As the words faded, Tulkhan felt himself to be more T’En than Ghebite. He recalled how Imoshen had first surprised him with this ceremony. Now he understood the significance. No matter how powerful you became, death awaited everyone, and the higher you rose, the more you served.
If he had been a Ghebite, Reothe would have kissed the naked blade Tulkhan still held; instead, he rose and met the General’s eyes. Tulkhan read a reluctant emotion, quickly masked. Then Reothe stepped aside to stand just behind Tulkhan on his left. With a start, Tulkhan realized Reothe was honoring him.
Facing the others, the General sensed a shift in the balance of power. His men did not despise their general because he was under a Ghiad to the last Dhamfeer warrior. Somehow, Reothe’s position at his back, their miraculous escape, and the taking of Deepdeyne had all added to the aura surrounding him. Tulkhan raised his voice. “Men of Deepdeyne, you have a choice. Swear fealty to me, or join your commander in death.”
Late that evening, Tulkhan sat at the table in the great hall, where the fire had burned low. He had sent Lightfoot back to the capital with word for Imoshen, and all day the locals had come into Deepdeyne to swear fealty to their hereditary leader, honored by the new regime. Tulkhan had legitimized Reothe. but he could not leave him at Deepdeyne.
What was he thinking? He was under a Ghiad to Reothe. The Dhamfeer could do whatever he liked. Tulkhan’s head ached. He dreaded returning to T’Diemn and Imoshen.
Reothe dropped a bottle of Vorsch beside Tulkhan’s elbow. “Share a drink with me, General? I promise it’s not drugged.”
He sat two small glasses next to the bottle. Their solid bases rattled on the scrubbed boards.
“So, you have taken a liking to Vorsch?” Tulkhan dredged up an acceptable reply.
“No. I chose it because you like it.” Reothe uncorked the bottle and inhaled the scent. “Though it does have a certain—”
Reothe’s eyes widened at something behind Tulkhan. The General turned to see someone charge out of the shadows. A naked blade flashed. Tulkhan reached for his own weapon, but before he drew it Reothe lunged, his sword flying past Tulkhan’s left ear.
Haase’s sword-brother screamed. Tulkhan’s chair hit the floor. The corpse lay twitching in a steadily expanding pool of blood. Several men who had been drinking on the floor below charged up the stairwell, weapons drawn.
“Who was watching Haase’s sword-brother?” Tulkhan demanded.
A man stepped forward. “He was asleep a moment ago, General.”
Tulkhan did not pursue this; instead, he glanced to Reothe, who was staring grimly down at the corpse.
“Throw him into the moat,” Tulkhan ordered, denying the man the honor of a Ghebite warrior’s burial. “And get out.”
They dragged the man away, leaving blood smears on the floor. Tulkhan righted his chair and poured two drinks. “Again you have saved my life.”
“You would have saved yourself. I acted on reflex.”
Tulkhan considered this. “Yes. But I would probably have been wounded for my lack of wariness.” The General wanted to ask Reothe how long before he suffered for the man’s death, but his expression did not welcome confidences.
Reothe drained the Vorsch in one gulp.
The General watched the candle flame through his glass. He knew Reothe did not wish to discuss this, but Tulkhan had always thirsted for knowledge. “You killed him on reflex. But I have known you to kill with forethought. Two days after you touched him, one of my commanders delivered your message and dropped dead at my feet.” Tulkhan shuddered at the memory. He silently thanked the trick of fate that had driven Imoshen to cripple Reothe’s powers.
Reothe said nothing.
Tulkhan sipped his Vorsch. Before long Reothe would lie in a delirium, hurting and vulnerable. Yet the Ghiad prevented Tulkhan from killing him. “You call yourself greater than a True-man who kills and does not suffer for it. I put this to you: The T’En are less than True-men because they know what death is and yet they still kill!”
Reothe’s face registered shock, then cold fury.
Tulkhan shrugged and poured himself another glass.
The Dhamfeer paced across the floor to the open hearth. Placing his hands on the mantelpiece, he stared into the glowing coals.
Despite Reothe’s casual stance, Tulkhan’s heart pounded. If Reothe challenged him, he was entitled to defend himself by the laws governing the Ghiad.
Reothe stalked back. Tulkhan’s body tightened in anticipation. His hand closed on his sword hilt. He knew the speed of the T’En warrior’s reactions. If he failed to block Reothe’s killing stroke, could he drag the Dhamfeer through death’s shadow with him?
Reothe came to a stop.
Tulkhan schooled his features, waiting for the first sign of attack. Reothe stared down at him, the single flame barely illuminating his face so that his eyes were dark pools.
The silence stretched until Tulkhan felt the tension thrum through his body like a tightly drawn bow string.
Abruptly, Reothe gave him the old-empire obeisance. “You are right, Tulkhan.”
Tulkhan’s skin crawled. How could Reothe make him feel vulnerable simply by uttering his name?
With formal courtesy, Reothe topped up Tulkhan’s glass, refilled his own, and took his seat. The General had to force his fingers to release his sword hilt.
Reothe sipped his Vorsch thoughtfully. “If I still had my gift, I would trawl your mind, True-man. You think differently.”
Tulkhan repressed a shudder, grateful that this was impossible. Feeling he had the advantage, he pursued the point. “If your gifts are crippled, why does killing still affect you?”
Reothe stared morosely at the candle, playing casually with the flickering flame. He circled it, just avoiding scorching the remaining fingertips of his left hand.
When Tulkhan thought he had no intention of answering, Reothe spoke. “The T’En are different. This difference lies deep within our minds. Once I could have caressed the flame and wooed it to do my bidding. Now I am only aware that it exists.” He saw that the General did not understand. “You know this flame will burn if it touches your skin, and you know how to put it out. Imagine that you have lost the ability to put out the flame, but it can still burn you. That is what Imoshen has done to me!”
For an instant Tulkhan glimpsed Reothe’s agony, and unwelcome sympathy moved him. But he would not be distracted. “Does this mean your powers are healing?”
“If I’d had even a fraction of my gift, I would have known Haase meant to betray you. I would have smelled it on him!”
Reothe’s revelation opened Tulkhan’s eyes to the difference between a True-man and the T’En. Every time Tulkhan thought he was growing to understand Imoshen and Reothe, he discovered how much he still had to learn. “If your gifts are crippled, how did you survive death’s shadow?”
Reothe laughed. “My gifts might be crippled, but I still have my wits!”
Tulkhan found this just as cryptic. He changed the subject. “Tomorrow we return to the capital. I’m under a Ghiad to you. Why don’t you send me away on a mission I can’t hope to survive?”
“Your men are loyal to you, not me. Even if you died, Gharavan might choose to avenge himself on Fair Isle. I need you to hold Fair Isle until I am ready to retake it.”
As with Imoshen, Reothe used the truth like a knife to cut to the bone of the matter.
“Why tell me?” Anger closed Tulkhan’s throat, making his voice a low growl. “Surely you must know I will kill you.”
Reothe held his eyes. “Not until you are free of the Ghiad. How can you forget, Tulkhan? You are thrice bound by the Gheeakhan Code.”
Fury and three glasses of Vorsch drove Tulkhan to speak before he considered his words. “Maybe I will kill you while you wander death’s shadow!”
Reothe rose, graceful and utterly Other. “You will abide by your Ghiad because you are an honorable man, and that is why Imoshen loves you.”
Determi
ned to hide her misgivings, Imoshen greeted Reothe and Tulkhan in the map room. She stood on the far side of the table so that she could observe them. Tulkhan’s broken nose was a visible reminder of how close she had to come to losing them both. She pushed the message across the desk toward the General. “Gharavan boasts he will take Fair Isle from you.”
The force of Reothe’s gaze was a physical thing. She knew that he was waiting for her to meet his eyes, but she would not give him the satisfaction.
With Wharrd’s death, she understood what a Ghiad meant to a Ghebite. Tulkhan would die for Reothe. She wanted to be certain he did not have to. As for Reothe... what double game was he playing? Her gaze strayed to his face, and what she read there did not reassure her. Reothe’s narrow features were even more sharply defined. If she had not known better, she would have said he had been deathly ill. His eyes, brilliant as garnets, blazed with keen intelligence.
When Lightfoot had explained Haase’s betrayal, Imoshen cursed herself. If she had healed Reothe he would have known the man plotted treachery. Her lack of trust in Reothe had placed Tulkhan’s life at risk. Once again she balanced on the knife’s edge, unable to bring herself to trust Reothe enough to make him whole.
Tulkhan made a disgusted noise as he finished reading the message, which proclaimed his capture and ended with Gharavan’s threats. When he passed it to Reothe without being asked, Imoshen marked this.
Reothe spoke to Tulkhan with the familiarity of a trusted adviser. “Does the little king have the ability to raise an army of sufficient size to do what he threatens?”
As she waited for the previous General of the Ghebite army to answer this, Imoshen marveled at how quickly Reothe had gained Tulkhan’s trust.
“Gharavan might be able to raise an army of sufficient size. I could have done it.”
“Then we face invasion come spring,” Imoshen spoke, her mouth dry. Tulkhan had taken Fair Isle with less men. The strength of the army depended on the leader. Fair Isle’s army was depleted, but Imoshen had General Tulkhan. His leadership might be their salvation. Reothe caught Imoshen’s eye; their minds ran along similar paths.
Tulkhan’s brows drew down. “What’s this about Kalleen being made Regent?”
Imoshen gave a little start, surprised by the change of subject and the speed with which Tulkhan had caught up with events. “I see you have been speaking with Lightfoot. I had to make provision for the future of our son and Fair Isle in case I was killed confronting Gharavan.”
Tulkhan met Imoshen’s challenging eyes across the table littered with the letters of state and maps. She had held the reins of rulership since the day he sailed for Port Sumair, and she had not faltered. “But Kalleen? She is—”
“A woman?” Imoshen bristled.
“You would make a farm girl Regent?” he countered.
Imoshen came to her feet. “Do you object because she was born a farm girl or because she is a woman? If it is because of her sex, you insult me. If it is because of her origin, you insult yourself. You are the one who claims a person should be judged by their worth, not their birth!”
Tulkhan felt the overflow of Imoshen’s gifts roll from her skin, making the little hairs on his body rise and his heart race. He wanted to bathe in that sensation. At her most T’En, Imoshen fascinated him. He found himself on his feet, glaring at her.
A slow hand-clapping pierced the roaring in his head, and he looked around to see Reothe mocking them with the Ghebite form of applause.
“Reothe!” Imoshen hissed.
He offered the old-empire obeisance and left.
“How could you give him power over you, Tulkhan?”
“He saved my life. I am thrice bound under a Ghiad to him.”
Imoshen gasped, her fair skin draining of all color. “Thrice bound? This is fell news, indeed.”
“How so?” Anger drove him. “What could be better— Reothe crippled and your war general forced to serve him?”
Imoshen’s lips parted as if she would say something, but instead she only stared at him. He hated to see her distraught and ached to take her in his arms. “Don’t play your tricks on me, Imoshen. I cannot be influenced by your gifts!”
Imoshen cursed in High T’En. “I would not stoop to influence your thoughts, but if his gifts were restored, Reothe would. When will you learn, General? I am not the enemy!”
“You don’t need to tell me Reothe is my enemy.”
“For now Reothe is your ally against Gharavan. To quote an old T’En saying, My enemy’s enemy is my friend. And your half-brother’s greatest ally is your lack of trust in me! If we are to leave anything to our son, we must unite to defeat Gharavan. It’s nearly Midwinter Feast. We don’t have long to prepare for war. What will the people of Fair Isle do?”
“They will fight or die.”
“If only all life was that simple!” Imoshen sighed. She had been ready to confront Gharavan and risk death for Tulkhan. Her throat felt tight, and she moved around the table to him. “I thought I had lost you to your half-brother’s thirst for revenge.”
“Not yet. Not ever.”
Yearning filled her; she stroked his broken nose. “Let me heal you.”
“It is healed.”
“I can smooth it.”
“I am what I am, Imoshen.”
She laughed, and the warmth in his black eyes illuminated her. “Why wear—”
“I will wear my broken nose until the day I die to remind me how close I came to playing into Gharavan’s hand.”
“I feared you lost!” She embraced him with all her strength. Tulkhan kissed her tear-damp cheeks. She wanted to abandon herself to his touch. She could feel the need in him, but Kalleen’s door-comb sounded.
“I request an audience with the Protector General,” she said formally.
Imoshen wondered what Kalleen wanted, but old-empire protocol forbade questions, so she left them alone.
Kalleen looked up at Tulkhan earnestly. “General, you must reason with Imoshen. I don’t want to be Regent!”
He laughed. As if Kalleen would ever be Regent of Fair Isle.
“Please?” She caught his arm in her small hand. He was reminded of the women of his own race, but Kalleen was no subservient wife-slave. Her fierce will illuminated her. “Please, do this one thing for me. The decree remains in the Beatific’s safekeeping. If anything were to happen to you and Imoshen, I would be Regent.”
“Nothing will happen to us.” He held her shoulders, feeling the fragile bones. Already she was big with Wharrd’s child.
“You cannot know that, but the T’En can. Have you asked yourself why Imoshen has done this?”
Her words struck a chill in him.
“She has the Sight!” Kalleen whispered. “It comes on her without the use of the scrying plate.”
“Imperfectly. She sees things and misinterprets them. Like Haase’s betrayal.” When Tulkhan slid an arm around the little woman’s shoulders, he was surprised by a protective urge. “Do not fear, Kalleen. You will never be Regent.”
Imoshen led Reothe down the path to T’Reothe’s Courtyard to see the Malaunje children. Screened from view, they watched them play for a moment. Imoshen noticed Drake’s covetous expression, making her wonder if he was sorry that the T’En gifts skipped his generation. She had never thought someone might court the T’En curse. “As you see, they are all well cared for and happy.”
“I did not expect less.” Reothe stepped around the screen. When they saw Reothe and Imoshen, the children dropped their colored balls and came running—all but Ysanna.
A little boy tucked his hand inside Imoshen’s. “Will you show us how to do the fire trick, Empress T’Imoshen?”
“Just T’Imoshen,” Imoshen corrected, and glanced at Reothe. “You have already been to see them, carrying tales, I see.”
Reothe nodded. “Come inside.”
Imoshen was reminded that their every move was watched.
A single door opened from the courtyard. Narrow
fingers of afternoon sunlight pierced the deep-set windows, picking out imperfections in each small pane of glass. Imoshen liked the aura of age, the wood-paneled wainscoting, the rich wall hangings, and the T’En-sized furniture, chairs, and tables. Why hadn’t she been born four hundred years ago?
Reothe led her to the huge fireplace, where wood had been laid but not lit. The children stamped their feet to warm them, shedding snow on the flags.
Imoshen knelt before the fireplace.
“Quiet now,” Reothe ordered. “Watch and open your senses. Afterward, see if you can tell me how the Empress does this. Go ahead, Imoshen.”
It felt strange to be encouraged to use her gift. A small child climbed into her lap and two more sat on each side of her. For the first time in her life, Imoshen felt truly accepted. She relaxed and reached for the power, welcoming the familiar taste on the back of her tongue. A rush of awareness traveled through her body, and she knew it would be easy to ignite a spark in the kindling. Like tripping a trap, she felt a snap in her mind. The children laughed, clicking their fingers in approval.
“Now,” Reothe said. “Who knows how it was done?”
One by one they shook their heads.
“Ysanna?” Reothe asked. She glared at him. An older girl licked her lips but did not speak. Reothe looked disappointed. Drake made a sound in his throat.
Imoshen came to her feet, smiling on him. “How goes the Parakhan Guard?” He had been honored to learn she meant to leave her son and Kalleen in his care, though he had argued against Lightfoot and Peirs’s involvement. He would have been happier to see the Triumvirate consist of Kalleen, himself, and the Beatific.
Before Drake could speak, Maigeth arrived. “Time to eat, children. Thank your T’En mentors.”
Suddenly formal, the children lined up. Imoshen watched as they paraded past, giving the old-empire obeisance. They formed pairs behind Maigeth and Drake to walk to the hall where their meals were served. Imoshen caught the hand of the girl who would have spoken. When she probed, she felt the bud of her gift lying dormant, waiting to bloom. Imoshen squeezed the girl’s fingers. “One day soon, Larassa. Join the others.”
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 33