DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

“Tell Banuld-Chi”—Tulkhan emphasized the honorific—“that there will be more if he returns to serve me of his own free will.”

  The words had barely left Kornel’s mouth when the marsh-dweller stepped forward and dropped to one knee. Grasping Tulkhan’s free hand, he raised it to his lips and uttered the Ghebite word for thanks.

  Tulkhan noted that when Banuld-Chi’s hands went to the boy it was to hug him, not to paw the necklace, and he knew his assessment of the man’s character was correct. Still speaking his words of thanks, the marsh-dweller backed out.

  “Why did you give him the gold?” Kornel demanded. “It would have been enough to tell him it was to be his after he served you. Now you’ll never see him again!”

  “We will see which of us has judged the man correctly. Meanwhile, go with him. Take the boats back to the river’s entrance and await the supplies.”

  Realizing he had overstepped his position, Kornel gave a stiff bow and backed out.

  “Do you think I have thrown away my guide?” Tulkhan asked Rawset.

  The young emissary shook his head. “I can see why T’Imoshen believes in you.”

  Tulkhan thought it was a strange thing for a Ghebite soldier to say, but he was eager to get Rawset’s reaction to the new standard. “Take a look at this. It will be the dawn of a new royal house. The sun and its rays will be golden. The lower section will be sea-blue. I want you to take this design to Imoshen. Her seamsters can make up the banners. They will fly from every ship and from every tower of T’Diemn. I want them gleaming on the battlefield.” He indicated his cloak, which was flung over a chair. “If Gharavan were to lead a sortie from the port tomorrow, my men would be wearing the same colors as his. I need cloaks of sea-blue for all my men and plumes of gold.”

  Display was vital. Tulkhan knew from experience that if a man looked the part, he felt part of a greater whole. He wanted his new banner flying on the field so that when Gharavan looked down he did not see the banished concubine’s son of a dead Ghebite king, but the ruler of Fair Isle. “Leave me now.”

  Rawset departed, and Tulkhan felt the fire of his vision stir in his belly. This was not the fire of conquering for its own sake. The riches he saw in Fair Isle’s future were not the kind you could measure on a jeweler’s scale. He was imbued with a sense of purpose greater than himself and he longed to share this with Imoshen, sure she would be as inspired as he was. With this in mind he sat down to finish the letter.

  At last he stretched his cramped hand and read back what he had written, adding one last sentence. I know you see this future too, because you spoke of it the day we stood overlooking Landsend. He wanted to write of how he had taken her in his arms that day and how he longed to do so now, but it was not the Ghebite way to speak of these things.

  Dropping melted wax on the folded message, he stared at the growing wax blob. He needed his own official seal. So far he had used his father’s ring seal. But he had no right to that seal, to anything Gheeaban.

  With the tip of his knife he drew a rising sun in the wax puddle before it could dry. Would Imoshen notice? Would she make the connection? He smiled to himself. It was a little test.

  Rawset returned and Tulkhan gave him the sealed message. “Deliver this into her own hands and see that she breaks the seal herself.”

  “So be it. I sail tonight for T’Diemn.”

  “Kornel will take the skiffs back to the mouth of the marsh river to await the supplies. Unless there is a message for me, stay with T’Imoshen.” Tulkhan wondered how he could tell this idealistic young man that he wanted him to report on what was happening in T’Diemn. He needed to know if there was any truth behind Jarholfe’s message. “Be aware of what goes on around her. There are many enemies who would do harm to our cause, and not all of them live on the mainland.”

  “I understand,” Rawset said, but Tulkhan doubted.

  As Rawset left, Lightfoot entered the shelter, saying, “You sent the marsh-dweller and his son home?”

  “If he returns, it will be because he chooses to serve me.”

  “Choice!” Lightfoot muttered, rubbing his forehead, and Tulkhan wondered if he was missing something. Lightfoot looked up at the sky; no stars were visible tonight. “Looks like rain.”

  Tulkhan nodded. His miners would not welcome rain. Already one of the shafts had collapsed and had to be dug out and reinforced.

  That evening Imoshen and Reothe ate in Windhaven Hall, where the farm girl Kalleen was now the mistress.

  “My ambassadors should be on the mainland by now,” Imoshen said as the servants took away the last of the plates, leaving Kalleen, Imoshen, and Reothe alone. Jarholfe had opted to eat in the courtyard with his men. The hall was not big enough to seat over thirty people. Windhaven was not a large estate, and the home was little more than a fortified farmhouse.

  Imoshen pushed her plate aside. The meal had been uncomfortably formal. “So, tell me, Kalleen, what do you think of Windhaven? The soil is good and the people friendly.”

  “My lady?” A tentative voice spoke.

  Kalleen signaled for the woman to approach.

  “Some people want to see the T’En Healer. One has the bone ache, another coughs blood, two more—”

  “Send them in.” Imoshen came to her feet. “Have someone bring the herbs from my baggage.” She put the sleeping baby in his basket on the floor before the fire and leaned closer to Kalleen. “I would speak with you later.”

  She turned to Reothe. “You might as well go. This could take hours.”

  Ashmyr stirred and Reothe soothed him. At that moment the woman returned with the first of the locals, a farmer whose body was twisted with the bone ache. As Imoshen dealt with the old man, he cast Reothe a speculative glance. She realized that while the rebel leader rocked the conqueror’s son, the locals would assume Ashmyr was Reothe’s child. Was this his intention or simply chance?

  A constant stream of locals shuffled across the ancient flagstones. Some needed only a few herbs and words of encouragement. With others Imoshen had to call on her gift. When Ashmyr fell asleep, Reothe placed the basket on the floor by his chair and observed her. She tried to ignore his presence. But even if she had been able to disregard the tension in her body, she would have been reminded by the way the villagers glanced shyly at him, offering their thanks to both the T’En as though she and Reothe were two sides of a coin.

  At last there were no more True-people to be healed and Imoshen packed away her depleted herbs, weary yet satisfied. Reothe rose, stretching like a great cat, flexing and tensing the muscles on the weak side of his body.

  “I’m sorry if you were bored,” Imoshen snapped, unsettled.

  “Bored? Never. Besides, it is good for them to see me with you when you heal.” He saw she did not understand. “When you use your gifts, I am included in your nimbus of power.”

  Imoshen gasped, annoyed because she had not anticipated this.

  He shrugged, amused.

  She slung the herb satchel across one shoulder, then knelt to pick up Ashmyr’s basket. “I thank you for reminding me what you are, Reothe!”

  “No one can forget what we are, Imoshen. We wear our heritage on our faces.”

  “I must go.”

  “Yes. Kalleen will be waiting, no doubt.”

  Imoshen felt the heat rise in her face. “She is my friend.”

  “Kalleen is a True-woman who fears you.”

  “You don’t understand. You see betrayal everywhere, and because of it you cannot trust or be trusted.” She felt sick at heart. “I won’t become like you, Reothe.”

  “You didn’t grow up in the court of the old empire!”

  But she refused to acknowledge this and climbed the stairs to her room, where she found Kalleen dozing in a chair by the fire. At the soft click of the latch, Kalleen gave a little start. For a heartbeat her unguarded face betrayed her wariness, and Imoshen cloaked her dismay. She knelt to place Ashmyr in front of the fire, then looked past his sleeping form to Kalleen
. “Thank you for waiting.”

  “You have had word from Wharrd?”

  Imoshen bit her lip and Kalleen looked away to hide her disappointment. “I am here to place a special trust upon you.”

  Kalleen’s features revealed caution and curiosity.

  Imoshen stroked Ashmyr’s cheek, tears blurring her vision. “He is so small and defenseless. If anything were to happen—”

  Kalleen anticipated her. “Please don’t ask this of me!”

  “These are desperate times. Unless Tulkhan defeats King Gharavan, we face war in the spring. Fair Isle is rife with dissension. The Ghebite commanders, Reothe’s rebels, and the Keldon nobles are ready to take up arms against one another. I ask this of you. If something happens to me, look after Ashmyr.”

  Kalleen’s eyes widened. “Have you seen your deaths?”

  Imoshen shook her head and brushed tears from her cheeks. “Swear you will take care of my son if I die.”

  “I swear,” Kalleen whispered. “But I don’t see how I can save him if you can’t. If the worst comes to pass, I will be fleeing Fair Isle with nothing but the clothes I wear and two children. Or did you forget I am with child?”

  Imoshen had not forgotten. Kalleen could expect to carry her child around six small moons. Imoshen knew her own pure T’En babe would be carried eight small moons, one year from conception to birth. It would be nearly the cusp of autumn before her child would be born. Then, if Tulkhan denied her, he would drive her into allegiance with Reothe. No wonder she found it hard to take joy in the pregnancy, but the babe itself was innocent. Her hand settled protectively over her flat belly.

  “What is it?” Kalleen covered Imoshen’s hand. “Are you ill?”

  “No.” Imoshen smiled. “I want to leave a message in your mind for the day you may need it.” She saw Kalleen’s imminent refusal and hurried on. “I promise that is all, and the message will not surface if you never need it.”

  “How...” Kalleen swallowed. “How will you do it?”

  Relief flooded Imoshen. “It won’t hurt. I promise.”

  “Very well. Let’s get it over with.”

  Imoshen stood. “Come to the bed. Is your wound healed?”

  “Yes. Only the proud flesh of the scar remains.” Kalleen climbed up onto the bed and lay back. She undid the drawstring of her nightgown, turning her face away as Imoshen pulled the material apart to reveal her breasts, now swollen because she was in the first stage of her pregnancy. Below her left breast was a puckered scar, evidence of Drake’s attack.

  “Do you trust me, Kalleen?”

  Their eyes met. “I want to.”

  “Then listen to me.” Imoshen began to sing a T’En lullaby that her great-aunt used to croon to her, tracing a circle on Kalleen’s abdomen in time to the rhythm. When she felt the familiar metallic taste on her tongue and the ache in her teeth, she knew her gifts were moving. Kalleen’s breathing slowed as her body relaxed.

  Imoshen focused on the scar. She ran her finger over its puckered surface. The skin stirred like soft white sand. Still humming, Imoshen drew a map of her family’s Stronghold on Kalleen’s abdomen, stretching and elongating the thin, silver scar tissue to define the shape. When this was done she touched the tip of her sixth finger to the spot where she and the Aayel had hidden the family’s wealth.

  It was a king’s ransom, because that was what they’d thought it would be for. They had feared the Ghebite General would capture their family and demand gold for their safe return. But he hadn’t. He had simply slaughtered them. She must not forget what kind of man Tulkhan was. Strange, the man she knew did not mesh with his past actions.

  The treasure cache contained more than enough gold and precious jewels for Kalleen to flee Fair Isle a wealthy woman. Imoshen placed this knowledge in the deep cavern of Kalleen’s mind, safely hidden until the day she might need it.

  Sealing it with a little spurt of her will, Imoshen discovered she was weary beyond thought. Kalleen slept deeply. It was all Imoshen could do to lie down beside her before she lost all sense of self.

  Imoshen woke at dawn with Kalleen’s warm body tucked around hers and the girl’s soft cheek on her shoulder. If the baby hadn’t been working up a cry, Imoshen would not have moved. She nudged Kalleen, who pushed the hair from her face, blinking owlishly. Imoshen went to the baby, and Kalleen sat up, then noticed her nightgown was still undone.

  “I tried to smooth your scar, but—”

  “It does not matter.” Kalleen pulled the drawstring closed as Imoshen undid her bodice. “So, you left your message?”

  Imoshen nodded. “To thank you seems inadequate.”

  “Then don’t.” Kalleen laughed, but it was almost a shudder. “I pray the day never comes.”

  “So do I.”

  Chapter Ten

  Imoshen’s heart lifted as she approached Fair Isle’s capital. Truly, T’Diem lived up to its fabled beauty. Bathed in gentle afternoon light, the sandstone buildings glowed. The old city was built on hills, bounded by defensive walls constructed during the Age of Consolidation. New T’Diemn lay around the outskirts, twice as large again. Riding down the broad road to the new city’s north gate, Imoshen was relieved to see that Tulkhan’s fortifications were progressing well. The ditches and towers were almost completed.

  She had intended to slip quietly into the capital, but from the moment she identified herself to the gate guards, news of her arrival preceded her. People came out in droves to see Imoshen with T’Reothe riding proud beside her. They pointed and whispered, and she knew every conceivable rumor was taking life.

  Was T’Reothe reconciled, or was he playing a double game? Their Protector General was on the mainland laying siege to Port Sumair. What if he failed to defeat his half-brother? The people of T’Diemn had experienced King Gharavan’s cruelty firsthand, and Imoshen felt the weight of their expectation.

  A crowd gathered in the square before the palace of a thousand rooms. Once Imoshen had dreaded entering the palace, overwhelmed by its myriad passages, army of servants, and seething court factions. Now she saw it as a beautiful, flawed pearl, an aggregate of buildings added to and literally overlaid by her ancestors during six hundred years of T’En rule. The original building, which had been rebuilt after the fire of sixty-four, lay deep within, enfolded by later additions.

  Of all the towers, Sard’s was the tallest, built by Empress T’Abularassa. Together with the first Beatific, she had created the Tractarians to contain Sardonyx when he went rogue and led the revolt that saw the palace burned. Imoshen looked up at the Grieving Towers erected by the families of rogue T’En, and her throat grew tight with emotion.

  Reothe claimed the Church had betrayed the T’En, yet the Tractarians had given their lives many times to protect Fair Isle from dangerous T’En. Until now she had always seen this as a noble sacrifice; however, their history had been written by the survivors. But, as Reothe said, who decided what was treason?

  The most recent stoning was T’Obazim’s. Imoshen’s great-aunt had witnessed his death as a young girl and lived in fear for the rest of her life. With a shiver, Imoshen turned her attention to the church’s center of power.

  Directly opposite the palace, the basilica’s great golden dome gleamed in the afternoon sun. This building rivaled the palace in complexity and beauty. Careful to accord the Church’s leader due honor, Imoshen led their party to the basilica’s steps, where the Beatific stood flanked by high-ranking officials. While offering formal greetings to the Beatific, Imoshen wondered what report Seculate Donyx had sent by fast horse.

  She deliberately turned away so that she did not have to watch the meeting between the Beatific and Reothe. Did the woman within the Beatific still love Reothe?

  Imoshen sensed an intensity that equaled hers and searched the ranks of the church hierarchy until she found Murgon, leader of the Tractarians. His unguarded expression was a window to his mind. He not only feared Reothe, he envied him. It was a dangerous combination.

&
nbsp; With a sigh, she urged her horse across the square to greet the palace staff, who had assembled on the steps. It wasn’t until she had formally been welcomed by all those persons who thought it necessary to receive direct instructions that Imoshen could retire to a small study. She enjoyed the simple lines of this room, with its desk of inlaid polished wood and tripod chairs. It had been decorated in the Age of Discernment, when elegance was valued above opulence.

  Taking over the candle lighter’s job, she instructed him to send for Wharrd, but he reported that the commander was in the south, conferring with the Keldon nobles. Imoshen sighed; she had hoped to hear Wharrd’s report. “Then please send food.”

  Servants soon arrived. Soundlessly, they placed the food trays on the desk before leaving. Spreading out paper and tapping the ink from her scriber, Imoshen prepared to work, only to be interrupted by Jarholfe.

  “Yes?” She looked up.

  “The Elite Guard is greatly depleted. Do you want me to assign men from the general army to be trained?”

  Imoshen frowned. Unlike her own Stronghold Guard, she did not trust the Elite Guard. She wished she could dismiss Jarholfe, wished there were no need to fear treachery and assassination. “Provide me with a list of the Elite Guard who remain in T’Diemn and their skills.” Even as she spoke, she recalled that he could not write. Someone knocked. “Enter.”

  Imoshen’s heart sank as the Ghebite priest strode in, his ornate surplice swinging with each step. Since arriving in T’Diemn, the Cadre had been as contemptuous of other beliefs as he had been vocal in preaching his warrior god’s path. Jarholfe met his eyes, then looked quickly away.

  The Cadre gave an abbreviated Ghebite bow. “I am here to offer my services, Lady Protector. In his haste to defeat his half-brother’s army, General Tulkhan has been remiss. He cannot expect a woman to rule Fair Isle in his absence.”

  Imoshen came to her feet. “On the contrary, in the presence of his commanders and Elite Guard the General said I was to be his Voice.”