DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Tulkhan acknowledged their support as he resumed his seat. In his nineteenth year his father had taken a serious wound. At the same time a band of hardy rebels had retreated to an outcropping of rocks known as the Spar. He had not thought of that campaign in years. But it had been similar—a siege.

  Lying at the end of a range of hills, with a full day’s walk up steep ravines, single file, the fortified outcropping was believed impregnable. His father had told him to take it. All resistance had to be crushed, especially when the king lay deathly ill. So Tulkhan had force-marched his men up the treacherous paths in the dark, carrying their full weapon kits. The engineers had carried their disassembled siege machines. At dawn, when they reached the Spar’s defenses, their appearance had astounded the defenders.

  Once the walls fell, Tulkhan had ordered his men to kill every last person. This victory had won him his father’s respect and the generalship of the army, which led him to Sumair and this siege.

  Tulkhan grinned as conversation grew steadily more ribald. Kornel was telling a long story in extremely bad taste about a camp follower and a soldier. The others laughed and egged him on.

  When the food arrived, the men greeted this with good humor. They had fresh supplies with chickens, eggs, and rabbits. Tulkhan snorted—next thing he knew they’d bring in cows and goats. If the siege lasted long enough, they’d end up farmers.

  The men’s laughter and jests flowed past Tulkhan into the night. Within hearing distance were many campfires. This jovial meal would reassure the common soldiers.

  Once again the talk had turned to women as the men bemoaned the lack of camp followers. Just then Tulkhan looked up and caught the mercenary watching him. Imoshen had seemed certain of the man’s loyalty. The General’s hand went to his chest where he felt Imoshen’s message pressed against his skin, its creases as familiar as the words.

  In salute, Lightfoot lifted one hand to his forehead, touching the first two fingers of his hand to the place where some cultures believed the third eye lay dormant in all but the greatest of Seers. Tulkhan found the gesture oddly familiar, though he did not recognize it as Vaygharian.

  For two days now Imoshen had fought a silent mental battle. If she left Reothe’s gifts crippled, it made them both vulnerable to True-men. But if she healed him, Reothe would use his gifts to achieve his goals, and these were not hers.

  Pausing before the polished mirror, Imoshen wondered what to wear. Tonight she needed her wits about her, for they stayed in Chalkcliff Abbey and she was to dine with Seculate Donyx and Reothe, both enemies, under the guise of friendship.

  She selected a skull cap of finely beaten electrum, setting it on her head. Tiny pearl beads hung on small chains in an arc across her forehead, linked to a central ruby that caught the light with the same inner fire as her eyes. To complement this she chose a mulberry gown of richest velvet, laced tight under her bodice. Lastly, she wore a choker of pearls with a central ruby.

  Taking Ashmyr in his basket, she stepped out of her room to find Reothe waiting across the hall from her. He wore mulberry velvet with deep brocade cuffs. These were embroidered in the finest silver thread so that they flashed when he straightened and prowled toward her, making her heart thud. She had noticed that his limp was more pronounced in the evening, but tonight there was no sign of it. He had ridden in the wagon today, and now she knew why: He wanted to be alert and physically capable. Her skin prickled with a presentiment of danger.

  “T’Imoshen.” Only he could roll her name off his tongue with full High T’En intonation. He offered his strong right arm.

  “T’Reothe. You appear to be well,” she said, letting him know she understood his tricks.

  “And you appear to be everything the T’En should be.”

  “Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?” she asked softly as they walked down the hall toward the abbey’s refractory, where the Seculate and his priests awaited them.

  Her arm lay along his, her fingers closed over his hand. Through this touch she could feel the slight roll to his step as he compensated for, and hid, the weakness in his left side.

  “I merely made an observation on your appearance. You must know you are beautiful.” His voice caressed her senses, deep and intimate. “Whether you have the strength of purpose to match that beauty, only time will tell.”

  “And I suppose you have the strength of purpose?”

  They entered a courtyard illuminated by small lanterns under the arches. The air was cool, perfumed with the heady scent of night-blooming roses. Imoshen could hear exquisite singing drifting from the chapel, carried on the evening breeze.

  He held her eyes. “I do not doubt myself. Can you say the same?”

  She gasped at his arrogance, then chose to reply with a High T’En saying. “The wise know in life, only death is certain.”

  He laughed. “How can you say that when you cheated death of your own son? What price did the Ancients ask of you, Imoshen?”

  But she would not answer, and they traversed the courtyard in silence. Stepping through an arch, they entered the refractory. A stillness settled on the hall’s inhabitants. Even the Seculate stopped in mid-step.

  Balancing the baby’s basket on her hip, Imoshen gave them the Empress’s blessing. “Chalkcliff Abbey honors the last of the T’En with its hospitality.” Imoshen smiled but she felt heavier, weighed down by the knowledge that she was slipping deeper and deeper into a role she had never wanted.

  Seculate Donyx hurried forward, as fast as his dignity would allow. The formal words of greeting tripped from his lips, but all the while he watched them. Imoshen returned his gaze, careful to reveal nothing.

  When the Seculate introduced them to the elders of the abbey, Imoshen sensed Reothe’s strength fading. She should heal him, speak with him later tonight, and extract some kind of promise.

  The Seculate led them into his private chamber, where a low table awaited them, bounded on three sides by cushioned couches. Apparently Seculate Donyx held with the old high-court practice of eating while reclining, something the Emperor and Empress had retained for intimate dinners.

  Imoshen placed Ashmyr’s basket beside her and began the elaborate wine pouring ceremony. A pot of sweetened, spiced wine sat on the brass burner to maintain the right temperature. Aware of the Seculate and Reothe watching her, Imoshen’s hands moved in the formal patterns of preparation, pouring then presenting the fragile porcelain cups.

  The ceremony over, she stretched out on the couch while the meal was served. Imoshen nibbled a little of this and that, one hand absently stroking Ashmyr’s back as Reothe and the Seculate discussed a theological argument that had been going on for two generations. The finer points were debatable, but the basic question was impossible to resolve. She had never found it interesting, since the whole point of the argument seemed to be outdoing the opponent by quoting tracts from obscure T’En tomes.

  It amused her to learn that Reothe had written a book on the subject, and a copy was delivered from the abbey library so that passages could be quoted.

  The remains of their food were cleared from the table, and palate-cleansing sweets arrived. Then these too were removed, and still the Seculate and Reothe showed no signs of quitting the table. The evening stretched out like a long tunnel before Imoshen. Sounds became thick and disjointed. Waves of weariness washed over her as her eyelids grew heavy. Though she tried to stay awake, she caught herself slipping lower and lower on the couch. She must not fall asleep at the Seculate’s private banquet.

  Struggling to lift herself onto one elbow, she swung her legs over the edge of the couch and felt the floor heave beneath her feet. This was not right. She’d been drugged. Panic made her fight it. “Reothe?”

  Suddenly he was kneeling before her, though no time seemed to have elapsed since he had been reclining opposite. Focusing on his face with great difficulty, she lifted heavy arms to his shoulders to hold herself upright.

  “The food was drugged.” Her words we
re slurred.

  “I know.”

  “I cannot stay awake.”

  “That you can still talk is an achievement.”

  She blinked, trying to focus on his face. Suddenly it hit her. He was not drugged. “You... you—”

  “Go to sleep, Imoshen. No harm will come to you, and what you do not know, you cannot reveal.”

  This seemed to make sense. Reothe had asked Seculate Donyx to drug her so that they could talk treason. She caught Reothe’s arm as he went to rise. “Why now? Why not talk later when I would have been sleeping?”

  “Jarholfe watches me like a dog with a bone. He cannot carry back word of this meeting if he believes you are present and no treasonous talk passed between us.”

  Imoshen nodded; already she was slipping away. “One thing. Ashmyr—”

  “Is safe. Sleep, Imoshen.”

  And then she was lost, drifting down through layers of consciousness. What had they given her? Her herbal training prompted her to analyze the sensations, but all too soon she lost the thread, lost all sense of time and place.

  Imoshen was wakened by Reothe’s insistent voice and an abominable scent. “Phew!”

  “I’m afraid you will have a headache. I cannot let you sleep off the drug. You must walk to your chamber,” Reothe said.

  She struggled to focus on his face. The room was empty, and the candles had all burned out, except the one Reothe held. Her head thumped.

  “I will carry Ashmyr. Can you walk?”

  “Of course I can walk!” she snapped, but had to bend double when she stood too quickly. “I hope your treasonous talk went well!”

  He laughed softly, offering her his free arm. “Put away your claws. The mouse has gone.”

  He urged her through the door. She blinked several times to clear her vision. But the walk to her bedchamber was strangely disjointed. At one point they were in the deserted refractory, then the next in the courtyard with the cool night air sighing over the bare skin of her shoulders, and then she was in her room with no memory of walking down the hall. Fear replaced anger.

  “... my lady?” It was Jarholfe speaking.

  Imoshen wondered how she appeared to him. Stunned and drugged, or tired and aloof? He did not look suspicious.

  “Will there be anything else, my lady?” he asked, glancing at Reothe, who was placing the baby’s basket beside the bed. He was reluctant to leave her alone with Reothe, but she did not want Jarholfe to realize she had been drugged.

  She could not betray Reothe to a True-man, a Ghebite at that. “Leave me.”

  Jarholfe gave a cold, furious bow and walked out.

  “And you can go too, Reothe.” Imoshen was mortified. She had come close to healing him, only to discover that her judgment was wrong. “I do not like being drugged. Why must you flaunt your treason before me?”

  “Only those who write Fair Isle’s history will know who worked treason. Was it T’Imoshen who joined with the invader of Fair Isle, or T’Reothe who sought to restore—”

  “You twist everything!” Imoshen muttered. But he had made his point. Suddenly the fight went out of her. “Damn you.”

  Reothe stroked her cheek. She looked up at him, feeling a kinship that went beyond the blood they shared. If only...

  “You want me to absolve you of all other vows so that you can give yourself to me without guilt. But I can’t do that, Imoshen. You must renounce your vow to General Tulkhan. Only then can we know the full potential of our T’En gifts. Renounce him, heal me. It is that simple.”

  She froze. “You sensed my thoughts.”

  “I read your face.”

  But she did not know what to believe. If he was regaining his gifts, if he realized how deeply he had penetrated her defenses... “You would have me believing black was white. Leave me. My head is thumping fit to burst!”

  He mocked her with the old-empire obeisance reserved for the Empress, then left.

  Tulkhan rode along on the newly constructed rampart. Below him the mercenaries’ campfires were already alight, their thin plumes of smoke rising on the still, dawn air. The troop’s standard lay limp against the pole. Every mercenary would follow it to their death. He needed his own standard to lead his men into battle. Gharavan’s slur on his parentage and right to rule still stung.

  The night had been very cold and now the sun rose over Fair Isle, which was cloaked by cloud, full of mystery. His heart swelled. For him Fair Isle represented beauty and promise, and Imoshen was Fair Isle.

  Imoshen had once begged him, in his haste to claim the island, not to destroy what was good in T’En culture. He had already taken steps to fashion a new society, one after his own heart. He would invite the greatest minds of the mainland to T’Diemn. It would be the dawn of a new era.

  Tulkhan’s vision glazed over. The sun’s rays pierced the low cloud, breaking through in golden shafts, and he knew that the symbol of his reign would be the dawn sun.

  He smiled ruefully. The dawn sun was most appropriate; the royal T’En symbol was the twin moons on a midnight-blue sky. As the moons set on the house of T’En, he and Imoshen would create a royal house that was both old and new. Ashmyr was their dawn. At that moment Tulkhan realized the Ancients had returned Ashmyr’s life because the boy had a destiny to fulfill. He must unite Fair Isle. Tulkhan left his horse with the handlers, returning to his shelter, eager to set ink to paper.

  A short while later Kornel backed through the flap with a tray. He placed the fresh bread cakes on the table. The scent of warm beer and hot bread made Tulkhan’s mouth water. “Take a seat. Have something to eat.” He put his drawings away and lifted a leather thong strung with triangular gold beads. “What do you think? This much for Banuld-Chi?”

  The merchant captain eyed the yellow metal with carefully concealed avarice. “What use is gold to a marsh-dweller? It won’t keep his feet dry.”

  Tulkhan laughed. “True. But I promised him payment.”

  Kornel’s comment was crude.

  Tulkhan acknowledged this. Banuld and his son were lucky to be alive. Most commanders would have killed them once their usefulness was passed. But if Tulkhan wanted to see his vision for Fair Isle come to fruition, he had to be at peace with his neighbors, even if they were lowly marsh-dwellers.

  Thoughtfully, he watched the triangular gold beads catch the light. Funny. Gold meant nothing to him. It was only a means to an end. He felt the weight of the neck thong compared to the weight of the rod and remaining beads. The rumors of Fair Isle’s wealth had not been exaggerated. These easily stacked rods with their triangular beads were a common sight in any prosperous merchant’s counting room.

  What better use for gold than paving the path of peace? With a smile, he took off two more beads and added them to the leather thong.

  “I reward those who are loyal to me,” Tulkhan told Kornel. The merchant captain would be more helpful if he thought he would be well-rewarded. “Tell me, Kornel, could you find the way back through the marshes to the village?”

  The man’s mouth opened and closed once. “Yes.”

  “You’re sure? I will have need of that route to bring in more supplies.” Kornel nodded. “Then send in Banuld-Chi.”

  He left, and Tulkhan placed the rod with its remaining gold beads in the chest under his table.

  While waiting for the men to return, Tulkhan wrote to Imoshen, telling her of the marsh-dweller and little Ban. He wrote of Lightfoot and his mercenaries, and of providing Rawset with a fast ship and appointing him their emissary. But he did not write of the way he ached to hold her and how he missed her concise mind and acute humor. If anything, distance had sharpened his need for her.

  Rawset pushed the flap open. “I heard you were about to dismiss the marsh-dweller.”

  Tulkhan let the letter roll shut. “Yes. Why?”

  “You may need to use the marsh path again.”

  “I intend to. Kornel will be the guide.”

  “I came back here by ship, so I was not with Light
foot and Kornel, but...”

  Tulkhan had noticed an unlikely friendship developing between the failed priest and the grizzled mercenary. “What?”

  “Lightfoot told me Kornel insisted on leading their way, and twice he would have taken the wrong path but the marsh-dweller stopped him, scouted ahead, and came back to report the way had closed. Lightfoot likened the marsh paths to the floating islands, which are carried by tides and winds.”

  Tulkhan sank his chin onto his cupped hand.

  “I thought you should know,” Rawset offered, then glanced through the shelter’s flap. “Here they come.”

  Rawset stepped aside as Kornel entered with the marsh-dweller and his son. Tulkhan realized that he should have learned more than the marsh-dweller’s words for food and sleep, but he had thought their association was going to be brief. “Have you told Banuld-Chi I am about to send him home, Kornel?” The man’s eager expression was his answer. “Translate this for me. Do the marsh paths move?”

  Kornel’s mouth opened and closed. He cast Rawset a swift glance, his eyes narrowing. “They move, but I can find my way.”

  “You might be willing to risk your life, but I will not risk the lives of my men.” Tulkhan overrode him quietly but firmly. “I want the truth, Kornel.”

  The marsh-dweller asked something, his concern evident. Kornel’s answer was swift and brutal. The man’s expression darkened. The boy clutched his father’s hand.

  On impulse Tulkhan beckoned. “Come, Ban.”

  The father stiffened as his son went to Tulkhan without hesitation. The General stroked the boy’s head, feeling his braided hair. “Kornel, tell Banuld-Chi he can take his son home to his mother. I ask him to return to serve me.” Tulkhan held up the necklace of gold. “Pretty, Ban?” The boy nodded, understanding the meaning if not the words. Tulkhan slid the necklace over his head. “This is a present for his mother.”

  Kornel’s translation faltered, and a spasm of anger colored his face.