“All rebels have been granted amnesty. I have no quarrel with these people.” Imoshen noticed the blind man whisper something to his guide, who darted into the back room. Praying the woman would not find Ashmyr, Imoshen almost missed Reothe’s subtle signal. He beckoned her.
Imoshen took a deep breath and raised her hand to meet Reothe’s. His fingers closed on hers. She stepped forward, and the knife blade slipped harmlessly past her throat as the woman lowered her arm. Relief flooded Imoshen, but only for a heartbeat; then she heard furniture being moved in the back room.
Every nerve in Imoshen’s body screamed a warning, but she remained outwardly composed. Reothe’s hand squeezed hers and he pulled her toward him, turning her so that she stood on his weak left side. She could feel the trembling of his muscles.
Imoshen faced the hardened veterans, all armed with weapons that had been concealed from Jarholfe’s men. The Ghebites would come in answer to her cry, but by then she and Reothe could be dead. She did not believe the rebels intended to kill them, but the tension in Reothe’s body was not reassuring. And what would she do if the woman found her child?
Imoshen trawled her awareness for that first stirring of the gifts, but she was drained by the afternoon’s healing and unfocused with her fear for Ashmyr.
Reothe slung his arm over Imoshen’s shoulder, letting her take some of his weight. “We are the last two T’En—”
“Look what I found—the Ghebite General’s brat!” crowed the woman. She ran into the room with Ashmyr held out in front of her, his little legs kicking in distress. A mewl of protest escaped Imoshen.
“That child is mine!” Reothe said, his arm tightening on Imoshen’s shoulders.
The woman hesitated. “But he has the Ghebite’s hair.”
“I touched his mind before he was born. He will be my tool when he grows up. Return him—”
“To me.” Imoshen stepped forward and held out her arms, trembling with fury. She wanted every last one of them dead.
The air seemed to vibrate between them as Imoshen took Ashmyr from the woman’s unresisting hands. At the first touch of her son, a rush of heat flooded Imoshen’s body, bringing with it that familiar metallic taste on her tongue.
Every nuance became heightened. She sensed the rebels’ pounding hearts and their strained minds opened to her. Fever-pitch tension sang on the air, swamping her senses.
“Go quietly now, and quickly,” Reothe urged. “You do not know how close you have come to death. Just as T’Imoshen can heal with a touch, she can kill.”
Had Reothe regained enough of his gift to sense her state? She tried to search his perception, but he was a blind spot. No, not blind. She saw his eyes widen and knew if he was bluffing before, now he was aware of the gifts moving in her.
“Go,” Reothe ordered.
The woman backed away from her, hands raised in a defensive gesture.
“There are Ghebite guards outside!” Obazim growled, his voice thick with hate. Imoshen could taste it, rich as gravy on her tongue.
“Those Ghebites obey my orders!” Reothe hissed.
In the edge of her vision, Imoshen saw Reothe beckon her to his side. Choosing not to move, she remained between him and the rebels. Like Imoshen, Reothe carried a knife, but two short blades would be poor protection against swords in the hands of killers. Worse, Reothe was crippled and she was holding Ashmyr.
The rebels made no move to leave. Tension rose another notch, wooing her with its sweet, cruel hunger for violence.
Imoshen felt empowered by the rebels’ fear and excitement. A laugh escaped her. Why was she thinking like a True-woman when she could turn their own violence back upon them? It was so tempting. Tension trickled from the pores of her body. Not one of them would meet her eyes.
“My people,” Reothe whispered. “Have you forgotten? I said the day would come when Imoshen and I would unite to lead Fair Isle.”
“But the Ghebite General isn’t dead!” the bitter woman objected.
The blind man had gravitated to his guide’s side, and Imoshen could see his six-fingered hands opening and closing. His senses were sharpened by the lack of sight. She could tell he was reacting to the buildup of her T’En gifts. Beads of sweat clung to his sun-bronzed forehead. The tang of his fear assailed her nostrils, exotic as any perfume.
“Yes, the General still lives,” Obazim said, his hatred making him impervious to the danger.
Imoshen focused on him. Bringing him to his knees would be sweet.
“For now,” Reothe conceded. “Because it suits me.”
Imoshen sensed the path Reothe wove between lies and half-truths. It made her wonder how many lies he had told her to gain her trust.
Obazim frowned. “General Tulkhan—”
“Serves me!” Reothe snapped. “He serves me by capturing Port Sumair and killing Gharavan. Do you think I want Fair Isle swarming with mainland soldiers again this summer?”
Imoshen’s vision faded as everything fell into place and she understood why Reothe was cooperating with her. She could feel him at her back, her beautiful betrayer. Her tension had to be expelled. She wanted to strike out. Their suffering and deaths would empower her further. Exultation filled her.
“T’Imoshen, the people will not leave.” Jarholfe opened the door, then stiffened as he took in the drawn weapons. He looked to Imoshen for orders. He was her tool. He would kill at her command. Death and bloodshed. It was hers to call down.
A savage joy flooded Imoshen. It both frightened and exhilarated her to discover that the T’En part of her would thrive on their deaths. No. The power was only a source; the outcome was hers to choose. Death or life.
“Not death. Hold your sword, Jarholfe.” It was a denial that sprang bone-deep. Imoshen moved before she could give in to the urge for violence. Her free hand covered the blind man’s face, fingertips spanning his closed lids.
His scream cut the air. As he dropped to his knees, she sank with him. The blind man plucked weakly at her arm, and a keening moan issued from his throat with each ragged breath. Imoshen was only vaguely aware of the others, of chairs turning over, of Reothe’s raised voice, and of fierce Ghebite accents. She focused on searing this man’s eyes clear of their milky film. It took three long breaths, and it was not gentle.
When she felt no more obstructions, she let her hand drop and he pitched face-first to the floor. His guide caught him. Cradling his head, she cast Imoshen a look of pure hatred.
Reothe pulled Imoshen to her feet. She found the room still and silent. Furniture had been broken, but no one had died while she was occupied. Instead, the rebels looked confused, as if they had forgotten the reason for their anger.
A sob escaped the woman on the floor. Everyone turned. She hugged the injured man to her breast. “How could you do this? You are a healer!”
“It was not gentle. I am sorry,” Imoshen whispered.
“Sorry?” Obazim demanded, but even he fought to recall his anger. “She reveals her true nature. Now do you see what she is, T’Reothe?”
“T’Imoshen?” Jarholfe prompted uneasily. He was still ready to kill at her command, but it relieved Imoshen to discover she did not crave their deaths.
She had averted bloodshed, yet the knowledge that it had come so close sat heavily on her. “‘Obazim, you and your companions are free to go. I will have no lives spent on this day. Go!”
Obazim shuddered and sheathed his sword.
Jarholfe held the door open as the rebels left. The blind man’s guide dragged him to his feet. He staggered, pressing his hands to his eyes.
“The dying man walks!” The crowd cried as Obazim appeared.
Fighting a hysterical urge to giggle, Imoshen joined Jarholfe.
“Do you want them followed and killed?” he asked.
She flinched. Was murder so easy for some people? “No. Let them go.”
Imoshen became aware of the growing silence as the entertainers turned their painted faces to her. The crowd would c
onsume her with their need.
Hugging Ashmyr, Imoshen lifted her left arm. She swept an arc, giving the Empress’s formal blessing, then let her hand fall, secretly dismayed to have laid claim to the Empress’s role. “Your T’En Healer tires. I can do no more this day.”
“Tomorrow?” one voice called, echoed by others.
Imoshen nodded. “Tomorrow, but then I must go to the capital if I am to avert war in the spring.”
They accepted this and Imoshen reached for Jarholfe’s arm. The physical contact told her that he was confused and angry but feared her too much to speak out. Blind with the gray mist of weariness, she leaned on him. “Take me inside.”
With Jarholfe’s aid, Imoshen entered the Tea-house and waited for her vision to clear. “Help me to the table, and then see to your men.”
Imoshen heard the mutter fade as the crowd moved off, heard the men moving tables outside, their voices tense.
“Wine?” Reothe asked.
“Reothe!” The baby gave a cry, startled by her tone. “How can you stand there and offer me wine when you will betray me first chance you get? I have it from your own lips!”
“You mistake me, Imoshen.” Reothe took one step back. “I told them only what they needed to hear. I had to buy time.”
“Time for what? Time for you to betray General Tulkhan?”
He backed into a table, steadying himself. “They were ready to kill, and so were you. I saw it in your eyes. You are the one who talks of compassion. Today I averted bloodshed. You could have taken one or two of them down with you, but what of Ashmyr and me? Do you think I could stand by and let them kill you? What possessed you to take vengeance on the blind one?”
A bitter laugh escaped her. “You are the one who is blind. And don’t talk to me of Ashmyr. I have often wondered why you treat him as if he were your own child. What did you do to my child before he was born?”
“T’En Healer must see me!” a familiar voice cried.
Imoshen went to rise, but before she could, the door was thrown open. A man broke free of Jarholfe’s men. He stumbled into the room, stopped, and glared around, blinking fiercely. When he saw Imoshen, he ran to her, dropping to his knees. “Why did you do it? I would have killed you.”
Smiling, Imoshen lifted his face so she could study his eyes. They were the clear golden-hazel of the farmer folk. “I am sorry it hurt you.”
“T’Imoshen,” he whispered, and tears ran freely down his cheeks. Clasping her free hand in his, he kissed her sixth finger. “I have done terrible things in the name of the T’En. but today I have seen what that name means.”
Imoshen shook her head, for today she had seen what she could become. The frenzy of their last few heartbeats as they fought for survival would have been incredibly sweet.
“Let me serve you, T’En Healer.”
“Serve me?” Imoshen shook her head. “All I ask is that you and your friends hold yourselves ready when I call for help. You owe me nothing. It is I who owe you.”
As he gave her the deep obeisance, lifting both hands to his forehead and backing out, Reothe muttered softly, “Do you win them over intentionally, Imoshen, or is it instinctive?”
She saw him with new eyes. When Reothe was whole, did the T’En side of him grow drunk on the suffering of others? She could tell he was trying to Read her. Pushing too far, he reopened the old wound and collapsed in a chair.
She should heal him. It was wrong to leave him vulnerable. It weakened her as well. Her first instinct was to go to him, but she did not. She sat there, listening to his ragged gasps, battling the urge to heal his gifts.
“Look what you have done to me,” he demanded, voice vibrating with anguish. “Cruelly crippled, I cannot help you. All I have left is my tongue. But when I use it to save us, you accuse me of betraying you!”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” Imoshen whispered. “Everything you say is plausible.” Guilt assailed her. He spoke with such sincerity, and his suffering was real. Imoshen poured wine, her hand trembling.
Ashmyr bobbed against her breast, hopeful for a feed. Absently, she changed his position. He drank greedily.
His sucking slowed and he looked up, as if to check that she was still there. Imoshen could not help smiling. His little six-fingered hand grasped her bodice, as if he would not let her escape. He was so precious. How could she protect him when her own life hung in the balance?
Like a physical sensation, she could feel Reothe watching them, and his claims about the baby returned. But she was terribly tired. Already she could feel the mind-numbing weariness she associated with an overextension of her gifts creeping up on her.
“Imoshen?” Reothe’s breath dusted her cheek. Startled, she looked up to find him kneeling at her side. “You must heal me, Imoshen. You need me at your back.”
He was right: His weakness made her vulnerable. But her eyes wouldn’t focus. “I must sleep.”
She heard him call the Tea-house keeper. They urged her to stand, to walk through a mist of nothingness, then to climb steps, so many steps. Then she felt a bed and welcoming cool sheets. When hands tried to take Ashmyr from her, she tightened her grip.
“Let him go. I’ll look after him,” Reothe urged.
No. Reothe would steal his soul. But the Ancients had already done that and returned it—for a price.
“Very well. Rest easy, Imoshen. I will watch over you.”
Strangely enough, she knew in this she could trust him.
Chapter Nine
When the lookouts signaled the mercenaries’ arrival, Tulkhan climbed the earthworks and held little Ban so that he could see his father’s return. Then Tulkhan sent orders to the cook to break out the beer and not stint on the evening meal.
But before they could celebrate, he had to meet the new mercenary leader and see this contract that Imoshen had signed on his behalf. In Gheeaba a woman would never sign a contract on her own behalf, let alone her husband’s. He smiled fondly. Typical of Imoshen—she had no idea how deeply she had insulted him.
It was just on dusk when Tulkhan met Lightfoot. After reading the contract, he had to admit he could not find fault with the terms. He pointed to the scrawl. “This is your name?”
The man nodded. “Lightfoot. Leader of the mercenaries. When I told the men the news...” He looked up at Tulkhan, his expression hard. “Tourez betrayed us. The men want his blood.”
“Get in line. I’ll add my signature and you can sign again,” Tulkhan said. “You made good time through the marshes.”
“I wouldn’t have said it was possible.”
“That’s twice we’ve done the impossible marsh trek. Your leader betrayed his men, Lightfoot. Why?”
The man spat. “He was outvoted by the other mercenary leaders.”
“But my offer was generous. My reputation as a commander outstrips my half-brother’s. Why would the mercenaries choose to fight on the losing side?”
“You wish me to speak frankly?”
“Always.”
“They don’t believe they fight on the losing side.”
Tulkhan accepted this without bluster. “Why not?”
“Vestaid,” Lightfoot said. The name was vaguely familiar to Tulkhan. “In the last year he has united three troops. His battle strategy is brilliant. The men are happy to follow him for profit and, who knows...”
“Glory?” Tulkhan suggested. It was not unknown for a mercenary leader to gain so much power he unseated the lord who had hired him. But surely this Vestaid did not think he could supplant the King of the Ghebites? If he did, he was playing for high stakes indeed, and he would not consider the loss of one mercenary troop too great a price to pay. Of course, he would not succeed. Tulkhan had yet to meet a man who could outwit him on the battlefield. “What do you know of this Vestaid?”
“There are two types of leaders—those who lead by example and those who lead by fear. Vestaid lets no strong man rise under him.”
“My half-brother should look to
his back,” Tulkhan muttered. The dinner horn sounded. “Come, meet my men.”
As they stepped out of the shelter their way was blocked by Rawset. He gave the Ghebite version of a bow to a foreigner whom he considered of lesser rank and, as he straightened, the flickering torchlight fell on his face. The mercenary muttered a surprised oath.
“Do you know each other?” Tulkhan asked.
“No.” Rawset frowned.
“I was mistaken,” said Lightfoot. “Your men are waiting.”
At the table Tulkhan opened a bottle of Gheeaban Vorsch and made the introductions as the drinks were poured. His men jokingly disparaged the locals’ warm, flat beer. If Tulkhan hadn’t seen Lightfoot’s reaction to Rawset, he would have said the man was at ease, but he knew the mercenary leader was hiding something.
Tulkhan studied the men around his table. Kornel took a seat, though it was clear some of Tulkhan’s men did not believe he deserved it. The marsh-dweller had retreated to the cooking fires with his son. The General almost missed little Ban.
The talk was of the journey, the trouble with the narcts, and the problems of getting even the relatively light supplies through the marshes.
“A toast.” Tulkhan stood. The men followed suit. “To our new allies, Lightfoot’s mercenaries.”
They drank, slamming their empty mugs on the table.
Tulkhan would have sat down, but the mercenary touched his goblet to his chest as was the Vaygharian custom. “To T’Imoshen and all who serve her.”
Tulkhan could understand impressionable young Rawset being overwhelmed by Imoshen. The youth probably half fancied himself in love with her. But Lightfoot was a hardened veteran who killed for profit. Tulkhan heard the question in his men’s voices as they repeated Lightfoot’s toast. They looked to Tulkhan for explanation. He shrugged it off, but he felt uneasy. Did the mercenary suspect Tulkhan was Imoshen’s tool?
“To my woman.” He raised his Vorsch. “May we all soon be back between the thighs of our women!”
Tulkhan detected a note of relief as his men roared their agreement.
“To General Tulkhan, Destroyer of the Spar!” one of his men announced. “Leveler of Port Sumair!”
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