But the Cadre continued. “Fortunately, Lord Commander Wharrd remains in Fair Isle; together with myself and Jarholfe, we will be able to guide you.”
“What would you advise, Cadre?” Imoshen asked silkily.
“Make an example of this rebel leader. Execute him and outlaw all those who would support him,” he urged. “I had reports that the Keldon nobles were massing on the plains. They have since dispersed, but their threat must be contained. Confiscate the estates of the troublemakers. As for the rest, take their eldest sons hostage—”
A door-comb scratched on the door’s tang. By the comb’s tone Imoshen knew it was a noble from the old empire and guessed it to be Reothe. He entered before she could think of a way of dismissing him. Reothe’s gaze swept the room’s inhabitants, and when his eyes met hers they held a question.
“The Cadre was offering me much the same advice you offered in T’Ronynn’s Tower,” Imoshen explained. The priest’s confusion made her smile.
“Palace intrigue is not for the fainthearted,” Reothe said.
A spasm of hatred, quickly masked, traveled across Jarholfe’s features, and the Cadre would have spoken but Imoshen forestalled him. “I thank you for your offer of assistance, Cadre. If I am in need of your advice I will send for you.” She included them both in a gesture. “You are dismissed.”
They backed out, seething.
“A pair of snakes,” Reothe remarked. “The Cadre hates you. It’s not surprising, when minstrels from one end of Fair Isle to the other sing of how you shamed him.”
“I caught him smashing our hothouses. I could not let him destroy the herbs that control fertility. He would reduce women to breeding cows.” Imoshen sat wearily. “Every day I battle to educate these barbarians, but I fear the Ghebites are blinded by their culture.”
“That, and fear. I don’t need my gifts to smell Jarholfe’s fear of us.” Reothe lopped off a wedge of cheese, eating it from the knife like a farmer. “Watch him.”
“I have plans for Jarholfe, and the security of the palace will not be his responsibility.”
“And what is my responsibility? Or am I to be your lap-dog?” Reothe gestured with the knife. “Give me something to do, Imoshen!”
His barely contained tension made her gift flare. She forced it down and poured a glass of wine. Since Chalkcliff Abbey, she had decided caution was the safest path with Reothe. She dare not heal him. “I need you to inspect the city’s new defenses. I want to know how close they are to completion. Tell me if you can spot any weaknesses.”
A servant’s door-comb sounded. “Emissary Rawset wishes to speak with you.”
Imoshen rose, pushing her untouched wine aside. She could not bring herself to read Tulkhan’s message under Reothe’s mocking gaze. She picked up the baby’s basket. “Send Rawset to my bedchamber.”
Reothe stabbed another piece of cheese. “Entertaining yet another man in your bedchamber, Imoshen?”
“I work for the good of Fair Isle. Be grateful I do not drug you while I discuss matters of state!” She headed for the door.
“Do not be so sure of your high moral ground. Remember, the historians decide who works treason!”
The sound of his laughter followed her out of the room, echoing in her head as she strode the long gallery. She doubted if the palace would ever be big enough to share with Reothe.
Her chambers had been warmed and lit and her clothes unpacked. She was used to the opulence now and barely noticed the walls’ inlaid amber panels, other than to appreciate the glow reflected from the candles.
Imoshen placed Ashmyr’s basket near the fire and tucked the blanket under his chin. There was barely time to straighten before a servant scratched discreetly at the door, announcing Rawset.
He gave her the Ghebite obeisance, following this with the T’En court greeting, taking her hand and kissing her sixth finger. “You are safely returned to us.”
“Why would I not be safe?” Imoshen asked.
“There is talk of rebel bands roaming the countryside. I’d heard stories and feared—”
“We took our time and we had no trouble on the road.” This was strictly true. “What word from the General?”
Rawset removed a message from inside his cloak. “From his hands to yours.”
Imoshen smiled. She felt much older than Rawset, yet she suspected he was at least five years her senior. Taking the message to her desk, she wished him gone so that she could pore over every word alone with the General’s memory.
The seal was odd. It looked as if someone had drawn in the hot wax. Why hadn’t Tulkhan used his usual seal, the rearing stallion, the Ghebite god’s symbol? Perhaps this new seal was visible evidence of a shift in the General’s thinking.
Carefully, Imoshen pried the wax away from the paper and spread the sheets. It was all as she expected until she came to his plans for a new standard. Blue and gold—the dawn sun rising over a new era for Fair Isle. Her throat tightened and tears of loss stung her eyes. She had witnessed the old empire’s death throes, but General Tulkhan’s plans reopened the wound.
The T’En twin moons had set and Tulkhan’s house was in ascendancy. So be it. Wiping her eyes, Imoshen focused on the design for Fair Isle’s new standard. “I will inspect the cloth merchants for appropriate materials and speak with the seamsters on the morrow, Rawset.”
“General Tulkhan said I was to return with the finished banners and cloaks.”
“Cloaks for a whole army? I will have to see what the cloth merchants have in stock.” Imoshen felt a familiar fire ignite her. She loved a challenge. In her mind’s eye she was already illuminating the standard, imagining finely spun thread of gold on the purest azure blue.
She glanced down at the General’s letter. There was no private word for her, nothing but a fleeting mention of the time they had stood on the lookout above Landsend and shared a vision for Fair Isle’s future. Imoshen closed her eyes, recalling the sharp sea breeze and the way Tulkhan had taken her in his arms and kissed her. She wondered if this was what he had intended.
She wanted, needed, to believe that Tulkhan, with the limitations of a True-man, had deliberately written of that moment to reach out to her across time and distance.
Imoshen cleared her throat. “When everything is ready, I will write to the General. I will have a sleek, seagoing ship assigned to you in case we need to contact him quickly. I’m hoping to have good news from my ambassadors in the Amirate. Until then, take your pleasure about town.”
Alone at last, Imoshen considered how she would handle Jarholfe and his men. Though it was entirely logical to combine the Elite Guard and the Stronghold Guard, she knew the Ghebites would resist. They did not respect a fighting force that accepted women.
Tired of confined spaces, Imoshen opened her door to find one of her Stronghold Guard on duty. “Ashmyr sleeps. I’m going for a walk. Let no one in.”
Imoshen walked, deep in thought, until she found herself in the portrait gallery, which dated from the Age of Tribulation. She paused before the panel to the secret passage that she had ordered sealed. It led to the catacombs, and no one must venture down there for fear of rousing the Parakletos.
The bodies of the Paragian Guard might be entombed, but those who had died while under oath to Imoshen the First knew no rest. They had given more than their lives to subdue Fair Isle—they had given their deaths as well, becoming the Parakletos, death’s guardians.
Imoshen pressed her cheek to the dusty wood grain; though she longed to explore those ancient catacombs, her fear of the Parakletos was greater. Reothe had said they had no power in this world, but she had sensed their animosity.
Resuming her pacing, she found herself in a narrow connecting gallery that led to the ball court. The alcoves in this gallery were painted with lifelike renderings of mythical and historical scenes.
In the alcove facing her, the Parakletos escorted the soul of Imoshen the First from this world to the next. The artist had chosen to illustrate not
the darkness of death’s shadow but Imoshen the First’s destination. The dawn sun blazed behind the Parakletos, who were depicted as fierce creatures with great white wings. In this representation they were stern beings of beauty and majesty escorting the soul of one who had devoted her life to the service of others.
Imoshen frowned. How different the beliefs of Fair Isle were from Ghebite beliefs. For a bonding gift Tulkhan had presented her with a torque of pure gold, embellished with exquisite filigree work picked out in niello. It was a work of art, yet the scene it illustrated was the great Akha Khan trampling his enemies beneath his hooves. All the Ghebites knew was violence, and their god reflected this. He appeared in the form of the black stallion, a half-man-half-stallion, or a giant of a man like Tulkhan.
His Elite Guard would not take kindly to being amalgamated with her Stronghold Guard, but she needed a palace force loyal to her. Suddenly, Imoshen’s vision swam and she saw the half-man-half-stallion as it appeared on Tulkhan’s torque, overlaid on the painting before her. Pure light glowed through the stallion, making it a white-winged protector.
When Wharrd returned to T’Diemn, Imoshen ordered a meal laid in her favorite dining room. The Jade Room dated from the early Age of Consolidation. Jade deities, gifted from a mainland king long dead, stood in niches around the room. A central low table was bounded by three couches suitable for intimate dining.
At this knock she told Wharrd to enter, but it was Reothe.
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“You know I was expecting Lord Commander Wharrd, else why did you knock?”
He smiled disarmingly. “Wharrd reports on matters of state. The fate of Fair Isle concerns me. I know the General has designed a new standard for Fair Isle. I know Rawset will get a ship of his own. Why bother to hide things from me, Imoshen? I gave you my report on the defenses, and you agreed the wharfs were the city’s weakest point.”
“Yes, but your plans to make the wharfs safe would drive the merchants mad, obstructing the unloading and loading of stores. Besides, an invader would have to take every lock, killing each of the lockkeepers between T’Diemn and the sea before they could give their alarm. Only then could they attack the wharves. Impossible.”
“They said taking an army across the marsh-land was impossible but your General did it, and forget the merchants. They are interested only in profit. You will get nothing but complaints from them until they are under threat. Then see how quick they are to blame you for not taking adequate precautions. I know where I would attack if I wanted to take T’Diemn.”
His threat hung on the air. Imoshen felt her body and gifts quicken to his challenge. Reothe stood across the room from her, his eyes glittering with febrile brilliance. A T’En warrior in the full capacity of his gifts was a terrible thing to contemplate. Thank the Aayel, she had not healed him.
“What?” he pressed.
He was too perceptive. Imoshen opened her mouth to put him off, but there was a knock at the door. “Enter.”
As Wharrd let the door swing shut behind him, Imoshen caught the veteran’s uneasy glance in Reothe’s direction.
“Wine?” Imoshen offered. “Have you eaten?”
“No, nothing.” He did not sit down.
“You can speak before T’Reothe. He does not want a spring invasion any more than we do. We have called a truce, haven’t we, kinsman?” She held Reothe’s eyes.
“Yes, kinswoman. As you say, we are allies, Empress.”
Imoshen wondered what Wharrd would make of the use of that title. Reothe’s antagonism was clear enough. But Wharrd ignored Reothe, explaining that ambassadors had been sent to all three southern kingdoms, though the Amirate capital was the preferred port. Following her advice, he had selected bond-partners, Ghebite lord commanders and Fair Isle noblewomen. No word had returned as yet.
“As for the siege machines, I checked them personally,” Wharrd continued. “They are safely stowed in the ships’ holds, ready to sail at a moment’s notice.”
“The merchants will not like that. While their ships sit idle in dock they are losing money!” Reothe observed.
“They’d like it less if Gharavan sacked the wharves and burned their ships to the waterline,” Wharrd muttered.
“Enough.” Imoshen was tired. She’d seen the way Reothe and the Beatific greeted each other during the formal dinner on their second evening in T’Diemn. The interchange between the rebel leader and the Beatific had been too correct, and Imoshen despised herself for caring. Her only amusement had been surreptitiously watching Murgon seethe behind his polite facade.
“The cavalry drill every day. It is good exercise for the men and their horses. They have grown fat with too much easy living,” Wharrd said.
“I would like to see this Ghebite cavalry,” Reothe announced.
Yes, Imoshen thought. Study your enemy, Reothe. One day you may be facing the cavalry; much better to know their strengths and weaknesses. The look Wharrd cast her told her he had the same idea. She gave Wharrd a nod. “Arrange a display.” Ashmyr stirred and she rocked the cradle gently. “That will give me a chance to invite the Beatific and the guild-masters and let the townspeople know. It would not hurt to make a display of strength. Let the news of our battle-readiness filter back through the mainland spies to the Amir and his allied kings. Let them think twice about dishonoring their old alliances.” She smiled with relish.
Reothe silently lifted his wineglass to her, the echo of her smile in his eyes. She felt that familiar tug of like to like.
“You rock the cradle with one hand while you rule Fair Isle with the other. You think like a man; I don’t—” Wharrd seemed to realize he had spoken aloud. The bone-setter-turned-diplomat rose stiffly, his coppery skin growing darker. “Forgive this old campaigner, T’Imoshen. I have been in the saddle since dawn. I bid you good night.”
With a soldier’s bow he left the room.
Reothe’s gaze met hers. “These Ghebites do not know what to make of you, Imoshen. They are not used to a woman who can reason with the best of them. I raise my glass to Imoshen the Statesman.”
She flushed. As a compliment it touched her far more than any flowery phrase. “I wish only for peace and the chance to sit by my own fireside.”
He laughed. “So you say, but you would be bored within a small moon!”
Imoshen shook her head.
He studied her, frankly skeptical.
“Give me peace and quiet any day!”
“I think you honestly believe that. But I fear it will not be our fate, Imoshen. We are the last of the T’En. Death will not come to claim us in our dotage by our firesides.”
She knew at a visceral level that Reothe was right, and she longed to ask him if he’d seen their deaths. He claimed to have the Sight. Perhaps he fought so feverishly because he tried to wrench the path of destiny into one of his own making. She looked over at him.
“Ask,” he prompted.
But she would not reveal her thoughts. Reothe was a law unto himself, and for all his apparent compliance, she did not trust him.
Imoshen looked up as a servant announced Lord Athlyng. Athlyng was one of the three Keldon nobles who had approached Imoshen about reopening the Causare Council, which had been closed since Tulkhan conquered the island. Though the Council had reopened to traders, its other function—to debate Fair Isle’s policy—remained unfulfilled.
Tulkhan had agreed to establish a new council, but only if an equal number of his commanders had a vote. Naturally, the Keld had objected to this. But it was immaterial, for while they were at war they could debate but not formalize decisions.
“Have warmed wine prepared in the greeting room,” Imoshen ordered, and the servant departed. She sorted the notes on her desk. The cloth merchants’ guild had been quietly ecstatic at the thought of so much business. The most gifted designers of the seamsters’ guild were inspired to refine Tulkhan’s design.
Since Wharrd’s return, Imoshen had left Reothe to oversee
the completion of T’Diemn’s defenses. He had resumed the wing of rooms that had always been his, and she suspected, though he rode the defensive earthworks every morning, that Reothe was also contacting old friends and calling in old favors.
The Beatific had paid a courtesy call and offered support in the war against King Gharavan. General Tulkhan had formally recognized the T’En Church’s laws. If Gharavan took T’Diemn, he would loot the basilica and encourage his soldiers to rape the priests. Imoshen had the support of Reothe and the Beatific, albeit motivated by self-interest. Now she needed the support of the Keldon nobles.
She opened the connecting door. “Lord Athlyng.”
“T’Imoshen.” He gave her the formal obeisance.
Imoshen took her seat and performed the warmed-wine pouring ceremony. Only when the porcelain cups were steaming before both of them did she meet his T’En eyes. “Have the Keldon nobles selected their six representatives for the Causare Council?”
“You toy with me, T’Imoshen. In times of war the Council has no power.” He met her eyes frankly. “No, I am here unofficially. We—”
Athlyng broke off as Reothe entered the room.
His spies were most efficient, Imoshen thought wryly.
Reothe smiled as he met her eyes, then greeted the old lord. “Grandfather.”
Casting back through their shared family tree, Imoshen realized she was speaking with the man who had bonded with her great-aunt’s sister. Even though Athlyng’s relationship with Reothe was through the lesser, paternal line, it explained the support Reothe had received from the Keld. They saw him as one of their own.
Reothe sank gracefully into the seat on Imoshen’s left. His hand settled on her forearm.
Athlyng’s wine-dark eyes rested briefly on Reothe’s hand. “They said the last of the T’En were reconciled. I came to see for myself.”
“Fair Isle cannot afford division,” Imoshen said. “I want confirmation that the Keldon nobles will stand at the General’s side if Gharavan invades. Tell Lady Woodvine and the others that the Causare Council will be reopened when Gharavan is dead and the six places on that council will be filled by those who have proven their loyalty.”
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