Imoshen shook her head numbly.
“And your scryings are never accurate either.” His voice grew gentle, teasing. “What are these marvelous Dhamfeer gifts the old tales speak of? In real life they are nothing but market-day tricks to amuse small children!”
Imoshen’s heart turned over. His tone warmed her to the core. But why tease her so lovingly when he was about to leave? She caught his hand in hers, peeling back the leather glove to plant a kiss on the pulse inside his wrist.
“Take care, General Tulkhan.” With tears blinding her vision she stepped back, hugging her body to keep out the chill presentiment of death. The horses shuffled past.
Boots appeared on the ground before her and she looked up to find Reothe holding his horse by the reins.
“You cry for him, yet you won’t even say good-bye to me. Did you tell him which one of us died in your vision, Imoshen?”
She shook her head. “You take no Parakhan Guards-women?”
“General Tulkhan would see that as a sign of weakness.” He surprised her by sinking to one knee, offering the old-empire formal salute of leave-taking. “I ask your blessing, T’En Empress. I go in the service of our people.”
Imoshen lifted her left hand, placing the tip of her sixth finger on his forehead. Would she see Reothe alive again? Her heart twisted within her. Reothe or Tulkhan. Why did it have to be this cruel choice? She let her hand drop. “If you return alone, I will kill you myself.”
“Those are not the formal words of blessing, Empress.”
“That is what my heart tells me.”
“And what does your head tell you?”
Imoshen stared into Reothe’s wine-dark eyes, then stepped back. “Nothing. My head tells me nothing.”
“Perhaps you are not listening.” He swung up into the saddle with a little smile on his lips.
But Imoshen would not meet his eyes.
Chapter Eighteen
On their first night out, Tulkhan selected a campsite just off the main south road. The weapons of the T’Enplars remained in view, just as his own men had not disarmed to make camp.
While the men lit their cooking fires, he approached Reothe. “Walk with me. I would like to know what can be seen from the top of that rise.”
Reothe glanced in the direction he pointed. The rocky outcropping was a dark silhouette against the setting sun. “I would say very little that can’t be seen from here. But sight and perception are two different things.”
“Another T’En proverb?” Tulkhan asked.
Reothe straightened, stiffly favoring his left side. They walked in silence through the gloaming twilight to the rise and climbed it. Standing there with the afterglow of the sun’s rays illuminating Reothe and himself, Tulkhan was aware that their men would be able to see them as two silhouettes.
“We must call a truce while we travel,” he said.
“And why is that?”
“Don’t spar with me, Reothe. Your T’Enplar warriors and my Parakhan Guard are at dagger’s point with each other.”
Reothe looked back toward the camp.
Tulkhan realized it would be so easy to stab him in the back or knock him off this rock and spring down to dispatch him as he lay injured. But Reothe had to die by accident.
“Give me one good reason why I should trust you,” Reothe said at last.
That gave Tulkhan pause, and the Dhamfeer laughed softly, goading him into speaking. “I asked Imoshen to order your execution, but she wouldn’t do it.”
“No? Did it occur to you that if she were to hand over General Tulkhan to his half-brother to prevent a spring war, it would give her time to rebuild Fair Isle’s army? But she wouldn’t do that either.”
Tulkhan scowled. He knew Reothe’s assessment was right. It was a personal grudge with Gharavan. His own death would delay another invasion, perhaps indefinitely. It irked him to learn Reothe had been discussing matters of state with Imoshen. “I could kill you myself.”
Reothe looked at him, his features barely visible in the fading light. “Why don’t you?”
Tulkhan lifted a hand in frustration. “Imoshen—”
“Exactly. Where she leads, the people will follow, and without the support of the people, neither of us can retain Fair Isle. Your army is reduced to a scattered mass of men and a few loyal commanders; my rebel army was never more than that. It all comes back to Imoshen.” Reothe rounded on him. “Why can’t you move on, General? I have. My goal is to preserve the T’En. If I can restore the people’s faith in us, Fair Isle will grow strong again. No one would dare attack an island with an elite band of T’En warriors like Imoshen the First’s Paragian Guard.”
It would take only a few generations of bonding half-breeds to create a band of Throwbacks loyal to Reothe, who would never have to regain his gifts; he could wield all the power of the T’En through his followers.
Tulkhan reeled at the prospect. “I am but a True-man. I cannot touch you to discover the truth of your words. Imoshen once said you could make the truth sound like a lie. For now, for the sake of Fair Isle, I suggest a truce. Do you agree?”
Reothe lifted his left hand, forearm open to Tulkhan. “A truce.”
Tulkhan mimicked the action, and their fingers interlaced. He could feel Reothe’s bonding scar. Did this mean Reothe meant to keep the truce?
“Agreed.” Tulkhan let his arm drop, secretly relieved that Reothe no longer had his gifts, because if he had, he would know Tulkhan meant to break his word. Even if Reothe were to put short-term gain aside for long term, Tulkhan’s son would face the loss of Fair Isle.
The General had put his plan in motion before he left T’Diemn, which was why he had been avoiding Imoshen. His defenses against her were good, but he could not be on his guard every waking moment.
When Imoshen had warned Tulkhan to beware a betrayer, his heart had faltered and he had only just managed to divert her with a jest. He smiled grimly. It was lucky for him her gift was erratic, for somewhere on this journey their group was going to be attacked by bandits. His own man, Commander Haase, would arrange it. In the heat of battle, no one would know where each sword strike came from. He would carry Reothe’s body back to T’Diemn in state, accompanied by at least one T’Enplar warrior who would swear the General was blameless of his leader’s death.
As for Imoshen, she would mourn Reothe’s loss, but if Tulkhan was not to blame, she would accept him. All that remained was the child Imoshen carried. If it was a girl, he might let her live. If it was a son, he would have to have him killed by subterfuge. It was cruel, but young children died all the time. They caught fevers, played dangerous games. What was one more murder to add to his long list of killings? A bleakness enveloped Tulkhan’s spirit.
“It grows dark,” Reothe said. “Deepdeyne Stronghold lies two days from here.”
“I want to inspect Deepdeyne. If my half-brother attacks south of T’Diemn, it could be our first line of defense.”
“We must be out of the Keldon Highlands before winter sets in. We can stop at Deepdeyne on the return journey.”
“Very well,” Tulkhan agreed. This suited his plans. It gave Commander Haase time to prepare an ambush. Reothe’s death had to appear to be a random act of violence and would be better happening on the return journey, when everyone would be less vigilant.
Tulkhan turned to climb down from the outcropping, giving Reothe his back and a chance to strike treacherously, but he didn’t. Tulkhan smiled as he returned to camp, his smile hidden in the twilight, hidden because Reothe’s gift was crippled.
“See,” Reothe greeted the camp sentry. “We are returned safely. Neither of us stabbed the other in the back!”
The man laughed uneasily. Tulkhan did not blame him.
Imoshen’s heart went out to the two brothers, the most recent Malaunje children to arrive escorted by one of the T’Enplars and one of the Parakhan Guard. Willingly turned over by their parents, the boys found themselves in the palace, where everything was strange.
She watched them put their small bundles in the chest at the foot of their beds.
By housing the Malaunje children in T’Reothe’s Hall, Imoshen hoped the peace and solidarity of his long reign would be associated with Reothe’s venture. Reothe the Builder had been the First Emperor of the Age of Consolidation, but the hall still had the characteristics of the Age of Tribulation—thick walls and narrow windows, as though the T’En did not feel truly secure even in their own palace.
“Now that you know which are your beds, you can go outside to join the others,” Imoshen told the boys. “Drake is showing them how to use the T’En sword.”
They glanced at each other. Imoshen sighed. The brothers were probably used to being ostracized by their village playmates.
“This way.” She walked them down the stairs and into the courtyard, and the boys approached the group warily. Imoshen became aware of Maigeth in the doorway behind her.
She took the silversmith’s arm. “I wanted to thank you for hiding my son.”
“You shielded my son when he joined the rebels.”
Imoshen nodded. Drake was showing the eldest girl how to hold the sword correctly while the others waited impatiently for their turn. Imoshen picked her words carefully. “Have you noticed your gift growing since the day you touched the Orb?”
A shutter came down, cloaking the woman’s expression. Though Imoshen still linked arms with her, she could sense nothing. Maigeth might deny the T’En gift, but she was very good at blocking it.
“I have been replaced as guild-master. I have lost the friendship of my dearest friend, who was like a sister. I have seen everyone but my son turn away from me.”
“I am sorry.”
Maigeth looked at her. “I believe you are, but that does not give me back my life.”
It was a small village like many Tulkhan had passed through in the Keldon Highlands. The rugged countryside was too poor to support large towns. According to the elders of the last village, a family lived here with four half-breed children; some even had both traits—the six fingers and the wine-dark eyes—nearly full Throwbacks.
Smoke drifted from the central holes of the snug dwellings, but they were deserted except for a cat that watched from a windowsill. When Tulkhan had met with his commander of the Greater Pass, the man spoke of roaming rebel bands robbing honest merchants, but this village was not wealthy enough to attract thieves. Tulkhan turned in his saddle to Reothe. “Where is everyone?”
The Dhamfeer dismounted. He stepped carefully over the churned mud and half-melted snow to the entrance of the largest cottage. The door opened at his touch and he disappeared inside.
Tulkhan’s horse snorted. The beast did not like the cold. Tulkhan did not like living intimately with someone he planned to murder. It was not easy to break bread and joke with a man, knowing he would soon be dead.
Reothe came out of the house and looked up at the ridges behind the village, frowning. The trees were coated in a mantle of snow, still and silent.
“Well?” Tulkhan prodded.
“There is bread baking in the oven above the fireplace.” Reothe took his horse’s reins, put his boot in the stirrup, and swung up into the saddle. “They must have run away.”
“Why would the whole village run away? Everyone else has been glad to hand over their half-breeds; why not this family?”
Reothe spoke for Tulkhan’s ears only. “Because they think their children will be murdered once you have killed me.”
Tulkhan’s body tightened. The horse responded to the pressure of his knees, sidling. He brought it under control before speaking. “What nonsense is this?”
Reothe met his eyes. “Each time I have been given a Malaunje child, I have had to promise on my life that no harm would come to them.”
Tulkhan digested this in silence. So far he had not detected the Dhamfeer in a single lie. Reothe had been the perfect traveling companion, uncomplaining and ready with a jest when the going got tough. This empty village, however, did not make sense. “But wouldn’t the villagers be glad to be rid of a half-breed family in their midst?”
Reothe’s expression reminded Tulkhan forcibly of Imoshen—alert, intelligent, and just slightly amused. When he spoke, he pitched his voice to carry as though he suspected there were watchers in the undergrowth. “This far south the people respect the old ways, the ways I wish to restore!” Then he lowered his voice. “You know the saying, Scrawny sheep and stiff-necked Keld. Likely everyone in the village is related to the Malaunje family. They may be loved and revered.”
A whole village steeped in the old ways? Tulkhan glanced back with a shudder. Already the snow-shrouded trees had closed around them. He doubted if he could find his way back here again.
“I fear there will be no more part-T’En children for us to find if this village is anything to go by,” Reothe muttered.
“Good. I’m tired of ravines and snow. The sooner we return to the plains the better!” Tulkhan urged his horse forward. The sooner they were attacked and Reothe killed, the sooner he would rid himself of this taint of betrayal that sat like underripe fruit in his belly.
“Eleven children and the snows have set in,” the Beatific remarked as they watched the small figures riding sleds down the hillside overlooking the ornamental lake.
Imoshen tucked the fur around her knees. Ashmyr and Kalleen were sleeping in the warmth of the palace, but Imoshen had greeted the Beatific’s invitation with relief. She was already tired of being cooped up and winter had barely begun. Besides, if the Beatific had something to tell her, she would rather speak where no one could overhear. “So what did you wish to talk about?”
“Move on,” the Beatific told her sleigh driver. He cracked his whip and the horses responded, surging forward.
They followed the curve of the lake, and Imoshen frowned as she identified the well-worn way to the stone lovers. On the fresh snow she could see the marks of horses, boots, and several sleighs.
“Not that way, driver. Take us to the lookout,” the Beatific directed.
The delicate lookout rotunda with its tall columns stood silhouetted against the winter-blue sky. When the sleigh slid to a halt, the Beatific threw back her furs to climb down. Imoshen watched this with misgivings. The only protection she wore was a knife strapped to her upper thigh, accessible under her brocade tabard, but the Beatific would not assassinate her here, not when everyone knew they had ridden off together.
Placing her boots in the indentations left by the Beatific’s steps, Imoshen followed the woman to the rotunda. One of the stone seats was cracked. No one bothered to come up here; the old-empire fashion for eating outdoors was not popular with the Ghebites.
Directly below the lookout’s cliff was the rock-edged river; beyond the river was old T’Diemn. The air was so clear that she could see individual tiles on the roofs. The spires of the new T’Diemn stood tall beyond the old city’s walls, and far beyond that the rolling foothills were dressed in a mantle of pure white snow. Would Gharavan attack in mid-winter?
Enemies surrounded her. “I am listening, Engarad.”
The Beatific’s golden eyes held resentment. “I know you don’t like me, Imoshen, but I am here today as your friend.”
“I don’t trust you; that is different,” Imoshen replied. “I am listening.”
The Beatific waved a hand over T’Diemn. “The people don’t like change, and so much has changed in the last two years. The people fear Reothe’s plans. These children claim the name Malaunje, and Reothe creates a Hall of Learning where half-breeds seek to tap into their nascent gifts!”
“Isn’t that what Murgon’s Tractarians do?”
“That is different. They serve the Church. Besides, it is impolite to speak of the lesser gifts of the Malaunje,” the Beatific corrected primly, then frowned. “People fear what they do not know. They whisper that you and Reothe flew down from Sard’s Tower and that you absorbed the power of the Orb into yourself.”
“I nearly died, as you well k
now!”
The Beatific had the grace to flush. “When Reothe comes back, talk him out of this.”
Imoshen shook her head. If Reothe did not have his Malaunje Hall of Learning, she dreaded to think where his energies would drive him.
“At least try,” the Beatific urged.
“You try. He is your lover!”
The Beatific smiled. “I have known Reothe since he was a youth of seventeen, passionate and ambitious—so ambitious he would stop at nothing to achieve his goal of ruling Fair Isle.”
“Maybe that is what he was like, but Reothe is no longer that youth,” Imoshen said, regretting her hasty tongue. “He has other goals now.”
“If you believe that, you fool yourself. If Reothe could sacrifice his own parents to be near the Empress and the seat of power, what makes you think he will be satisfied with these scraps you throw him?”
Reothe sacrificed his parents? Imoshen shook her head. He had been discovered beside the cold bodies of his mother and father, who’d committed ritual suicide.
“Reothe drove his parents to kill themselves,” the Beatific insisted.
“You are mistaken, Engarad. Reothe was only a child.”
“Children are totally self-absorbed. Reothe is absorbed in his own goals, he—”
“Reothe is not like that!” Imoshen read pity in the woman’s face. It goaded her beyond belief. “You hold a mirror to the world and so attribute your motivations to others!”
The Beatific’s hand flew up in an arc. Imoshen could have stopped her, she had time to block and counterattack, but she did nothing. Instead, she absorbed the full force of the slap in the knowledge that she had handled that badly.
Imoshen’s face stung and her left eye watered as the Beatific stalked back to the sleigh. Waiting until the tingling in her cheek eased, Imoshen pretended to study the city, but the thought of riding next to the Beatific made her uncomfortable. Yet any sign of a breach between herself and the Beatific would be gleefully noted by the mainland spies. Imoshen glanced over her shoulder to see the Beatific seated in the sleigh and her servant staring stoically ahead.
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 29