Rawset cleared his throat. “I meant Kornel.”
“Execute him.”
“General?” A soldier approached. Water dripped down the man’s haggard face and plastered his hair to his head. “Kornel is gone.”
Tulkhan cursed. “Search the camp.” But he suspected Kornel had already escaped. The man was too cunning. The clouds to the west parted and the sinking sun’s golden light bathed their camp, slanting through the icy rain. It was nearly dusk.
The Keeper led the way while Shacolm carried Lord Fairban to the safety of the secret passages. Imoshen was grateful for his assistance. Weak from the milk fever, she could not have carried Lord Fairban far.
Leaving the wounded man in the care of his relatives, Imoshen took the old woman aside. “Why haven’t they noticed my escape?”
“The Cadre and his acolytes are ransacking the basilica. Jarholfe’s men dice for the largest treasures in the square even now.” Keeper Karmel pulled out a knife. “This was all I could get away with.”
“You have done well.” Imoshen hid the knife. The Ghebites were playing into her hands. It would only take a leader among the townspeople to unite them, someone familiar with weapons and tactics. “Reothe has followers in the city. Find them. Tell them to unite with the remaining Parakhan Guard and lead the people against Jarholfe and the Cadre’s supporters. Can you do that while I free Reothe?”
The old woman repeated the message, her memory trained by years of study.
Imoshen slipped out of the secret passage and concentrated on cloaking her presence from the few servants who scurried nervously about the palace. Reothe was being held in the very ball court where only a few moons ago the Ghebites and Keldon nobles had gathered to watch a display match.
It was nearly dusk. Imoshen realized she hadn’t heard the basilica’s bells all day. Once the bells had rung the hour and the half hour; now nothing marked the passage of this black day. This struck her as a symbol of the destruction of T’Diemn society.
Avoiding the usual entrance to the ball court, Imoshen climbed the steps and slipped through the door that opened onto the highest row of seats. She looked down into the court, empty except for Reothe, who was tied to the far post. His arms were pulled above his head, the bonds slung through the ring that usually supported the net. He was naked, and blood seeped from vivid welts on his back. His long hair had been roughly hacked off, revealing bloodied scalp in places.
She had failed him. She should have restored his gifts.
Reothe leaned against the pole as though his will was broken. Her heart went out to him. What had they done to crush Reothe? The thought brought her heightened T’En senses a visible answer—Jarholfe laughing as his men abused their prisoner. Sickened, she shut down her gift, unwilling to witness the Ghebite’s calculated cruelty.
Heart hammering with anger, Imoshen ran lightly down the tiered seats. She leapt over the balustrade, dropping a body length to the court below. Even though she hugged her swollen breasts, the jolt made her lurch with pain, and nausea threatened.
She paused to gather her strength. The court appeared empty but she could not be sure without using her T’En senses, and that would open her to Reothe’s pain. He would not welcome her sympathy. He was opposite her now, his back to her. She saw his shoulder muscles tense, though he gave no other sign that he was aware of her presence.
Imoshen darted across the polished floor to slip under Reothe’s outstretched arms. One eye was swollen shut, the other widened at the sight of her.
“Imoshen?” The word cracked his bruised lips.
“Did you think I would abandon you?” Her voice was thick. She brushed the bruise over his temple, willing it to heal so he would be able to open his eye. “Where are your captors?”
“They went to dice for the riches of the basilica.”
“We are in luck. Jarholfe’s men run amok.”
“Luck!” He turned away from her.
Imoshen longed to beg his forgiveness, but nothing would undo events. Rising on her toes, she hacked at the leather thongs that bound him so tightly his fingers were blue. One arm swung free and he gasped, flexing his shoulder before raising his free hand to his mouth to catch the leather thong in his sharp white teeth and tear at it.
A buzzing sliced the air. Reothe hissed with pain, swinging by his left arm, which was still bound to the pole. An arrow shaft impaled him through the other shoulder.
Heart in her throat, Imoshen spun to confront their attacker. “Jarholfe!”
Chapter Fourteen
“Throw down the knife. The next arrow goes through his heart,” Jarholfe ordered from the safety of the watcher’s gallery opposite. He had another arrow notched. Imoshen tossed the knife aside. “I knew you would come for your lover. Now, where is the brat? I will wipe out this nest of Dhamfeer!”
Imoshen flinched, placing her body between Jarholfe and Reothe. “Truly, I don’t know. And even if I did, I’d die before I told you!”
“That’s what I thought. I’m an excellent shot. At this distance I could put an arrow through his eye before you could get anywhere near me. My men claim you escaped from a bolted room while they were both on guard, but I don’t believe it. I know you have limits. I should have come back and gutted the old man a second time to keep you busy. I won’t make that mistake again. I should have set Murgon on you. He was eager enough.”
“Jarholfe, I—”
A messenger ran into the gallery. “Commander. The square is full; the town officials are demanding to see the Empress. They say we dishonor their basilica and call on us to release the Beatific.”
“The townspeople outnumber you a thousand to one, Jarholfe,” Imoshen said. “Kill me and they will rise up.”
“But if you convict yourself with your own words, they will have to sanction your execution!” he said, and told the messenger, “The Cadre must bring the Beatific and that Orb he finds so fascinating. Send in the town officials. We will give them their Empress, convicted by their own laws!”
The messenger scurried off and Jarholfe remained, his arrow notched. Imoshen stood before Reothe, unwilling to take her eyes from the Ghebite.
“The Cadre has been studying this Orb of Truth. They say it can tell if a man speaks the truth and that it exacts punishment from those who lie. Are you prepared to place your palm upon the Orb and swear you have never taken this Dhamfeer for your lover?” Jarholfe sneered.
According to the records, the Orb would glow with the pure light of truth if she spoke truly. The Cadre and Jarholfe would not be able to deny the evidence of their own eyes. But she had taken Reothe as her lover, even if it was only the once and only because he had deceived her by coming to her in Tulkhan’s form. Imoshen felt trapped. When she had defied them to bring forth the Orb, it was to buy time. She had never meant it to come to this.
Seeing her expression, Jarholfe smiled.
The passages beyond the ball court echoed with the clamor of approaching town officials. As they took their seats, they radiated an air of fear and a desperate dignity.
“Imoshen?” Reothe whispered at her back. “Heal me!”
“If I heal you, he will hurt you again. You heard him.”
“No. I mean really heal me!” Reothe pleaded. “He cannot see my T’En gifts. It is only because they do not fear me that they dare to abuse me.”
He was right, but... “It could hurt you!”
“I am willing to take that risk.” His voice told her he would risk anything for revenge.
Imoshen shook her head. “If I am to make my move, I want you physically able.”
“Imoshen!” His despair tore at her.
But already events were moving, dragging her with them like debris on a flood tide. The Cadre and his acolytes entered, escorting the Beatific and Murgon, who carried the Orb in its caged chalice. Warm, velvety anger flushed through Imoshen, for Murgon’s expression told her he reveled in Reothe’s downfall. When the Beatific caught sight of Reothe, she glared at Imos
hen, fury kindling the woman’s mature beauty.
Tulkhan lifted his head at the cry of To Arms! A soldier charged into the shelter. “Sumair’s gates are open and mercenaries pour out.”
“Saddle my horse.” He sent a servant to bring his armor. Had the auxiliary army arrived and somehow gotten word to the defenders of the port? His men had not reported any movement during their scouting forays. “Watch for a secondary attack.”
When he stepped out of the shelter, several youths waited, ready to carry his orders. Other runners would bring him reports. Striding across the soggy soil, Tulkhan approached the man who led his horse. As he swung into the saddle, he felt the familiar welcoming rush as his men prepared for pitched battle. Beyond the defensive earthworks he heard the mercenaries’ drummers playing.
Forcing the horse to tackle the incline of the earthworks’ inside slope, Tulkhan made the crest and surveyed the plain before Port Sumair’s city walls. Mercenaries swarmed across the flat ground, but they were not a rabble. They were well-prepared, with defensive hides made of wood and straw, and they carried ladders to throw across the ramparts’ outer ditch.
He glared into the twilight. The sleet had stopped, but it was a strange time to attack. Death whistled overhead and a man screamed. Protected by their hides, mercenary archers were firing in high arcs, trusting their arrows would find a mark inside the camp.
Tulkhan saw no Ghebite foot soldiers. It appeared Gharavan did not trust his own men.
Riding down the mound’s incline, the General walked his horse through the bustling camp, pausing to speak with his men preparing for the first strike. All the while arrows fell about them. Some landed harmlessly on the ground, others carried his soldiers to their knees. A man did not know when random death would claim him. But this was what they had been waiting for—the breach in the port’s defenses.
Why had they attacked now? Perhaps Kornel had taken word that the siege machines and cavalry were on the way. Grimly, Tulkhan thanked the merchant captain, for now all he had to do was sit tight, let the defenders wear themselves down on his defenses, and then, when the moment was right, send his men out. How he wished for cavalry to pummel the foot soldiers and spearhead the counterattack. With the mud the way it was, the cavalry would have had to go out lightly armed, but even so, foot soldiers could not withstand a mounted attack.
He glanced at the sky again. By the look of those clouds, they might have the first snow of the season tonight. There was little daylight left, but a battle could be won or lost in an hour.
“General Tulkhan?” Rawset rode up to join him. “King Gharavan’s mercenaries are trying to force the north entrance.”
The defensive ditch was knee-deep in water. Tulkhan threw back his head and laughed, and his men took heart as he meant them to. “Pour oil in the ditch and set it alight. Then go to the Sea-wall and signal Peirs to mount a counterattack.”
Imoshen blinked as torch bearers filed into the ball court, now a court of trial. Heavy, snow-laden clouds dulled the light that filtered through the high windows, and with the torches came an early night. None of the Ghebites thought to light the lamps, which were designed to be raised and lowered by pulleys. Imoshen realized these Ghebites were blind to the marvels of the old empire.
The murmuring of the crowd ceased as, on the Cadre’s signal, Murgon stepped into the center of the polished wood floor, carrying the Orb’s chalice. Imoshen caught her breath. Older even than Imoshen the First, this Orb had come from the land beyond the dawn sun. It was revered, and the mystery of its making was lost.
The Cadre raised his voice, turning to confront the town officials. “By Ghebite law the Lady Protector is already guilty of dishonoring her husband, the Protector General Tulkhan.” He raised his hands to stem their angry muttering. “But we are fair men. We understand you wish to see her guilt for yourselves. What is the sentence for a rogue T’En, Murgon?”
“Death by stoning.”
“Death!” the Cadre repeated.
But the Beatific would not see her authority undermined. She raised her voice. “Only the Beatific can declare one of the T’En rogue, and then only if it can be proven that the accused has used their T’En gifts to take a True-person’s life or to overthrow Fair Isle’s rulers.”
“Then if we can prove that this Dhamfeer dishonored Fair Isle’s ruler by taking a lover, you would sign the decree?” the Cadre pressed.
The Beatific glared at him. “Declaring one of the T’En rogue is not something to be done lightly. Over the centuries, many have given their lives to bring in the rogues. Many Tractarians are required to contain them so that the sentence can be carried out.”
The crowd whispered uneasily.
The Cadre spoke to Murgon. “And this Orb senses the truth?”
“It glows with the pure light of truth,” the Beatific answered for him.
Murgon was quick to qualify this. “But if the accused lies, the Orb will glow dull and dark.”
Imoshen saw the Cadre exchange a look with Jarholfe, who was flanked by six of his men. More waited up in the seats. They stood by the entrances, hands on weapon hilts. Imoshen suspected Jarholfe planned treachery, whatever the Orb’s response.
The Cadre beckoned. “Bring me the Orb!”
A collective gasp came from the crowd. Once in a century the Orb might be called upon. Those who failed to prove their innocence had been known to lose their minds, for the Orb not only exonerated the innocent, it punished the guilty.
Imoshen shivered. In her heart she knew the truth. She loved two men, and there would be no peace for her. But she had not dishonored Tulkhan, not by choice. She felt Reothe touch the small of her back where no one would see.
“Remember how I tricked you,” he whispered. “Your words of love were for him, not me.”
“Give me the Orb.” The Cadre held his hand out, palm up.
“Only one of T’En blood may unleash the power of the Orb by asking the question and holding it against their skin,” the Beatific announced, stepping between him and Murgon. When the Cadre looked perplexed she explained, “In the hand of a True-man or woman the Orb remains impervious.”
“I claim the honor of holding the Orb,” Murgon said.
“No!” Reothe protested. “Only one without bias can hold the Orb.”
While the people in the gallery whispered their agreement, Jarholfe turned to the Cadre, but the Beatific spoke up. “By tradition it is the Empress herself who holds the Orb. Always the Empress has carried T’En blood.”
“You can’t give it to that Dhamfeer bitch!” Jarholfe objected.
The town officials muttered.
“I will hold the Orb.” Murgon was eager to see her convicted.
“Is there no one among the townsfolk of T’En blood?” Imoshen cried. “Someone who is without bias?”
The crowd shifted in their seats; one stood and pointed. “The silversmiths’ guild-master.”
“Where? Step down,” the Cadre ordered.
Imoshen heard the whispers grow as a woman was escorted onto the court floor by Jarholfe’s men.
“You have the Dhamfeer’s accursed eyes. Who are you?” the Cadre asked.
“Maigeth, guild-master of the silversmiths.” It was Drake’s mother. She met Imoshen’s gaze briefly, revealing the fear behind her composure. “But I relinquish this honor. I am unworthy.”
“Will this woman do, Murgon?” the Cadre asked. Before Murgon could open his mouth, the Beatific gave her approval. The Cadre ignored her. “Murgon?” He nodded. “Then proceed.”
“Bring the Orb,” the Beatific ordered. She unlocked the cage and turned toward the silversmith. But before Maigeth could move, the Cadre stepped between them, taking the Orb in his bare hands. The townsfolk of T’Diemn gasped in dismay, and the Beatific’s mouth tightened in annoyance.
“Sacrilege!” Murgon hissed.
“Take this Orb and reveal the truth, silversmith,” the Cadre ordered.
Maigeth hesitated.
/> “Take it,” he urged.
“I can’t. I have the T’En eyes, but I have no gifts.” She cast Imoshen a trapped glance.
“What is she talking about, Murgon?” Jarholfe demanded.
“Well?” the Cadre pressed.
“Not all we half-breeds are cursed with the lesser T’En gifts,” Murgon said at last. “I have harnessed and trained mine. Give me the Orb.”
“No!” Imoshen fixed her gaze on the silversmith. “Take the Orb, Maigeth.”
The woman shook her head. If she touched the Orb and it flared into life, it meant she had been hiding her gift from her family and her friends. They would never trust her again. If she did not, Imoshen feared Murgon would ensnare her.
“Maigeth. I have stood by you. Stand by me.” Imoshen had not revealed how Maigeth’s son joined the rebels. She had never intended to use it against the woman. Only desperation drove her now. “Do this for me. I am ready to swear that I have taken no man but General Tulkhan into my bed and into my arms.”
“Do it!” the Cadre hissed.
The silversmith’s wine-dark eyes centered on the Orb as, almost against her will, she took it from the Cadre. At her touch it flared once in recognition.
The watchers gasped and murmured.
Imoshen knew that from this moment forward, Maigeth would be regarded with suspicion by the True-people she had counted as friends.
“I’ve read that in rare cases the gifts could lie dormant for years until some crisis triggered them,” Murgon whispered.
The Beatific shook her head. “I thought if the gifts did not come on at puberty, they—”
“Enough!” the Cadre snapped. “You people could debate while T’Diemn burned!” He turned to Maigeth. “You, silversmith, ask the Dhamfeer bitch if this male is her lover.”
Maigeth licked her lips.
Imoshen locked eyes with Maigeth. The fingers of Imoshen’s left hand hovered over the Orb. The brief glow had faded but she sensed its awareness, almost as if it were a living thing. Its surface was alive with palpable tension.
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 22