“The man of my heart died in the service of the Empress. I wanted to hate her,” Kalleen whispered. “But I cannot.”
A sob escaped Kalleen, and Imoshen embraced her. They both wept freely. Finally, Imoshen smoothed the tear-damp hair from Kalleen’s face, kissing her. “Bless the day you fell at my feet. I’m proud to call you friend.”
“It is hard to be a friend of the T’En.”
Imoshen managed a rueful smile. “It is hard to be the last of the T’En.”
Kalleen gave a short laugh and held up the baby. “Take him while I run your bath and lay out your clothes.”
Imoshen cradled Ashmyr, delighting in his soft skin and the smell of him. “You don’t have to be my maid, Kalleen.”
“I do what I do because I choose to,” she replied, and Imoshen understood it would always be this way with her.
Kalleen went into the room beyond and Imoshen heard the water running. Alone at last, she held her son and gave thanks that they had both survived the Ghebites’ treachery.
* * *
Tulkhan watched the Low-land dancers perform for the assembled port officials and his commanders. Lightfoot, back from the dead, sat opposite. Only this morning the townspeople of Port Sumair had gone out in their boats to scour the drowned land for survivors. Lightfoot had been found clinging to a church spire.
Upon reporting to Tulkhan, he said that even though he had abandoned religion long ago, it had not abandoned him, then he had fainted from cold and lack of food.
Silently, Tulkhan now raised his wineglass to the grizzled mercenary, who returned the gesture. Tulkhan saw a word leave his lips. Rawset.
The youth had not been found, and now it was unlikely he would be discovered alive. Tulkhan scowled. A high price had been paid for this victory. He was impatient to return to Fair Isle, but the signing of the terms of surrender had to be celebrated. He tried to show an interest in the performance, as several dancers wearing long blue-green gowns swirled around others, engulfing them.
“Those dancers represent the sea?” Tulkhan asked.
The old man next to him nodded. “We Low-landers do not worship the sea, nor do we fear it, but we do respect it. The dancers in white symbolize the moons, which govern the tides.”
Tulkhan nodded. He had been speaking with Sumair’s engineers about the enormous job of draining the flooded land. It had been made clear to him that the breaking of the Sea-wall had been deliberately delayed until it would do the most damage. That it happened to coincide with Kornel’s betrayal was all the better from the Low-landers’ point of view.
“Before spring we will have the Sea-wall rebuilt and the land ready for planting,” the old man said.
“So much work.”
Faded eyes studied him. “I will speak plainly. You have been generous in your terms of surrender, General Tulkhan, offering the service of your men to rebuild. But we do not regret flooding our land. It is the price we pay for freedom. We wrest our land from the sea, and if we choose to return it to the sea, that is our business.”
Holding Ashmyr, Imoshen stepped onto the balcony overlooking the square. As she raised her left arm and gave the Empress’s blessing, a sibilant sigh of relief swept the crowd. A minstrel struck up an old-empire song of praise and the crowd joined in. Tears stung Imoshen’s eyes. This was her home, her people, and they had not deserted her.
When the song came to an end, she raised her voice, willing it to carry across the square, aware that the words would be carried across Fair Isle. “People of T’Diemn, I thank the Beatific for upholding the laws of the T’En Church. And I thank Drake and the Parakhan Guard for standing true. Though the Cadre and the Ghebite usurpers are vanquished, we are not safe. Fair Isle faces a time of travail as dangerous as the Age of Tribulation. This is why I am reviving an old branch of the Church. Today I recreate the T’Enplar warriors. And I appoint T’Reothe, Sword of Justice, leader of the T’Enplars.”
She smiled at the crowd’s joyous reaction. Reothe’s tantalizing mention of the T’Elegos had made Imoshen think. Recreating the T’Enplars appealed to her sense of history. When Imoshen the First’s death released the survivors of the Paragian Guard from their oath of service, they had sought service with her daughter, the pure T’En woman who became Fair Isle’s first Beatific. She had formed the original T’Enplar warriors.
Imoshen turned to the Beatific and Reothe. She was protecting him with the mantle of the Church’s power. “When General Tulkhan returns, I don’t want him to find you in the palace, Reothe.”
His face was a mask. Imoshen held her left hand out to the Beatific. Though Engarad inclined her head and kissed the sixth finger, her mind remained closed to Imoshen. By the glint of triumph in her golden True-woman’s eyes, Imoshen knew that the Beatific believed she had made a wrong move in the game of power. The Beatific supported her only so long as it suited her own goals.
In a way she was grateful to the Cadre and Jarholfe for weeding out those Ghebites most loyal to the old way of thinking. She would tell Wharrd to—Imoshen almost staggered as his loss hit her. She had not realized how much she had come to depend on the veteran bone-setter.
In a daze of grief, she left the balcony to find the palace over-servants awaiting her. She spoke to each one, thanking them for their loyalty. When she came to the woman who ruled the kitchen, she paused to order food and drink to be distributed in the square. At last she came to Keeper Karmel, and Imoshen led the old woman into the library. “You risked your life in my service. Is there anything you want or need?”
The woman pondered, then a cunning look came over her face. “I want access to the basilica’s archives. For years the Master-archivist has jealously guarded them.”
Imoshen laughed. “T’Reothe will see that you have it.”
She returned to her room to write to Tulkhan. Her message would leave with the evening tide, and she had to trust a new emissary. She missed Rawset.
Without anything being said, Kalleen moved into her old room next to Imoshen’s, and the days passed in a rush of activity. The families of the murdered Parakhan Guard had to be notified and provision made for their future. Imoshen rewarded Drake’s initiative and loyalty by giving him the official title of Shujen. The Parakhan Guard’s numbers were greatly depleted. Townspeople wanted to be compensated for the destruction of property.
Imoshen’s head spun with the complications. Frightened Ghebites kept coming out of hiding, and she had to consult with the Beatific on how they should be treated. Simply returning the men to the community was dangerous for their own safety. A hundred times a day Wharrd’s loss returned to her with renewed pain. Kalleen mourned privately, spending most of her time with Ashmyr.
Someone knocked at the door. Imoshen looked up from her desk with a sigh. “Enter.”
“General Tulkhan!” Kalleen gasped, and Imoshen nearly upset the inkwell.
The General strode into the room, making it seem small. She longed to feel his arms around her and the sight of him made her heart race with joy, but when she spoke her throaty voice did not reveal this. “You are returned sooner than expected, General.”
“Port Sumair has fallen.”
“When?”
“These five days past.”
Imoshen blinked. The port must have fallen around the time she and Reothe regained the capital. It appeared her messenger had missed the General and he was not aware of Jarholfe and the Cadre’s treachery.
“I bring you victory and you grow pale as milk. What is it?”
Imoshen signaled Kalleen to take Ashmyr into the far room. But before she could do this, Tulkhan strode past both women. He picked up his son, who gnawed anxiously on his fist.
“He’s teething,” Imoshen explained.
“He looks just like any other baby.”
“You mean apart from his T’En eyes and his six fingers?” she asked, then wished the words unsaid.
Tulkhan was not amused. “Kalleen, take my son for now.”
Imoshen’s mouth went dry.
A charged silence filled the room as Kalleen took the boy from the General and retreated. She held Imoshen’s eyes just before she closed the door, and Imoshen knew if help was needed, Kalleen would come. That was typical of her, loyal and outspoken. Loyal, like...
“Wharrd is dead,” Imoshen confessed. Tulkhan looked stunned. She knew how he treasured the veteran’s friendship. Tears burned her eyes as she sought to comfort him. “It happened while I was returning from the Amirate. There was nothing I could do.”
A great rushing filled Tulkhan’s head. He could hardly think. “H-how did it happen?”
“Jarholfe and the Cadre forced Wharrd to defend my honor.”
“As your Ghiad he could not do otherwise,” Tulkhan muttered. “What possessed them?”
“They wanted a legal excuse to have me executed.”
Jarholfe had acted on his suspicions even though Tulkhan had ignored the man’s messages. He pulled away from Imoshen, suddenly aware that her hand rested on his arm; who knew what she might be gleaning from the contact?
“The Cadre and Jarholfe tried to force the Beatific to sign a declaration to have Reothe and me stoned,” Imoshen revealed.
Her words drummed in his head, the import too much to absorb. He paced to the fireplace, gripping the mantelpiece in both hands. One thing was clear to him: The Cadre and Jarholfe had caused Wharrd’s death. He spun to face Imoshen. “Where are they now?”
“Jarholfe is dead, but the Cadre is being held by the Beatific for crimes against Fair Isle. Where do you go?”
He thrust past her, heading for the door, and Imoshen fell into step at his side. Despite her height, she had to take extra skipping steps to keep up with him. He found the man he wanted waiting in the hall outside.
“Lightfoot, send a message to the Beatific. She is to escort the Cadre into the square. I want twenty of my Elite Guard in full uniform and I want them in the square in half an hour. Tell them to bring the dueling swords.”
“Lightfoot,” Imoshen caught his sleeve. “Drake is leader of the Parakhan Guard. Convey the General’s message to him.”
In the heat of the moment Tulkhan had forgotten that Imoshen had disbanded his Elite Guard.
“Jarholfe’s Ghebites hunted down our people, Tulkhan. They displayed their bodies in the square.”
He was eager to translate anger into action.
She hurried after him. “General, wait. Do you intend to fight a duel with the Cadre?”
“If he has the stomach for it.” He headed down the steps with Imoshen at his heels.
“But, General, the Cadre has broken the laws of Fair Isle. As leader of the T’En Church, the Beatific must preside over his trial. Your role should be to advise on punishment. You are the wronged party. Not only you but Kalleen and her unborn child have been wronged. Slow down and listen, Tulkhan!” She caught his arm before he could throw open the small door to the square. “Think of your position. As Protector General of Fair Isle, you set the tone for the whole island. If you resort to violence, you are no better than the Cadre and Jarholfe, who ignored the letter of the law when the Orb of Truth proclaimed my innocence!”
“My men expect me to act swiftly and decisively against any threat to my leadership.” He thrust the door open, then stopped, surprised to see the square full of townspeople, gathered in the early-morning sunshine. The season’s first snow had melted, but the air was cold and crisp. The smell of roasting nuts and cinnamon-apples came to him, and he realized some quick-thinking merchants had set up stalls.
“They expect a celebration, General. Your men will have spread the good news by now. They want to honor your victory over your half-brother.”
“He escaped. The merchant fathers of the port dropped the Sea-wall and nearly drowned my entire army. Do you call that victory?”
Imoshen’s mouth opened, but someone recognized them standing on the steps and the shout went up.
Reacting to the cheers, Imoshen threaded her arm through his, drawing him down into the square. “Smile, General. In their eyes you are victorious. Let appearance become substance.”
He found himself walking through a crowd of well-wishers. They came from every strata of T’Diemn society, from street sweepers to rich merchants, from blue-fingered cloth dyers to gray-haired masters from the Halls of Learning. And all of them wanted to touch him. This time he was as sought after as Imoshen. He felt an unexpected sense of homecoming.
The rush and surge of the crowd carried them across the square. The clamor of voices drowned out individual comments, but the tone was one of welcome, and still they pressed. Was every citizen of T’Diemn here today?
Imoshen sensed intense scrutiny and lifted her gaze above the throng to find Reothe watching her. Only the thin line of his mouth revealed his fury. His eyes were hooded by shadowy sockets of a half-face helmet. The ceremonial T’Enplar weaponry looked as if it was made for him. Imoshen felt Reothe’s silent accusation of betrayal like a physical assault. Her heart contracted as the dual tug of loyalties tore her apart.
Reothe marched through the crowd toward them, followed by his T’Enplar warriors. The townsfolk reacted with instinctive awe to the sight of the last T’En warrior and his supporters resplendent in ornate chest plates, embroidered cloaks, and half-face helmets complete with dyed horsehair crest. The armor dated from the middle of the Age of Consolidation, when Fair Isle’s ceremonial weaponry was designed for display.
Imoshen felt the jolt of recognition run through Tulkhan’s body when he saw Reothe. People kept moving back so that suddenly the three of them stood alone in a sea of watchers.
Knobs of fury moved under the skin of Reothe’s jaw. The moment stretched impossibly. Imoshen willed him not to antagonize the General, who was primed for violence.
“Protector General Tulkhan, Lady Protector.” The Beatific stepped into the silence, sweeping them a regal obeisance that claimed as much honor for herself as it accorded to them. She was dressed in full regalia. Her mantle of rich velvet brushed the cobbles as she bowed, and the tassels of her ornate headdress dipped and swayed as she straightened.
“All of T’Diemn speaks of your munificence, General. When you could have ordered death, you showed mercy. The people of Port Sumair will remember your restraint.” A priest approached and the Beatific inclined her head to listen to his report. They had arrived with chairs and a large, portable dais. “My people are ready. I must prepare for the trial.”
Imoshen was relieved. With her usual acumen, the Beatific had stepped in to prevent General Tulkhan’s execution of the Cadre by trial of combat.
“Protector General Tulkhan.” Reothe delivered the old-empire military salute, lifting his sword hilt to his forehead then resheathing the weapon. “I stand before you, the Church’s Sword of Justice, leader of the T’Enplar warriors, to deliver the prisoner, the Ghebite Cadre.” Behind Reothe, a dozen T’Enplars in matching armor repeated his salute.
Imoshen thought she recognized some of them and doubted very much if their loyalty was to the Beatific. It seemed Reothe’s rebels had found redemption in service to the Church. As for the Cadre, he stood unrestrained in their midst, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Imoshen.
A flash of mulberry robe in the crowd reminded Imoshen of Murgon and his Tractarians. As Sword of Justice, Reothe was on the same level of the Church hierarchy as Murgon. While he had been leading the rebels, Reothe had received covert support from the Church. She wondered how those canny brokers of power would react to finding him in their midst. Imoshen did not envy Reothe his position. But, then, she did not covet her own position either.
“Sword of Justice?” Tulkhan muttered.
“I recreated the T’Enplar warriors and appointed Reothe to this position. They serve the Beatific to uphold the laws of Fair Isle—your laws, General.”
But Tulkhan knew they weren’t his laws. Most of the laws of Fair Isle were unknown to him—this production, for instance. It appeared the Beatific was preparing to stage a trial when he had intended a
quick, lethal duel.
The crowd parted as Lightfoot arrived with the Parakhan Guard. The mercenary moved to stand behind Tulkhan. Drake approached Imoshen and Tulkhan, offering his salute to both of them before opening a case in which rested two swords on a bed of black velvet.
“Violence was ever the Ghebite way.” Reothe’s voice dripped scorn.
“We Ghebites may not be as civilized as the T’En, but we protect what is our own.” Tulkhan held Reothe’s eyes across the dueling swords.
Reothe’s features revealed his understanding but they held no deference. Tulkhan seethed. Didn’t Reothe know he lived on sufferance?
A muscle jumped in Tulkhan’s cheek. He could not order Reothe’s execution. His army was scattered from Fair Isle to Port Sumair. He was surrounded by townsfolk who could just as easily turn on him if the hereditary heirs of Fair Isle tried to reclaim the throne.
“General?” Imoshen held his eyes. “There is more than Wharrd’s death at stake here. What the people witness today will travel all over Fair Isle on the lips of the minstrels. Do you want them to sing of barbaric bloodshed or of the justice shown by the Protector General of Fair Isle?”
Even though Imoshen was right, he was annoyed that she dared to counsel him before others. But, then, she was not a Ghebite female. She was T’En, more royal than the Empress herself.
“Here comes Kalleen with the Empress’s heir!” a voice cried, and the crowd parted to let Kalleen through.
“I see you brought T’Ashmyr, Lady Kalleen. Good,” the Beatific said as she rejoined them. “His life was also threatened. Come, everyone, take your places on the dais. We are ready to proceed.”
A church servant waited with a silk shade cunningly stretched over supple wood. He held it above the Beatific to keep off the sun as she took her seat. Tulkhan glared at the man who would have held a similar piece of nonsense over him, but Imoshen did not remonstrate. She and Kalleen sat in the shade of the Church’s beneficence as the trial began with Reothe reading the charges. His words fell in absolute silence. The people of T’Diemn seemed to find this real-life drama better than any Thespers’ Guild performance.
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