“They will send us to the coast at dawn,” Reothe said. “We must escape now. It will be light soon.”
“How... how do you know?”
“The drug affected us differently. It paralyzed me but I was still aware.”
Tulkhan strained, but all he could see were the dancing patterns produced by his night-blind eyes. “Where are we?”
“In the chapel off the great hall. Ironic, really. It was dedicated by a distant ancestor of mine. Deepdeyne has been in my family for over five hundred years.” Reothe’s tone was hard and bitter. He fell silent. When he resumed, his voice had regained its usual timbre. “Haase and his Ghebites feasted late, celebrating our capture. You are to be returned to your half-brother for trial and execution.”
“And you?” Tulkhan did not know why Reothe still lived.
“The Ghebite king is having trouble with his alliance kingdoms. He wants a chained Dhamfeer to exhibit throughout his empire. He thinks it would restore respect for his rule if he recaptures Fair Isle and subjugates the legendary T’En. He intends to keep Imoshen alive too, if he can. But I don’t—”
“Why? Why did Haase betray me?”
“Why does any man betray another? Love or wealth. Haase tried to tell you. His family are imprisoned back in Gheeaba. They bound your leg, by the way. They want you alive for your execution.”
Of course. “Our men?”
“Dead.”
Tulkhan nodded to himself, then winced. He flexed his body and bit back a groan. As sensation returned, he realized he had been tied to a cot bed that was too short for him. His arms were tied behind his head, one to each leg of the bed, and his knees hung over the end of the cot, where his ankles were strapped to the uprights. “Are you tied up?”
“Same as you.”
“Can you see?”
Reothe was silent, as though considering what answer to give. “I may be crippled, but I still have the eyes I was born with. Do you feel as if you could walk?”
“I can’t even feel my feet.” He heard Reothe chuckle. There was a soft crack of splitting wood. “What was that?”
“These bunks are old and brittle.” More soft cracking and rustling followed.
Tulkhan flexed his arms, welcoming the pain in his hands as sensation returned. Could he crack the cot’s legs, and if he did would his head hit the floor to add to his woes?
“Careful, don’t start the leg wound bleeding.”
By the sound of his voice, Tulkhan could tell Reothe was kneeling beside him and guessed the Dhamfeer could see better than he would admit. The bonds fell away from Tulkhan’s hands and he sat upright, repressing a grunt of pain. His head felt as if it might burst. Nausea threatened.
“Can you stand?” Reothe freed his legs.
Tulkhan wondered if Reothe was helping him because they stood a better chance of escaping together. Perhaps Reothe planned to exchange his life for Tulkhan’s if they were recaptured. Should it come down to a fight, he could not be blamed if Reothe was killed attempting to escape. Suddenly, Tulkhan did not like the man he was becoming.
“If I can find it after all these years, there’s a secret passage leading from one of the lower storerooms,” Reothe said.
“Another secret passage!” Tulkhan felt his bandaged thigh and flexed the muscle carefully. “I can barely walk. Can we lead horses through this passage?”
“No.”
Would Reothe leave him to his fate? One thing was certain: Tulkhan was not going back to his half-brother alive.
“We can get horses from the stables,” Reothe said at last. “We’ll need food and blankets. Winter is a brutal time to be living off the land.”
Reothe spoke from experience. Only last winter he and his rebels had been hiding out in the Keldon Highlands. “Come, Tulkhan. The door is not locked.”
“Weapons?”
“The wall displays hold effective, if outdated, weaponry. But it would make more sense to slip away quietly.”
“To the stables, then.”
The door to the main hall opened on silent hinges. Tulkhan could hear the snores of a score of men. He was sure if his nose hadn’t been completely blocked, he would have smelled their winy breath and sweaty bodies.
“Walk where I walk,” Reothe whispered.
It was all very well for the Dhamfeer—he could see. Tulkhan felt his way, senses strained. They made it across the hall to the stairwell without discovery. In silence and darkness, Tulkhan kept one hand against the stone stairwell. His leg pained him, and the warm dampness told him the wound had broken open.
Two floors below, they unbarred the door and moved out onto the tower’s narrow stairs. It was the darkest time before dawn. Nothing stirred as they stepped into the stone-flagged courtyard.
“This way. I can smell the horses,” Reothe breathed.
The stables were snug, much warmer than outside.
Tulkhan wished for light. His horse greeted him with a soft whinny as he slipped the bridle over its head. Getting onto the horse’s back was not easy. He levered his weight up onto a mounting block and swung his wounded leg over.
Reothe led his horse out into the courtyard. Tulkhan’s mount followed after a little urging. The beast was not eager to leave the stable’s warmth. Riding high on the creature’s back, Tulkhan studied Deepdeyne’s defenses. It was a well-designed Stronghold—a pity, because he would have to come back and take it before he could kill Haase.
“The gates are locked. I think our unknown ally cannot help us here,” Reothe muttered.
“What ally?”
Reothe looked up at him, his silver cap of shorn hair glinting in the starlight. “The healer who gave Haase a weaker drug than he requested. The people of Deepdeyne are mine, General.”
Now Tulkhan understood the ease of their escape, but there was still the gate. He urged his horse into the deep shadows, holding the reins of Reothe’s mount while the Dhamfeer unbarred the gate. The heavy wood creaked on its hinges.
It was enough to wake the dozing sentry, who staggered out of his warm nook, drawing his weapon. Reothe struck swiftly, but not before the man gave a strangled cry. A dog barked; more joined it, raising the alarm.
They made it through the first gate onto the short arm of the bridge. But Haase had stationed men on the tower at the bridge’s bend and they were alerted. They brandished torches, swords drawn. Tulkhan knew Haase’s men would be assembling in the courtyard behind them.
Reothe’s horse shied. The reins tore from Tulkhan’s fingers. He urged his horse forward, intent on getting past the defenders at the tower.
The narrow bridge had no rails, and as the General’s horse barreled into the men, one fell into the water. Tulkhan’s boot smashed into another man’s face. His mount screamed and went down. Before his wounded leg could be trapped, Tulkhan rolled aside and dodged a strike to his head. He tried to rise, but his bad leg gave way.
Suddenly, Reothe was at his side, hauling him upright. The defenders regrouped, blocking the bridge. Behind them Tulkhan saw the gleam of torches and the crush of figures pouring from Deepdeyne Stronghold.
“The river,” Reothe urged.
Tulkhan glanced at the icy black water. “I can’t swim. Save yourself.”
Instead of diving into the river, Reothe shoved Tulkhan. Off balance with his leg wound, he could only stare up in horror as he fell backward. As his back hit the river, he saw Reothe leap after him. Then the water closed over his face, so shocking, so cruelly cold that he gasped, taking in a mouthful. He was a dead man. His body tumbled over.
The irony of it hit Tulkhan. Reothe had turned the tables by murdering him in such a way that he could not be blamed.
Then Tulkhan collided with someone. Arms grabbed him, legs kicked with a purpose. Their heads broke the surface. Tulkhan gasped and coughed. He tried to grab something but there was nothing. They were in midstream. Torchlight danced crazily back on the bridge. Men shouted, pointing in their direction.
“They’ve seen us!”
Reothe muttered. “Take a deep breath—we’re going to drown.”
Tulkhan drew breath to protest. Before he could, they were underwater. He had swum only once before, and that was the night he dived into Northpoint harbor to save his son. Only by opening his mind to Imoshen had he been able to swim. She had driven his arms and legs, propelling him to the wharf. Now he tried to recall those actions. The force of the swiftly flowing river drove them along. Reothe was trying to swim across the current. Tulkhan kicked until his chest protested.
Just when he knew he could last no longer, their heads broke the surface. This time the lights of Deepdeyne were far behind and they were much closer to the river bank.
“Under again, before they spot us,” Reothe urged.
Tulkhan took a breath and let himself go. The next time they surfaced, the banks consisted of black trees and pale snow. The cold had him in its clutches; bone-deep, it made his body ache and his teeth chatter uncontrollably. “Have to get out of the river.”
“Not yet. They’ll search the banks for our tracks.” Reothe kept kicking, driving them along with the current. His body shook with cold. “Must let the river carry us further. We’re lucky no one jumped in after us.”
“Ghebites don’t swim.”
Reothe snorted. “So how did you learn to swim?”
“I’m not swimming. I’m d-dying of cold!”
They went with the current, keeping near the bank. At last Reothe caught a tree trunk that had collapsed into the river. Shaking uncontrollably, Tulkhan hauled himself onto the steep, snow-laden bank. With despair, he realized his wounded leg was useless. Unable to walk across the snowy fields to find a warm cottage, he was doomed to freeze before Haase and his men could find him. Reothe would be the one to escape, the one to return to Imoshen, guiltless of Tulkhan’s death.
Reothe held out his hand.
Tulkhan looked up, seeing him silhouetted against the starlit sky. “Why?”
“Give me your hand. The snow will cover our tracks.”
Self-preservation won out. Grunting with the effort, Tulkhan took his weight on his good leg and Reothe wound his arm around Tulkhan’s waist. They plowed up the uneven, slippery bank in silence.
On the high ground, they paused to catch their breath. Tulkhan dragged great gulps of air in between bouts of shivering. They faced rolling snowy fields. It was hopeless. If the cold did not kill them, riders on horseback would find them by circling in ever-increasing spirals from the riverbank.
Tulkhan cursed. “Without shelter we will die.”
“You forget. I know Deepdeyne. On this side of the river there is a secluded hot spring. If I can find it.”
Tulkhan gave a grunt of understanding, then put all his energy into moving. Snow fell silently about them. For a while he could not tell if it was getting light or if it was just the snow filling the air. After that he did not care. Every now and then, Reothe stopped to get his bearings in the winter landscape.
Moving became an impossible effort, and the snow began to look inviting. No longer cold, Tulkhan wondered if it would not be simpler to tell Reothe he was right. Fair Isle belonged to the T’En and he, Tulkhan, was the usurper.
Then even the reason Reothe was helping him ceased to plague him. He would not give up. Survival became his imperative. For a long time he concentrated only on lifting one foot after the other.
Suddenly he sensed a change in Reothe’s pace and looked up to discover it was light enough to see. Hope surged.
They stumbled down a steep embankment, sliding into a snowdrift. At the base Reothe dropped Tulkhan’s arms and staggered forward to scrape at a dark patch. Snow collapsed to reveal the entrance to a cave filled with steamy darkness.
Tulkhan crawled toward it.
With her secret fear hidden deep within her, Imoshen entered T’Reothe’s Hall. No word had come from Tulkhan and Reothe’s party except for this girl who had arrived last night, and no one had thought to tell her until now. The child’s escort knew only that Tulkhan and Reothe were going on to Deepdeyne. The men had reported the curious fact that this latest child showed no sign of T’En blood.
Imoshen climbed the stair and stopped at the door. “I greet you, Ysanna.”
The little girl was a striking creature with white hair and golden skin. She stood beside the bed and met Imoshen’s eyes with unblinking concentration. When she spoke it was with a maturity that belied her size. “I want to go home.”
Imoshen joined her. Dropping to her knees, she took the child’s small hand in her own. “Everyone will be kind to you. You must not be afraid.”
“I am not afraid.”
“Of course not.” Imoshen used the contact to probe, but she met a blank wall—an impressive wall. Few adults could resist her so thoroughly. Imoshen studied Ysanna’s sweet face. The child’s chin might tremble, but her mouth remained closed in an obstinate line. Imoshen’s heart contracted in sympathy. “Wouldn’t you like to live in the palace, wear fine clothes, and study with the other Malaunje children?”
“No. I only came with the T’En lord because my mother said I must. He said he had fifty men, but when I got over the hill, he had only a handful!”
Imoshen almost smiled. “If you don’t like it here, you can go home. But will you stay just for a little while to see if you like it?”
“How long must I stay before I can go?”
This time Imoshen did smile. “Just till T’Reothe comes back.”
“Very well.”
Imoshen left her with Maigeth, who had become a fixture of the palace. Five girls, nine boys, all with T’En traits except for the last child. Now, there was a mystery. It was said the T’En males did not breed true. Unless she was mistaken, the girl was Reothe’s daughter, which made her half-sister to the child Imoshen carried. By Fair Isle custom, Imoshen was duty-bound to care for her unborn child’s blood relative, even though the girl was not hers.
No lessons had begun, because Reothe had left instructions only for the children’s comforts. Imoshen hoped he would return with the T’Elegos. Excitement surged within her, followed by a stab of anger. How dare Reothe return if he betrayed Tulkhan? She would not be able to look him in the eye knowing he was a murderer. But she could not believe it of Reothe, would not believe it. Yet in her vision it had been Tulkhan who took the wound.
Imoshen massaged her temples. Why was she tormented with these gifts if they obscured more than they revealed?
“T’Imoshen? There is a man with a message.”
She turned to Lightfoot. “Where is he?”
“I will escort you.”
She fell into step beside him. “Do you know this man?”
“No. He is Lord Commander Haase’s man from Deepdeyne.”
Imoshen increased her pace, sure it was a message from Tulkhan. Eagerly, she entered the room, then stopped. “I thought you said he was waiting.”
“He was.” Lightfoot strode to the single table where food had been served. “And here’s the message.”
He glanced uneasily around the room, as though the man might be standing behind one of the hangings with a knife at the ready. But Imoshen knew he wasn’t. The room was empty, yet it held the tang of something she did not recognize.
She removed a single sheet of paper from the brass cylinder and broke the plain seal. Imoshen frowned, then sniffed the paper. “Strange, it is written in the speech of Fair Isle but by a mainland scriber.” She scanned the words, taking in the first three lines before she had to go back to the beginning because she could not believe what she was reading. The brass message cylinder fell from her nerveless fingers, clattering on the tiles.
“What is it?”
Silently, she handed the paper to Lightfoot. Imoshen’s trembling fingers smoothed the front of her gown, where there was no sign of the life she carried. The child’s father, if this message could be believed, was as good as dead.
“General Tulkhan is to be tried for treason by King Gharavan?” Lightfoot muttered. “I swear
this is fell news.”
“And must not go beyond this room. Haase did not write this.” Imoshen indicated the paper. “He can barely make the letters of his own name. Gharavan ordered this written on the mainland, to be delivered to me on the event of their capture.”
“How many days to Deepdeyne?”
“Three by fast rider. I fear Reothe and Tulkhan are already out of Fair Isle and sailing for the mainland.”
“Betrayed by his own commander!” Lightfoot muttered.
The words pierced Imoshen’s abstraction and, now that she understood the meaning of her vision, a wave of relief swept her. But this was just as bad. With Reothe and Tulkhan dead, how would she hold Fair Isle against the Ghebite King? How could she even think this, knowing Tulkhan faced execution and Reothe degradation before Gharavan had him killed?
She must harden her heart against their loss. Since the Ghebites invaded she had faced many grim choices. Her loyalty was to Fair Isle. But she could not let them die! Imoshen’s head spun.
“Imoshen, my lady?”
Imoshen was startled to find herself on the floor, with Kalleen at her side and Lightfoot hovering over them.
Kalleen turned on the servants. “Stop gawking. Bring hot wine and food.”
“What happened?” Imoshen asked.
“I sent for the Lady of Windhaven because you went white as a sheet and sank to your knees.”
“Lightfoot says you’ve had a shock.” Kalleen stood and brushed her skirts. “That is not good for women in our condition.”
Imoshen fixed on this as she came to her feet. “I said nothing.”
“No, but I have seen you push your breakfast away. You forget I kept you company through your last pregnancy, and I’ve experienced the same things with mine.”
“Ah, a pregnant empress and an infant prince. What will become of the General’s kingdom?” Lightfoot groaned.
“Fair Isle is my responsibility!” Imoshen snapped.
Lightfoot bowed in apology, but when he straightened, his eyes met hers, unchastened. “You are the T’En Empress, but you are still only one person and soon to be heavy with child.”
He was right. Imoshen kicked the empty brass cylinder across the room in disgust. “Where have you put that damned message?”
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 31