. You could have betrayed me.”
Startled, she met his eyes, and he knew this had not occurred to her.
“Ah, Imoshen.” He opened his arms and she went to him. Fine trembles ran through her body, reminding him of a highly strung horse.
Her lips moved against his neck as she spoke, her breath hot on his skin. “Drake went for my throat. My reaction was instinctive.”
“What else is instinctive for the T’En?”
She pulled away from him, distressed. “Truly, Tulkhan, I don’t know. My family forbade my instruction. They tried to deny their Throwback daughter, when all the world could see...” She lifted her hands to her face.
Tulkhan had once found her vivid coloring, high cheekbones, and narrow features strange. Now he thought Imoshen as exquisite as Fair Isle porcelain, which was prized on the mainland and whose manufacture was a closely guarded secret. This island contained too many secrets. He expelled his breath in frustration. “I’m running out of time. Even now my carpenters work by lantern light to fit catapults to the merchant ships. Soon it will be the Harvest Moon Festival and—”
“It will be just over a year since you entered my Stronghold,” she whispered. “Since we...” She flushed, and he was reminded of the first joining in the Harvest bower when he had claimed her for his own.
His mouth went dry. “I was going to talk tactics. But why waste my last night before I go into battle?” When he went to pull her close, she resisted. “What is it?”
“You could die confronting Gharavan.” She searched his face. “There is a lie between us, and I will not perpetuate it. Each time you’ve come to me you’ve been almost”—she quivered—“fierce. I feel no gentleness in your touch. I don’t understand. Not once have you mentioned Reothe—”
He released her, prowling away.
Imoshen watched Tulkhan’s restless pacing, torn by the need to know and the fear of what she might learn. “I don’t understand, General. You have not asked me how it happened.”
He spun to face her. “You have already admitted it is true. By taking him to your bed you dishonored us both. At least now if you carry a child there is a good chance it will be mine!”
She gasped, her hand going protectively to her belly.
His eyes narrowed. “I let myself believe... But it is different for the women of Fair Isle. You are trained in the arts of lovemaking. You told me the moment you knew my son was conceived.” Suddenly he looked drained. “When Reothe boasted that you carried his child, it was already true. Wasn’t it?”
She could not deny it.
“By Ghebite law I should strangle you and my half-breed son!”
Tulkhan’s explosive anger frightened Imoshen into revealing the truth. “Reothe tricked me! I did not knowingly betray you. He came to me in your form, and I thought it was you I welcomed to my bed.” Her voice dropped. “I did not tell you before because I feared your anger would drive you to kill him!”
“I knew it! I knew it had to be trickery.” Tulkhan sank into the chair by the fireplace. “It makes no difference. By Ghebite law you are in the wrong—”
“But I thought he was you.”
“That is of no consequence.”
“What kind of justice makes the injured person guilty?”
He smiled wryly. “Trust you to see it that way.”
Fury kindled in Imoshen but she forced it down, placing her left hand over her heart. “I swear I have never knowingly betrayed you, Tulkhan. Do not be hampered by the boundaries of your upbringing.”
“Boundaries don’t blind my thinking, Imoshen, but my men are simple soldiers. To lead I must have their respect. Do you think if I truly doubted you I would have made Wharrd and Jarholfe answerable to you when I set sail tomorrow?”
She went to him, her bare feet registering the warmth of the carpet before the hearth. Sinking to her knees, she took his hand in hers. He was leaving to go into battle and she longed to join with him. “If you trust me, why do you come to my bed with anger in your heart?”
He made a helpless gesture. In that instant his barriers were down and she sensed his most private of primitive emotions. She had been stolen from him. Every time they made love he was reclaiming what was his.
“Ah, Tulkhan.” She smiled. “You say you are free of your Ghebite upbringing, but I fear it runs deeper than you think.”
He opened his mouth to argue, then withdrew his hand, eyeing her thoughtfully.
“What?” Imoshen prompted.
“How can you speak to me of being shaped by my upbringing when you are shaped by your blood? You gave your solemn promise not to use your gifts on me. Yet what did you just do?”
“That was not... I mean...” She felt herself color and saw his knowing look. “It was not intentional. We were touching and it just... happened.”
“How convenient.”
She found anger in his face, but she also caught a glint of humor and realized he was teasing her. Her heart turned over. Slowly she stood up, offering her hand. “No man can take what I do not give, Tulkhan.”
His fingers entwined with hers. But he resisted when she would have led him to the bed. He cleared his throat. “I will take you into my arms but not into my mind. That is how it must be, Imoshen.”
“Then I must be satisfied with that.” But in her heart of hearts she resented his rejection.
Chapter Three
Imoshen woke to the golden light of late afternoon. She stretched, surprised to discover she had slept through most of the day. But, then, she had fallen asleep only at dawn when Tulkhan left her bed.
Ashmyr stirred. He might as well have been pure T’En; only his sable hair marked him as Tulkhan’s son. She smiled fondly as his mouth worked, sucking in his sleep.
A figure detached itself from the shadows near the door. Imoshen tensed, then she recognized Wharrd. The bone-setter stepped into the light, his expression curiously guarded.
“Where’s Tulkhan?” Her voice was rusty from lack of use.
�
��On the wharves. He sent me to bring you.”
Her heart sank. She knew Tulkhan must go, but she dreaded their parting. She felt empty, cast adrift. Resolutely, she fought it. “I will get dressed.”
“First hear me out. You saved Kalleen’s life. Kalleen is my wife, but I love her as I would love my sword-brother. If he were killed, I would avenge his death. If someone saved his life, I would be under a Ghiad until I had repaid them with an equal service.” Wharrd gave a Ghebite salute that she did not recognize. “By the Gheeakhan, warrior code of the Ghebites, I am under a Ghiad to you.”
Imoshen hid her annoyance. Wharrd claimed he valued Kalleen as highly as he would value his sword-brother, yet he meant no insult. “Then I release you from your Ghiad.”
“You can’t release me. My honor must be satisfied.”
She shrugged, not about to argue further.
“The rebel Drake still lives,” Wharrd announced. “When do you want him executed?”
“I don’t want him executed. Not everything can be resolved by killing. Fair Isle needs unity. I must win the rebels to our cause.”
“But Drake invaded the Stronghold, threatened your life, spilled Kalleen’s blood, and killed a Ghebite. You must—”
“I will not kill him. Would you have this go on forever? A life for a life until no one lives?” A thought occurred to her. “Is it this way in Gheeaba? A life for a life?”
He nodded. “A man must seek revenge or be thought weak.”
“Sometimes it takes more strength to forgive.”
Wharrd did not look convinced. “What will you do with him?”
She didn’t know. “See that his hurts are tended. I must go to the General.”
Tulkhan paced the docks, impatient to confront his half-brother. Much had been achieved since he turned the tables on Reothe. The mercenaries who would have been exchanged for Tulkhan had been escorted to the army’s encampment outside of town, where their leader had been quick to see reason. Dying for profit was one thing—dying without profit was unthinkable.
Every fishing boat and seaworthy skiff within a day’s ride had been commandeered. The carpenters had completed the merchant ships’ modifications; their main concern had been securing the catapults so they would not come loose in rough weather.
When the little hairs on Tulkhan’s neck lifted, he knew that Imoshen approached. She had sworn not to use her gifts on him, and he believed she did not consciously do so, but surely this intensity was not normal. If he was under some kind of T’En compulsion, he hoped it would fade with time and distance. Then he would know how things really stood between them.
Hugging her cloak around Ashmyr, Imoshen stood on the wharf, watching Tulkhan’s profile. She knew he was aware of her.
As the Ghebites embarked, she swore she could see the boats sink plank by plank. Torches blazed and firelight danced on the sea’s black surface. Filing past, the men sang rousing war songs.
Imoshen studied the sky. The season was about to turn and autumn would be all too brief. Soon winter snows would blanket the ground and make fighting impossible. The General did not have long if he wanted to destroy King Gharavan and incite the repressed countries to revolt against Ghebite domination.
Since he became war general at nineteen, Tulkhan had consolidated the conquests of his father and grandfather, subjugating most of the known world. Imoshen smiled grimly. It would be ironic if Tulkhan was the one to drive the Ghebites back to the far north.
The call of the battle horns startled her. The tide was turning, the wind was right. She turned to Tulkhan.
As he strode toward her, she was reminded of their first meeting, when he had appeared in full battle regalia, alien and unknown. His unusual height was emphasized by the plume of his helmet. His black temple plaits swung as he walked, his long hair lifting around his shoulders.
Once she had thought his barbarian display ostentatious; now longing claimed her. She was bound to him in ways that went deeper than words. “Strike swiftly, return safely.”
His hands closed on her shoulders. As he searched her face she wondered what he looked for.
“If I am killed while crushing my half-brother, you will have it all: Fair Isle, your crippled consort, and what’s left of my army.”
“How can you say that?” It was a cry from her heart. “Besides, the remaining Ghebites are loyal to you, not me.”
“Ultimately, self-interest must motivate my men. None of us can return to Gheeaba. What will you do? Go to the palace?”
“When Reothe is better we will go slowly, stopping along the way so the people can see that Reothe is under my protection. Only strength will unite Fair Isle, we—”
“Since Gharavan declared me a traitor, my life is forfeit on the mainland. Any man may take my head for the bounty.”
“I did not know.”
He smiled. “I did not want you to know.”
“Oh, Tulkhan!” It was on the tip of her tongue to beg him to stay.
“You hold my life in your hands, Imoshen. Fair Isle is the only home I have. Do not betray my trust.” He gave her no time to reply. “Reothe’s gifts might be crippled, but he still has his wits. Beware his honeyed tongue.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
Tulkhan raised an arm to acknowledge the townsfolk. “Smile for your people, Imoshen.”
Lifting her chin, she waved, but she could see little through a veil of tears. Then Tulkhan saluted his men, his teeth very white against his skin. Flinging one arm around his neck, she lifted onto her toes to kiss him, felt his surprise and then the heat of his response. A soul-deep stab of need pierced her. “Think of me.”
He pressed her hand to his heart and with great reluctance stepped away.
Alone on the wharf, she watched the General stride toward his ship. The gangplank bounced under his weight. The sailors shouted and withdrew the board. Ropes writhed across the growing chasm of roiling black water. Torches diminished, and all she saw was Tulkhan’s masklike face, eyes fixed on her as if he was memorizing her features.
As his form grew ever smaller, Imoshen felt as if a long cord connected them, straining to stretch the distance, sucking her soul from her with painful intensity. A part of her was leaving, and she did not know if she would ever be whole again.
* * *
As Tulkhan paced the command ship’s deck in the predawn chill, mist lay thick on the water.
“There it is, General—the beacon fire. I knew they’d have the tower lit in weather like this.” Kornel pointed, then adjusted the belt of his trousers to sit comfortably below his belly. As a merchant ship’s captain, he ate well and took few risks.
Tulkhan nodded. His makeshift flotilla of fishing boats and commandeered merchant ships had to negotiate the harbor entrance safely under cover of the mist, yet their signal bells might betray their presence. He cursed softly. He had campaigned on land for eleven years and knew little about coordinating an attack from the sea, but if all went well he would not have to. “Send for the mercenary leader Tourez.”
Tulkhan had dealt with Vaygharian mercenaries before, and he was willing to risk the element of surprise to send Tourez ahead with his offer. The lives of his mercenary band back in Fair Isle were held as surety for his cooperation. They waited in tense silence as the ships negotiated the sandbars and floating islands, their bells dulled to cloak their arrival. They entered Port Sumair’s harbor unable to see the famous sculpture of the merchant scales for the mist.
As the mercenary approached, Tulkhan slipped the message cylinder from his pouch. “Once we are inside the harbor you’ll be rowed to the wharves. Under cover of this fog we will sit near the docks until the rising sun starts to burn off the mists. Then we will strike. If the mercenaries deliver Gharavan, I will reward them; if not, I’ll treat them as loyal Ghebite soldiers and slaughter them to a man.”
Tourez nodded. A boat was lowered for the mercenary leader, and the soft sound of its oars could be heard. Then that faded and Tulkhan could
only wait.
Imoshen stood at the window, watching stars in the western sky grow dim. She wondered if Tulkhan had struck yet and longed to reach out to him, but her skills had never been good enough to pierce his defenses even if they were touching, let alone over the T’Ronynn Straits.
If he had let her touch his mind when their bodies joined, she might have felt closer, might even have been able to sense if he was in danger, perhaps reach him in an emergency, but he had always rejected her gifts. Resentment burned in Imoshen, yet she could not blame Tulkhan when she recalled how Reothe had used his gifts to trick her. She did not need Tulkhan’s warning to beware of Reothe.
The General gazed into the east where the peaks of Fair Isle lay hidden by the dawn haze and wondered if Imoshen slept blissfully unaware of him. He had been sure the Vaygharian mercenaries would change allegiance. But Tourez had not returned.
Tulkhan stepped forward to order the attack. Buzzing like an angry bee, an arrow sailed past his ear to thud into the mast. He stared in disbelief at the mercenary who was already notching another arrow, one leg over the ship’s rail. The man’s sword-brothers appeared, knives between their teeth.
Tulkhan cursed, throwing his dagger. The archer let his second arrow loose prematurely and fell back, clutching his side. His cry and the following splash heralded the attack. Stealth discarded, the mercenaries boarded. Cries of battle came from the other boats. With a jolt, Tulkhan realized Tourez had not only betrayed him but also his own men back in Northpoint.
A man charged. Tulkhan blocked the strike, countering automatically. All about him he heard the screech of metal on metal, grunts of pain, agonized screams. His boots slipped on the blood-slick planks. Furious, he fought his way to the catapult, but the mercenaries had already disabled it.
Dislodging his weapon from a man’s spine, Tulkhan looked up and saw the silhouettes of bowmen on Port Sumair’s rooftops, ready to strike as soon as the mist cleared. That was all he needed—flaming, tar-dipped arrows.
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