DESPERATE ALLIANCES

by Cory Daniells

  Imoshen waited on the palace balcony to accept the salute of the army. For the moment they faced the basilica, where Reothe stood, resplendent in the red and gold robes of the Beatific. He understood how to use ceremony to inspire devotion. Even the Ghebites were moved to join in as the massed voices of the basilican choir rose, weaving streams of exquisite sound. The beauty of it flooded Imoshen. T’Diemn was the jewel in the crown of Fair Isle, the pinnacle of T’En culture.

  The blessing over, Reothe retreated to the basilica to remove his garments of office and Tulkhan rode around the square, the people breaking into spontaneous cheers as he passed. He stopped before Imoshen, saluting her. She placed her clenched hand over her heart, then opened it toward him. Smiling through her tears, she recalled the first time he had used that gesture, before words of love had ever left his lips.

  Tulkhan wheeled his black destrier. It reared, walking on its hind legs. The people cheered, and when he let the beast settle she saw him smile confidently, ever the warrior. On his signal Tulkhan’s army marched out of the square toward the north gate.

  Only half a day had passed since Reothe told her the T’Elegos lay in its old hiding place. But she could not risk collecting his gift. With Reothe gone, Murgon ruled the basilica, and Imoshen dared not venture into the archives to retrieve the T’Elegos lest he catch her and discover its possibly damning secrets for himself.

  The last of Tulkhan’s men were still leaving when Reothe and the T’Enplar warriors appeared below her balcony. He was dressed in modern, lightweight armor, his only concession to display the red and gold of the Church’s rich mantle. Behind Reothe the Keldon nobles waited, each with their own small army of loyal followers. Amidst them she recognized the stern matriarch Woodvine and Athlyng, Reothe’s grandfather.

  When Reothe saluted Imoshen with old-empire formality, her heart went out to him. He believed he faced death. His name left her lips as he rode out to collect the Church’s army from every village along the way.

  Imoshen waited until the last red and gold cloak had filed from the square, then she went inside. Her head ached and her back was weary. Remembering her naive question the first time she had delivered a baby, she smiled. What was the hardest, she had asked the new mother, the waiting or the birth? The woman had simply looked at her.

  “Lightfoot,” she greeted the mercenary. “I want T’Diemn secure. Send the new password to the lockkeepers and place lookouts on the hilltops. The people must be ready to vacate their farms at a moment’s notice.”

  * * *

  Having pushed his cavalry to the limit, Tulkhan rode into Windhaven after dark the following day. The destruction, illuminated by the light of the small moon, was all the harder to take since he had been eating in the hall and watching the local children play in the orchard only recently.

  Tulkhan stirred the ashes, revealing hot coals. Scouts returned to tell him the Ghebite army was headed inland toward Chalkcliff Abbey.

  As Imoshen greeted Tulkhan’s messenger, she was reminded of Rawset’s loss. This youth trembled with fatigue, his face stained by dirt and grime. His news was grim. Windhaven was destroyed. The General had gone to meet King Gharavan on the fields below Chalkcliff Abbey.

  Imoshen nodded, aware of Kalleen’s initial soft moan and now her silence. When the door had closed after the messenger, she turned to find Kalleen staring blindly out the window.

  “I thought the people of Windhaven would resent me, a farm girl become their lady, but they didn’t, and now I’ve failed them, just as I failed my child!”

  Imoshen let Kalleen’s tears ease, then took her firmly by the shoulders. “Is that what you really think?”

  “No. That is what I feel!”

  Imoshen kissed her damp cheek. “I’ve said it before, but I bless the day you fell at my feet!”

  Kalleen managed a smile. “I still have the knife you gave me, and I remember how to use it.”

  Imoshen hugged her and prayed T’Diemn’s people would not be reduced to fighting in the streets. She pinned her hopes on Tulkhan. Meanwhile, she had her own plans. Tomorrow morning Murgon would meet Lightfoot on the ramparts of the new city to discuss how the Church could help defend T’Diemn. Tomorrow the T’Elegos would be in her hands.

  Kalleen picked up Ashmyr. “Time for your bath, my beautiful boy. Who will be one year old tomorrow?”

  With a start Imoshen realized she had forgotten the celebration planned for the royal heir’s first birthday. The Thespers’ Guild was going to perform in the square, and the palace would hand out sweet biscuits impressed with the first letter of Ashmyr’s name in high T’En. She decided to go ahead with the celebrations despite Gharavan’s attack.

  The door flew open and a boy of about ten ran into the room. “You must come, Empress. Gharavan’s army is in the city!”

  “Impossible!” Kalleen snapped.

  Spots of light danced before Imoshen’s eyes. “Who told you this?”

  “Commander Lightfoot.”

  Then it was true.

  “He wants you, Empress. This way!”

  Imoshen squeezed Kalleen’s hand. “See to Ashmyr’s bath.”

  “Imoshen?”

  But she had no words of reassurance. Imoshen followed the boy from the room. As he led her down the long passages, the servants watched, aghast. Bad news traveled fast. Imoshen followed him up the steps to the top of the Sard’s Tower, one hand under her belly to help support the baby’s weight.

  Climbing through the trapdoor was a tight squeeze. Lightfoot helped her to stand. As soon as she did, she saw smoke rising from the wharves, dark against the setting sun.

  “The wharves!” Imoshen cursed. “The lockkeepers wouldn’t let anyone through without the password. How could they overpower all seven lockkeepers without raising the alarm? We must turn them back, retake—”

  “Too late. We weren’t prepared for attack from that quarter. Dockside has been gutted,” Lightfoot muttered. “They already have a toehold in the new city. People are streaming into old T’Diemn. We should close the inner gates.”

  Silently she thanked Tulkhan for restoring and reinforcing the defenses of old T’Diemn. “We will keep the gates open as long as we can. Muster the city’s defenses, fight a rear-guard action.”

  “Street-fighting from house to house, townsfolk trapped in their homes, fires and panic...” Lightfoot spoke from bitter experience.

  Imoshen’s spirits sank. If people saw her, they would take heart. “Have my horse saddled and call on the Parakhan Guard to escort me. The inner west gate leads directly to the docks. Is that the one we must hold at all costs?”

  “Yes. But you can’t risk yourself.”

  “I must be seen for my presence to be felt. Send for T’Imoshen the Third’s ceremonial armor.” Imoshen’s ancestor had been Empress at the end of the Age of Tribulation, when a ruler could expect to lead her army in battle. The chain mail would cover her belly.

  At dusk on horseback, it was a nightmare. People streamed uphill, carrying their most prized possessions. Members of the Parakhan Guard escorted Imoshen. She stood in the saddle, carrying a torch. It was symptomatic of the fall of T’Diemn that no one had thought to light the street lamps. As she had anticipated, her presence helped restore calm and order.

  Leaving most of her guard at the entrance to the fortified bridge, Imoshen rode through the crowd, trying to estimate how many more people still had to get through the west gate and how close Gharavan’s army was.

  She hardly recognized the street as the way she had come the night Reothe had lured her to Dockside Hospice. Here the press of bodies was worse. Smoke flowed up the street as if up a chimney flue. Her horse snorted with fear and pawed the cobbles.

  “Empress T’Imoshen!” the people cried, reaching for her. They were townsfolk, old and very young, no match for seasoned fighters. For the second time in less than two years, the people of T’Diemn saw their town invaded.

  “Come away, T’Imoshen,” Drake urged, and Imo
shen realized the press of folk had flowed past her, leaving her with three of the Parakhan Guard facing an empty thoroughfare.

  Shouts and running feet echoed up the smoky street.

  From around the corner a burning building cast the shadows of people running.

  “Imoshen!” Drake urged.

  She quested with her gifts and remained where she was. Several young apprentices ran around the corner in a parody of Caper Night. This time they were armed with weapons of their trades dipped in blood, not paint. On seeing her they cheered, brandishing hammers and seamster’s scissors sharpened to a knife edge.

  Imoshen stood in the stirrups, holding the torch high. They trusted her, and she was going to ask them to die. “We must keep the west gate of old city open for as long as possible to let our people into the safety of old T’Diemn.”

  “We will hold it!” cried a girl, leaping onto a water trough to wave her butcher’s cleaver. The others followed her lead.

  Imoshen turned to the Parakhan Guard. “Will one of you stay to lead them?”

  She was asking which of them would die at the west gate.

  “I will.” Drake urged his horse forward. “But you must go back now, T’Imoshen.”

  Imoshen met his eyes, recalling the earnest youth who had delivered news of the sack of T’Diemn. Then Drake had longed for glory; now he volunteered for duty in the full knowledge that it would bring him death. She wanted to refuse but could not deny him this honor.

  Sad at heart, Imoshen touched the tip of her sixth finger to Drake’s forehead, then guided her mount toward the bridge.

  It was nearly dawn when Kalleen entered the map room at a run. “They just closed the last gate to old T’Diemn.”

  Silently, Imoshen bid Drake farewell and moved a barrier over the corresponding gate on her map of T’Diemn. Lightfoot met her eyes.

  She hadn’t slept. All night the baby had writhed within her, mirroring her agitation. The inhabitants of new T’Diemn were camped in the streets of the old city, sleeping in doorways.

  “If we need to reinforce the walls, we must have clear access to the ring road. The people will have to move off the streets.” Imoshen remembered Tulkhan pulling down the houses that had obstructed this road. “Open the palace gardens. They can camp in the ornamental woods.”

  Lightfoot nodded.

  “Empress?” A messenger stood in the doorway. “Their General is calling for our surrender in the name of King Gharavan.”

  “And who is this General?” Lightfoot snarled.

  “Vestaid of the Vaygharians.”

  Lightfoot’s expression hardened.

  “Is he the one who thwarted Tulkhan’s first attempt to take Port Sumair?” Imoshen asked.

  Lightfoot nodded. “He was the one who led the attack on the plain outside Sumair. I thought him drowned.”

  “Apparently not.” Imoshen straightened her aching back. “I will speak with him. Where is he?”

  “He stands on west-gate bridge.”

  “Come, Lightfoot. Let us hear what he has to say.”

  Kalleen scurried after them, her little face determined.

  Imoshen caught Kalleen’s arm, lowering her voice. “I want you to take Ashmyr and go to T’Reothe’s Hall. Tell Maigeth...” She faltered. How could Imoshen tell Maigeth she had left her son to die? “Stay there with them. If T’Diemn falls, you must take the Malaunje children and supplies and hide in the secret passages. I’m sure Drake has shared his knowledge of them with Maigeth. Stay there until Tulkhan retakes the city.”

  She only hoped the General was not already dead.

  Imoshen and Lightfoot stood on the tower of west gate in the crisp light of dawn. Smoke from dockside had been blown inland.

  “Empress, he has archers on the far defenses,” one of her people warned.

  “Will he order us killed if we show our faces, Lightfoot?”

  He strode to the wall, signaling in an elaborate manner. Imoshen saw the same signal returned. She had to remind herself that Lightfoot and Vestaid were countrymen, part of the brotherhood of mercenaries.

  Lightfoot beckoned and Imoshen joined him, looking down onto the bridge. No bodies littered the stonework, but there were bloodstains. The river ran under the uprights, gleaming in the early light. A man had stepped out of the shadow of the tower opposite.

  She pitched her voice to carry. “I am T’Imoshen of the T’En, Empress of Fair Isle. What do you want?”

  “I am Vestaid, War General of the Ghebites. Who is your Vaygharian lapdog?” he roared.

  Lightfoot answered in his own language.

  Vestaid laughed. “You choose strange commanders, Dhamfeer—a traitorous Ghebite whoreson and a disinherited Vaygharian merchant prince!”

  Imoshen filed away the revelation about Lightfoot’s past and raised her voice. “Make your point, Vestaid, my breakfast is getting cold!”

  “Enjoy your hot breakfast, for I will have your surrender by nightfall, Dhamfeer.”

  “Talk is cheap, Vestaid.”

  “So is life!” He stepped into the shadow to haul someone out with him.

  Imoshen knew that head of gingery hair.

  “Rawset!” Lightfoot’s gasp of dismay went knife-deep.

  One of the emissary’s shoulders hung at an odd angle. Imoshen’s heart contracted. She felt the baby within her recoil in sympathy.

  Rawset had escaped the flood only to be captured by Vestaid. This explained how T’Diemn had fallen, for Rawset knew the lockkeepers personally. Imoshen took a deep breath to slow her racing heart.

  “Greet your friends, Rawset!” Vestaid urged, kicking him in the back of the knee so that he fell to the stones. Unsheathing his knife, Vestaid curled his fingers through Rawset’s hair, pressing the blade to the emissary’s throat.

  Now that Rawset had served his purpose, Vestaid was going to kill him while they watched. Imoshen could not let this happen.

  As she opened her T’En senses, everything went deadly quiet and the early-morning light faded to a dim twilight. She tasted fear on the air and extended her awareness, centering on the savage essence that was Vestaid, but the man was guarded against her intrusion.

  Entwined with him, she felt the fragile essence that was Rawset. She brushed his senses and he welcomed her. They had mistreated him, tortured him, but nothing compared to the pain he felt knowing he had betrayed her. He craved her forgiveness. Imoshen gave it without qualification. He bathed in the pure flood of her absolution.

  “He whispers your name like a prayer—T’Imoshen! It is clear the Dhamfeer cannot protect their own. Your marvelous powers are nothing but rumor!” Vestaid gave a bark of laughter, and in that heartbeat his guard dropped.

  Imoshen found him susceptible. “You don’t see because you are blind, Vestaid. Blind!”

  Shifting her concentration to Rawset, Imoshen felt as if she was on her knees with Vestaid’s knife at her throat. Vestaid’s hold loosened as he staggered, his hands going to his eyes. She gave Rawset the impetus to act, urging him to spin under his captor’s arm, to tear the knife from the mercenary’s grasp, to drive it straight up under his ribs into his heart.

  Rawset’s satisfaction was hers.

  Even as Vestaid’s death cry rang out, a dozen soldiers surged forward, weapons raised. Imoshen felt Rawset fall under their blows. His pain was her pain. His death caught her ill-prepared, wrenching her senses.

  Something buzzed past her ear. Lightfoot pulled her out of the arrow’s path, bringing her back to the reality of her physical body with awful suddenness. From his touch, Imoshen knew the mercenary blamed her for Rawset’s death. She had appeared all-powerful when she saved Lightfoot from execution in the Amirate. He believed, right or wrong, that she could have saved Rawset; instead, she had made him her killing tool.

  All around them, men screamed as arrows flew true. But Imoshen felt only the after-echo of Rawset’s surge of desperation as his life force left him. Imoshen’s heart cried out at the injustice of it. Rawset’s li
fe was worth so much more than Vestaid’s. “He died well, Lightfoot.”

  “Serving the T’En to the last!” he hissed, then straightened. “Take the Empress back to the palace. She has bought us time with Vestaid’s death.”

  Without argument, Imoshen let the men lead her down the steep steps and into the cobbled lane, where the mayor waited.

  “The Ghebites’ war general is dead,” she said. People cheered and shouted this news up the street and along the ring road. “Tell the townsfolk they are welcome to camp in the ornamental forest. We must have the streets free to send support to the walls where it is needed.”

  The mayor nodded his understanding. Imoshen recalled how she had distrusted him the first time they met. At least he kept a clear head under pressure. Together they walked up the rise through the streets of old T’Diemn to the palace. Her back ached abominably. She felt nauseous with the shock of Rawset’s death, and the baby never ceased moving within her.

  It took time to coordinate her plans with the mayor and palace staff, time to reassure people. When at last she closed the door to her private chambers, Imoshen found Kalleen placing fresh food on the low table before the fire.

  “Where is Ashmyr?”

  “Safe with Maigeth. I came back to see to you. Good news, I hear?”

  “No. Rawset is dead.”

  “But the mercenary general is dead too.”

  Imoshen looked at the food. “I don’t think I can eat. I don’t feel well.”

  Suddenly something shifted inside her, making her bend double with pain. She looked down to find blood pooling at her feet. Kalleen gasped and Imoshen saw her own fear reflected in the little woman’s face. She was going to lose the baby. Now. When she could least afford to show weakness.

  With a moan of dismay, Kalleen led Imoshen into the bathing room and helped her undress. “I will send for a midwife.”

  Trembling with shock, Imoshen caught Kalleen’s hand. “No one must know.”

  “But you could die!”

  Imoshen closed her eyes, focusing on the force of the first contraction. It was not a preliminary warning, it was earth-shattering. She uttered an involuntary moan. “The baby is lying on my spine. Bring me my herbs. This is going to be fast and bad. Here it comes again.”