Unable to stand, she sank to the floor. Kalleen left and Imoshen counted two more contractions in the time it took her to bring mother’s-relief. Panting with the effort to ride the pain, Imoshen waited for the aftershock to leave her spine before trying to speak. “No point. I couldn’t hold it down, even if we had time to mix up something.”
Kalleen knelt on the floor beside her. “What do men know!”
Imoshen grinned, then went under again. It was going to be faster than the first, but, then, this baby was pure T’En and not due for another seven weeks. The babe was too early to live. Tears stung her eyes.
She hiccuped, then surprised herself by feeling the urge to push. No time to mourn, no time to grow accustomed to the loss. Her body was expelling the child.
“It comes,” she warned Kalleen.
Her waters burst, and on a flood of pressure the child slid from her. Imoshen caught her breath, opening her eyes in time to see Kalleen lift the little body.
“So blue and still.”
Imoshen moaned.
As Kalleen placed the infant on the blanket, Imoshen wondered if she could ignite his spark. Should she try? Physically he looked formed, but... Before she could decide, the contractions began again and the afterbirth was expelled.
“You’ve lost too much blood,” Kalleen whispered. “I must fetch a healer.”
“Give the babe to me!”
As Kalleen lifted him, he gave a mewling cry and Imoshen’s heart turned over.
“By the Aayel!” Kalleen gasped. “He lives!”
“Cut the cord.”
Kalleen did this, then wrapped the blanket around the infant and placed him in Imoshen’s arm. Their eyes met, full of wonder and trepidation. To have hope was cruder than to lose the child outright.
“He breathes!” Imoshen marveled, wiping the grease from her son’s eyes. His head turned instinctively to follow her hand. He would not give up, this one. Why should this baby live and Kalleen’s die? She looked up to see Kalleen wrapping the afterbirth. “That must be disposed of safely to secure his soul in the temple of his physical body.”
“But first you must clean up,” Kalleen said.
Imoshen wondered how she was going to cope with an early T’En baby and T’Diemn under siege. Fierce determination flooded her. Just as this baby would not give up, she would never relinquish hope.
Chapter Twenty-four
That evening Imoshen dressed for effect. She had not torn with this birth, but she was still tender. Through the closed window she could hear the joyous pealing of the basilica’s bells, announcing the birth of her son and celebrating the anniversary of the first birthing day of the royal heir. Those bells would carry to the mercenary army occupying new T’Diemn.
“The pearl circlet?” Kalleen asked.
Imoshen nodded and settled it into place so that the single large pearl hung in the middle of her forehead. Tonight people would be watching their T’En empress for any sign of weakness.
Ashmyr played on the floor by his new brother’s basket, unaware that their lives hung by a thread.
“Are you ready?” Imoshen asked, rising and looking at herself in the full-length mirror. The lacings of the heavy brocade gown supported her back and pulled her body into shape. She felt strong despite the birth. Her skin looked paler than usual, her eyes very dark.
Kalleen picked up Ashmyr. “Come, let the people wish you happy birthday, my beautiful boy.”
Imoshen cradled the new babe. Every time she looked she expected to find him cold and blue, yet he still breathed, no bigger than a small True-man’s child, but pure T’En. Fine silver hair covered his body. If he lived, it would fall out. As midwife she had seen other early babies covered in this hair. This little life was frail as the candle flame that could be extinguished by a vagrant breeze, yet her love for him burned so fiercely it was painful.
In the hall outside, they joined Lightfoot. Palace staff lined the corridor, eager to see the new baby. Imoshen realized it would take a long time to reach the stables.
Serving girls rushed forward, but the master of the bedchambers called them back. Imoshen walked slowly, letting each person stroke the little six-fingered hand.
“A miracle!” they marveled.
Imoshen hid her fears. In the faces of the palace servants, she saw wonder and hope and understood what the birth of this baby meant to the people of T’Diemn at this dark time.
The Keeper of the Knowledge met Imoshen’s eyes and stroked the baby’s sixth finger. “Sacrare.”
Imoshen’s world shifted. She had never heard this High T’En word spoken. A Sacrare was a pure T’En child born of pure T’En parents. The last recorded Sacrare was Imoshen the First’s daughter, who became the first Beatific.
“That word must not be spoken,” Imoshen warned.
Cradling the baby in one arm while Kalleen held Ashmyr’s hand, Imoshen greeted the mainland ambassadors who had been trapped in the city, the remaining Keldon nobles, the few Ghebites who had not accompanied their general, the guild-masters, and the town’s elected council.
The mayor made his obeisance. “The streets are cleared, Empress. Though I fear the palace woods are full of families camped under blankets.”
“Let us hope it does not rain. Come with me; we will tour old T’Diemn.”
The mayor’s eyes glowed. He was eager to bask in the reflected glory of the Empress. But he would not be as eager to share her fate if old T’Diemn fell.
Lightfoot waited in the stable courtyard beside the ceremonial carriage.
“Come with us,” Imoshen said as she stepped up. Directly opposite her, Kalleen settled Ashmyr on her lap.
They drove through the palace grounds and out into the square to the festive pealing of the bells and cheering. Imoshen tilted the basket so that the baby could be seen, but fear gripped her, for if he died in the night everyone would despair.
When they passed the basilica, she beckoned Murgon, who would not look at the baby. “I want my son’s arrival sung in the square by the full basilican choir. And tell the guild-master of the Pyrolate that I want fountains of lights pouring from the gate towers of old T’Diemn.”
The town had celebrated Ashmyr’s birth with these symbols. This child deserved nothing less and, besides, the encircling army would be aware of their celebrations. Vestaid had delivered death; the T’En Empress delivered life. Their attackers would see how the spirit of T’Diemn rose above their besiegers, unbowed.
That night Imoshen slept with her tiny infant on her chest. With every breath he took, she willed him to take another, and the long night passed.
When she sensed Rawset’s soul questing for her, she met it squarely, expecting recriminations, but he did not seek to drag her through death’s shadow with him. He wanted only to acknowledge her before making the final journey. Imoshen quested for the Parakletos, dreading their discovery, but they were amusing themselves with the hoards of lost souls and she escaped unnoticed, falling into an exhausted sleep.
All too soon she was awakened by Kalleen’s indignant voice denying someone access.
“Who wants me?” Imoshen called.
After some furious whispering, the basilica’s master-archivist and Keeper Karmel entered the bedchamber, accompanied by Lightfoot.
Imoshen sat up, cradling the sleeping baby.
“Your pardon, Empress,” Lightfoot said. “This is the moment to strike. I know Vestaid. He would not have let strong men gather power beneath him. His soldiers will be leaderless. These people claim there is a secret passage from the old town of T’Diemn under the river to the new town. We—”
“Trust the T’En!” Imoshen laughed. “We will send our people into new T’Diemn to strike when Vestaid’s men least expect it. Give me time to get dressed.”
Lightfoot’s mouth dropped open. “You were delivered of the babe only yesterday. You can’t mean to—”
“I most certainly do. Just imagine their dismay when they see me!”
Li
ghtfoot gave this some thought. “I will ensure you have your own escort of Parakhan Guard.”
“To keep me out of trouble?” Imoshen smiled sweetly.
“In keeping with your importance.”
“You should have been a diplomat, Lightfoot.”
But he did not smile and Imoshen feared she had lost him.
When the others left, Imoshen pushed back the covers. “We must hurry, Kalleen. I don’t want to give Lightfoot any reason to question my ability.”
“You’d rather he questioned your sanity?” Kalleen snapped.
“I will be fine. The farm women drop their babes in the morning and work the fields after the noon meal. I am no less capable than one of your sisters!”
“What of the babe? He’s so small and fragile!”
“Don’t you think I know?” Imoshen whispered. She undid the tie of Kalleen’s bodice and opened the material to reveal her golden skin. “Hold him next to your flesh like this. He needs to feel you.” She did not explain further.
“And if you are killed?”
“I will not be killed. I have too much to achieve to risk myself. My presence will be enough to dismay the attackers!”
“And then what?” Kalleen asked.
“We rid T’Diemn of these vermin and send word to Tulkhan.”
The General stood in the stirrups, thinking it was clear Gharavan and his army had been through here. They traveled the countryside like a plague of locusts, destroying what could not be carried and murdering anyone unlucky enough to be caught. But they had not attacked Chalkcliff Abbey. “Have they gone inland and south to T’Diemn, or north?”
Reothe tilted his face into the wind. His nostrils widened, then narrowed, and his eyes closed in concentration.
Tulkhan watched this uneasily. “Surely you can’t smell an army on the move, not with all these men around us?”
“Your kinsman has a peculiar stench,” Reothe said softly. “He is half mad, and it taints his—” He used a word that Tulkhan knew to be High T’En, though he could only guess at its meaning. “I think they went west to the coast.”
“That makes no sense. There is nothing of strategic value between here and the coast. He left Chalkcliff untouched, so he must be saving his strength for somewhere else.”
“Send out the scouts,” Reothe advised. “Don’t assume he will reason logically.”
Tulkhan had had enough examples of his brother’s unreasoning hatred. “Very well. But he has delayed attacking Fair Isle until now and succeeded in dragging us up the coast then inland without confronting us. Why?”
“Perhaps it is to distract us from his true purpose. T’Diemn?”
“Can’t be taken without a prolonged siege. We would come at him while he camped around the town and crush him against the city’s defenses. I planned for that contingency.”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know!” Tulkhan seethed in frustration.
“This is where we crawl,” Lightfoot whispered. “The passage runs directly through the west bridge, hidden within the roadway itself, and comes out on the riverbank below west tower. We’ll be at our most vulnerable coming out of the tunnel.”
Imoshen was content to let him take the lead. Even T’Imoshen the Third’s light armor tired her, and the tunnel seemed interminable. Crawling under the roadway of the west bridge, she marveled at her ancestors’ ingenuity, and cursed it. How her back ached!
At last she came to the exit. Light greeted her along with the mercenary’s strong hand. She swung down onto the bridge’s footings.
“Move along.” Lightfoot indicated the shadows under the bridge. “I’ll secure the tower, then send for you.”
Imoshen nodded and picked her way over the damp stones, further into the shadows. Light came through the broad arches, reflecting in the river’s swiftly flowing surface. Across from her the first massive pylon stood in semi-darkness. Above the murmur of the river she could just hear the furtive shuffling of her companions as Lightfoot prepared the assault.
Imoshen tensed. Something too large to be anything but a man was crouched directly opposite her on the pylon’s footing. Opening her T’En senses, she quested for him and met a mind too weary to shield itself.
“Drake!” Elation filled her. The figure jerked. Imoshen crouched down so her face was illuminated by the light that angled through the arch. “I’ll get help.”
Scurrying back to the tunnel entrance, she discovered that Lightfoot had already left with his raiding party. She found one man with a rope and several with sturdy arms. They followed her unquestioningly. The rope sailed across and Drake grasped it on his first attempt. He wound it around his waist, then slipped into the river.
The current caught him immediately, swinging him out into the center of the channel between the pylon and the tower footing. But the rope was short enough, and growing shorter as they hauled it in, to prevent him from being seen by anyone on the riverbank or the bridge. They dragged him out of the river, wet and shaking, barely able to stand.
“I did not think to see you alive, Drake!” Imoshen hugged him. “You’re injured?”
“My leg. Came off the bridge during the fighting. Clung to the pylon since. What happened?”
“Vestaid’s dead. We’re about to break the siege.” She checked the wound. Infection was the biggest danger after being exposed to cold and damp for so long. “My people will help you back to old T’Diemn’s hospice.”
Someone called for her. She left Drake and went inside the tower, where Lightfoot’s men held several prisoners.
“It was as I suspected,” Lightfoot said. “Vestaid’s officers have wasted time arguing whether to retreat, attack, or send for King Gharavan. Their men, released from the threat of Vestaid’s discipline, have been drinking and looting. They fear Gharavan won’t honor the contract. If we capture the officers, the men will lay down arms.” He led her outside, where half a dozen horses waited. “Mount up.”
Imoshen blinked in the bright sun as the Parakhan Guard mounted up around her; beyond them marched Lightfoot’s garrison. As they headed down the street toward Jewelers’ Square, it saddened her to see storefronts broken open and possessions smashed in the streets. The only mercenaries who were unlucky enough to discover them were quickly silenced.
Entering the square, they surprised four men on the steps of Jewelers’ Guild Hall, cutting them down before they could close the huge double doors. On Lightfoot’s signal Imoshen and the Parakhan Guard rode up the steps, straight into the hall. Their horses’ hooves rang out hollowly on the polished wooden floor.
Vestaid’s officers overturned tables and chairs in their haste to escape, but Lightfoot’s garrison swarmed over them. They were caught and killed, or dragged back to kneel before Imoshen. It was over in a matter of minutes.
Her horse sidled uneasily. She tightened her knees to control him as she removed her helmet. The captured men muttered uneasily. “These are all Vestaid’s officers, Lightfoot?”
“And a Ghebite lordling.” He kicked a man on his knees.
“Who speaks for you?” Imoshen asked.
They glanced at one another. So Lightfoot was right; Vestaid had let no strong man rise beneath him. She met their eyes one by one. “Your choice is simple: surrender or die.”
As Lightfoot had predicted, they surrendered. When the signal horn echoed across the rooftops, her own people on the walls of Old T’Diemn cheered.
Before long the gates were open and the defenders poured out, ready to restrain any of Vestaid’s army foolish enough not to lay down arms. Imoshen watched all this from horseback, Lightfoot at her side.
That evening the people of T’Diemn celebrated in the streets. Imoshen was bone-weary, but her responsibilities were not over. Lightfoot waited for her at the entrance to the public hall.
“Are you sure this Ghebite would have been privy to their plans?” Imoshen asked.
“He’s Gharavan’s man, probably assigned to Vestaid’s army to spy on the G
eneral. If any man knows what Gharavan plans, it will be him.”
As Lightfoot strode into the great hall, the sound of their echoing footsteps told of its size. The lamps only illuminated the nearest of the slender twin columns, hinting at the majesty of the T’En architecture. A bound man stood alone in its vastness. Though he stood proudly among enemies, Imoshen could smell his fear. Terror crawled across his face as she approached.
“Kneel before the T’En Empress, Cavaase,” Lightfoot ordered.
The Ghebite glared up at her, refusing to bow his head. “I would rather die than reveal King Gharavan’s plans.”
“Dying is easy,” Imoshen told him.
He flinched.
Slowly she walked around him. Her own men stepped away. She opened her T’En senses and probed Cavaase, testing his resistance. Behind it was fatalism. “Were you there when they tortured Rawset? Did you watch while he screamed?”
She saw the sweat start on his forehead and noted how his color faded under his coppery skin. Again she probed, sensing panic and despair. “That is a crude way to get information, fit only for barbarians. The T’En do not need to cripple the body when we want something from a man’s mind.”
She came to a stop before him and leaned forward. Despite his terror, his gaze went to the rise of her breasts. She saw him swallow painfully. He would not meet her eyes.
“If you resist me, this will hurt; either way, I will discover what I want to know, Mere-man.” She was surprised by an echo of Reothe’s tone in her voice.
A muscle jumped in the prisoner’s cheek.
Imoshen lifted her left hand, little sixth finger extended. He jerked away as though she was going to strike him.
“Hold him,” Lightfoot snapped.
“No.” Imoshen waved the men back. “It won’t be necessary. Will it, Cavaase?”
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 40