DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  When the last two had gone, Imoshen turned to Reothe, who was watching her closely.

  “She sensed something?” Reothe asked. He sighed. “I thought there would be some among them who could already use their gifts.”

  “Perhaps it is for the best that the gifts do not bloom until we reach puberty.”

  “My gifts were moving before then.”

  Imoshen recalled the Beatific’s poisonous words. Had Reothe triggered his parents’ joint suicides? It had to be a lie. “Mine did not start until I was a woman. And then the ability came on slowly, until...” She did not need to finish. Reothe had known her powers would grow with the birth of her children. “Is this part of what Imoshen the First wrote about in the T’Elegos?”

  “The T’Elegos is waiting for you, as soon as you are ready to meet my terms.”

  “Terms?” Anger warmed her. How could he lay down terms when she had the power to restore his gifts? Suddenly she realized that she’d had a bargaining tool all along. Once she knew the secrets of the T’Elegos, there would be no need to fear Reothe’s restored gifts. “Maybe I have my own terms.”

  She saw him accept this and understood he’d been waiting for this moment. He was more devious than she.

  “And what do you offer me, Imoshen?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Your gifts restored,” Imoshen said. A muscle jumped in his cheek. It thrilled her to be in control.

  “What are your terms?”

  “Bring the T’Elegos to the palace and...”Here she paused, suddenly unsure. “Swear that you will not harm Tulkhan.”

  His surprise gave way to anger. “I saved his life. Do you think me so dishonorable that this counts for nothing?”

  Her heart lurched. “I can only judge you by your past actions. You did not hesitate to cloak your form in that of Tulkhan’s to come to my bed.”

  He flinched. “I did what I had to do.”

  “Exactly!”

  “Would you respect me if I did not? How can you accuse me, when we both know you are using the General to hold Fair Isle? When the time comes and Fair Isle is safe, which of us will you choose, my Empress?”

  Imoshen turned to the fireplace, thinking that Reothe had been reared in the royal household of the old empire, where the Empress’s word was law. But this did not mean he would not try to influence her choice. His every action proclaimed his belief that she would eventually honor her vows to him.

  “You are no longer that girl-woman I first met, out of her depth in the Empress’s court, Imoshen. I loved you then because I could sense the fierce flame of your being.” His breath stirred the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

  She felt him standing just behind her, not actually touching—but, then, he did not have to touch her.

  “Shenna?”

  Blindly, she grasped the mantelpiece and pressed her head against her hands. The heavy indentations of Tulkhan’s Ghebite-seal ring bit into her brow, reminding her of her dual loyalties.

  “Don’t tell me you feel nothing. Events have come between us, but what we share goes deeper.” He slid his arms around her waist. His lips brushed the back of her neck, sending a rush of warmth through her. A sigh escaped her as her body molded against his. She felt him smile.

  “Heal me and I will bring you the T’Elegos,” he urged, lips moving like living silk on her cheek. “It must be done in secret. Only the Beatific and the Master-archivist know the history still exists and they have no reason to consult it, so they do not know I have taken it. I promise not to kill Tulkhan until he has served his purpose.”

  Even as she spun to confront him, her anger dissipated. “You would not kill him. You are testing me.”

  He laughed. “I knew the day would come when I could no longer play you.”

  “You mock me. I was barely sixteen when we met. You’ve always had the advantage of experience. But I have only sought to do what is right.”

  “Whatever the cost?”

  She shrugged. Without explanation, she went to the inner door, locking it, then she locked the courtyard door. Imoshen finally understood why she had chosen this hall. They were in a state of siege, the T’En. She was protecting her own. As she approached Reothe, her heart raced. The mind-touch was like an addiction, one that laid her open to his gifts. But it had also made him vulnerable to her, allowing her to cripple him. So much of what she did was instinctive, but she had learned a great deal about the use of her gifts in these last small moons.

  He waited, intense and contained, as she joined him on the hearth.

  “This could hurt. Close your eyes,” she said, and without question he obeyed. “Open to me.”

  He took a ragged breath.

  Imoshen stood on tiptoe to kiss his closed lids, first one, then the other, the healer in her bestowing this asexual blessing. She inhaled his breath as he exhaled, seeking his essence—that cool, bright spark she had known during their moment of intimacy.

  The room, the fire, all sounds faded. She focused only on the pursuit of Reothe. Once before, when their minds had touched, she had not been able to escape the force of his will; this time she used her will to pursue him to his source, past the scarred landscape of his gift. At last she found him, trapped and bitter but still recognizable. Knowing that she had been the cause of his destruction tore at her.

  As he welcomed her, his overwhelming emotion was one of relief. She felt as if she had come home, but it would have been too easy to remain there with him. Disciplining herself, she sought to repair the damage. She smoothed the scars that had barricaded his power, blocking its use. When this was half completed she broke contact, gliding away from him through the tortured terrain of his gift, leaving him stranded.

  Imoshen returned to her senses to find herself kneeling on the floor before the fireplace with Reothe’s head in her lap. She could see his eyes moving under the closed lids. Gasping, he returned to the waking state with bitter comprehension. Imoshen smoothed his fine hair, feeling its blunt ends. “Do you know what I have done?”

  He pulled away from her. “You hold my gifts to ransom. Do you delight in your cruelty, Empress?”

  “I had a good teacher, T’Reothe.” She saw him accept this and continued. “When the T’Elegos is in my possession, I will fully restore your power. At least now you will not be so vulnerable to the Ghebites.”

  * * *

  Imoshen crept on silent bare feet across the General’s study to the fur rug before the hearth where Tulkhan slept. This was the third night he had not come to her bed, and she ached to touch him. Breath tight in her chest, she knelt beside him, admiring the line of his jaw.

  Licking dry lips, she lifted a tentative hand, and her fingertips hovered above his chest. Suddenly, his hand flashed up and caught her wrist. With a flick he pulled her off balance and rolled on top, pinning her to the ground.

  She bit back a cry of protest and wriggled against him.

  “Ah, Imoshen,” he whispered regretfully. “Don’t do that.”

  “Why not?” When he did not answer, she pursued it. “Why haven’t you come to my bed? I can feel how much you want me.”

  With a curse he sat back on his heels.

  She knelt by the fire, suddenly fearful that he had discovered how she had partially restored Reothe’s gifts. “What troubles you, Tulkhan?”

  In frustration he flicked his heavy dark hair over his shoulder. “You know I am under a Ghiad, Imoshen.”

  Did this mean he could not sleep with her? Perhaps this was why Kalleen had felt rejected by Wharrd. “I don’t quite understand....”

  “I think you do. Reothe has forbidden me to lie with you.”

  Imoshen’s cheeks flamed. “He does not have the right—”

  “He does, and more.”

  She met Tulkhan’s dark eyes, seeing the regret and longing there. How Reothe must be laughing.

  “There is one consolation,” Tulkhan confessed. “He does not realize that if he asked I would have to relinquish you to
him.”

  Imoshen snorted. “You could not relinquish me, because I am not your property, and Reothe knows that!”

  His mouth opened, then closed. He shrugged. “I find it hard to walk the line between the Ghebite world and your world. Every day I grow further away from my people.”

  “And a little further from me, if Reothe has his way.”

  “I will not dishonor my Ghiad.”

  She stared at Tulkhan. The flickering flames sculpted his broad cheekbones, making his coppery skin glow. She wanted him to defy the Gheeakhan, but the warrior code defined him and she could not ask him to dishonor it. “How can you serve out the Ghiad?”

  “I must save Reothe’s life three times. A life for a life, Imoshen. It is the Ghebite way. If someone killed a member of my family I would have to take their life to avenge them. If someone saves my life I must repay that debt, and Reothe—”

  “But three times?” Imoshen said. Now that she had partially restored Reothe’s gifts, it would make Tulkhan’s Ghiad harder to serve.

  “What is it?” He was too perceptive.

  Shaking her head, she went to him, kneeling between his thighs. “Reothe would know if you broke your word. He would smell your scent on my skin.” She traced the line of his mouth with her fingertip, feeling the bristle of his jaw and the heat of his breath. “Kiss me before I go back to my cold, lonely bed.”

  Tulkhan swallowed.

  Imoshen lifted her face to him and closed her eyes, concentrating on the touch of his lips as they explored hers. Liquid heat pooled in her core. Her breath caught in her throat. Everything was reduced to this one moment and him.

  Breathing raggedly, Tulkhan pulled back. “Go now.”

  She did not argue, slipping away, her body sensitized but unfulfilled.

  As the long Midwinter’s Day celebrations stretched into an even longer evening, Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. Across the great hall, the Beatific was in deep discussion with Reothe. What mischief were they planning?

  Lightfoot approached him. “I’ve been challenged to a practice duel. Will you stand at my back?”

  Tulkhan grinned. He knew his men would not put up with these civilized entertainments for long. If he had to sit through another session of dueling poets, never knowing when they would turn their razor-sharp tongues on him, he would not be answerable for the consequences.

  “In the long gallery?” Tulkhan asked.

  Lightfoot nodded.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Tulkhan came to his feet, weaving through the clustered townspeople, Keldon nobles, entertainers, and loyal Ghebites. This time last year he had shared the bonding ceremony with Imoshen, then they had slipped away together. He had felt a presentiment then that this would not last, and less than a year later he was fighting to retain Fair Isle.

  His thirty-first birthday had come and gone with no one knowing. Even so, his True-man body would betray him, growing old while Imoshen was still in her prime. As if his thoughts called her, Imoshen met his eyes above the heads. She sent him a questioning glance, which he ignored. He was intent on clipping Reothe’s wings.

  “Beatific.” Tulkhan acknowledged her, then addressed Reothe. “My men are giving a sword display. I thought you would like to see it.”

  “Swordsmanship?” Reothe grinned. “How can you honor it with this name when you wield plowshares instead of swords?”

  Tulkhan recalled that Imoshen had once said much the same thing. “I suppose you think the knitting needles the T’En call swords are superior?”

  Reothe smiled slowly, his challenge evident. The last time they had faced each other with swords in hand, Reothe had wounded the General with one of those knitting needles.

  A rush of anger warmed Tulkhan. “I challenge you to a practice duel with Ghebite weapons.”

  “I accept. But not before you accept my challenge. Let me show you why a T’En sword requires more precision than brute strength.”

  “Very well. In the long gallery before the next bell!”

  Tulkhan spun on his heel and stalked off, hardly aware of the revelers who parted for him.

  “General?” Imoshen’s hand closed on his arm. “Would you dance with me?”

  He held her eyes. “Does your touch satisfy your curiosity? Can you tell what Reothe and I were arguing about?”

  “I don’t need to touch you to know you play games of male bravado. I thought we might dance to appease those who look for division.”

  Tulkhan fought the need to take her in his arms, to lay claim to her before everyone here, before Reothe. “You know I can’t dance.”

  “So you say, but I’ve seen your sword work. You could dance if you chose!” She held his eyes, always a challenge. “Will I have the minstrels strike up a Ghebite pair dance?”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to agree, but then he thought of his men waiting in the gallery and Reothe watching, planning to belittle him in swordplay. Wanting Imoshen consumed him. “No dancing. But you can kiss your husband good night, my wife.” The words had barely left his lips when he realized his mistake. To Imoshen, husband meant master.

  Her eyes flashed red with fury. But she surprised him by stepping closer. “Is it a kiss you want, General Tulkhan?”

  That and so much more...

  Imoshen lifted her face, eyes angry, lips parted.

  Knowing others could not see her anger, only the supposed surrender of her lips, he kissed her from the depths of his soul. He knew the instant her quicksilver passion ignited. He groaned. Her answering gasp told him she was as shaken as he.

  Dimly, he heard the music stop and recalled where they were. With difficulty he broke contact, lifting his head to draw breath. Imoshen smiled up at him like a satisfied cat. He recollected himself and took his leave.

  Imoshen met Reothe’s eyes across the crowd. Forbidding Tulkhan to make love to her had only strengthened her hold on the General. Reothe’s garnet eyes blazed. She felt the force of his gift. The people between them laughed too loudly, spoke too quickly, responding to the rush of energy. But Imoshen withstood it and Reothe faltered, his hand going to the Beatific’s shoulder for support. The woman’s glare told Imoshen she had committed a breach of high-court etiquette.

  Impervious to the Beatific’s censure, Imoshen returned to Kalleen, who asked, “What was that all about?”

  “Tulkhan and I do not agree on the roles of bond-partners.” Imoshen opted for the simplest answer. “He called me wife.”

  Kalleen rolled her eyes. “Oh, Imoshen. You mustn’t let him tease you. The General might be a Ghebite, but he is a good man.”

  Imoshen scooped up Ashmyr, who had fallen asleep in his basket, and drew Kalleen to her feet. She was a little awkward now with the weight of her pregnancy. “Let us escape while we can.”

  Heading for the staircase, Imoshen swayed with the weight of the baby and basket, but Kalleen lingered to look through the multipaned doors that gave onto the well-lit gallery.

  When Imoshen focused on the scene beyond, her heart turned over. Tulkhan and Reothe were at each other’s throats, swords flashing.

  The slender T’En sword went spinning out of Tulkhan’s hand and Reothe laughed, lowering his. “You see, it is all in the wrist. General.”

  Relief flooded Imoshen.

  Tulkhan retrieved his blade. “Once more and I will get this right!”

  Reothe saluted him.

  Tulkhan returned the salute. “You know I’m only letting you disarm me because when you get the Ghebite sword in your hands the tables will be turned.”

  “Of course. Defend yourself!” Reothe lunged, coming perilously close to spitting him.

  Kalleen gasped. “Tulkhan!”

  Watching from the dark stairwell, jealousy stirred in Imoshen’s breast. She had asked Tulkhan to teach her the use of the Ghebite sword, but he always put her off because, in his mind, a woman did not touch a weapon. Yet there he was, sharing this skill with the fallen rebel leader. How could Reothe be accepted by Tulkha
n and his men when she, who had done everything in her power to support the General, received only grudging respect?

  Frustration seared Imoshen. How long before Tulkhan revealed Seerkhan’s sword to Reothe? She guarded the intimacy of that memory, aware that Reothe, with his insidious T’En charm, could take even this from her.

  Tulkhan’s sword spun away again, and Reothe saluted him. “Well done. It takes years to master this.”

  “Let’s see how you fare with a Ghebite weapon.” The General’s men hurried forward with the weapons and he selected two. After testing them for weight and balance, he handed one to Reothe.

  Imoshen watched as Reothe grasped the unfamiliar hilt, assessing its differences. She remembered the feel of the Ghebite sword in her hand the day she challenged Tulkhan in the snow-laden courtyard. The General should have welcomed her meeting him as an equal; instead, he had sought to teach her her place, and now Reothe wormed his way into Tulkhan’s trust by virtue of his gender.

  “I never thought to see it,” Kalleen commented under her breath. “Only a short while ago they were ready to kill each other, and now they are sword-brothers.”

  Astonishment flooded Imoshen. She had been blind. Sword-brothers. That was why it was so easy for Tulkhan to accept Reothe—it was the Ghebite way.

  Kalleen arched her back. “I don’t think I can stand much longer. I’m for bed.”

  Still coming to terms with this revelation, Imoshen accompanied her. Anger powered her steps as she climbed the stairs. She must not let all she had worked for slip away, stolen by Reothe.

  But Reothe was cunning; he monopolized Tulkhan’s time. They rode the new defenses of T’Diemn together, they went hunting, and, as the days turned into weeks, Imoshen seethed.

  Knowing that Reothe visited T’Reothe’s Hall daily, returning via the narrow stairwell, Imoshen lay in wait for him. The sound of his soft footfalls made her body tighten in anticipation. She stepped out of the shadows.