In that instant she sensed that despair overwhelmed his will.
“You are mine!” She pressed the tip of her sixth finger to the center of his forehead between his eyes. In a rush she understood as much as he did. Gharavan despised and feared the mercenary war general. Cavaase believed Vestaid had meant to murder the young king and claim the Ghebite empire for himself. He had not been sure whether to tell his king this or bide his time and see who was victorious. Gharavan’s task was to distract the army of Fair Isle, evading battle until T’Diemn fell, and then he was to march into the city and lay claim to it.
Imoshen broke contact, disgusted. She stared at the Ghebite lord who was willing to betray his own king if it was to his advantage. He blinked, his blank expression clearing to sullen lines of hatred as his will returned.
T’Diemn was safe for now, but Gharavan still wandered Fair Isle with a formidable army.
“I have what I need to know, Lightfoot.” She rubbed her back; it still ached with the aftereffects of the birth.
“I will decorate the tower of west gate with the prisoner’s head,” Lightfoot said.
Imoshen began to say no, then she looked into the man’s eyes. “I will ride past tomorrow morning. Lightfoot, we must send word to General Tulkhan. T’Diemn has suffered because he did not anticipate this attack. I want him back here, ready to pay for this oversight!”
Lightfoot’s sharp eyes met hers, but he did not reveal that this was out of character.
“Take this craven creature away; his will is broken.‘” Imoshen did not have to tap Lightfoot’s arm to tell him to stay.
After the others had filed out of the great hall, she said, “Arrange it so that Cavaase escapes. Don’t make it too easy. I want him to think himself lucky to get away with his life. He will run straight back to his little king with the news of Tulkhan’s discomfort. What do you think Gharavan will do? Run for the coast or attack Tulkhan from behind as he comes back to T’Diemn?”
The veteran narrowed his eyes. “He will attack. He won’t be able to help himself.”
Imoshen nodded. “I must send a message to the General. For all I know, Gharavan is already on his way here to claim T’Diemn.”
A silence fell between them. Imoshen looked up to find Lightfoot’s eyes on her. She raised an eyebrow. He shook his head and would have turned away.
“I have no hold over you,” Imoshen said. “When this is over you may wish to return to your family.”
“Forget what you heard. I cannot return. Twenty years ago my father declared me a dead man. My younger brother became heir to our merchant holdings and now has heirs of his own.”
“I am sorry.” Imoshen hesitated. “I am not all-powerful, Lightfoot. If I could, I would have saved Rawset.”
“I have seen many men die. Rawset’s death was one to be proud of.” He rubbed his forehead where the sign of his servitude had been smoothed away.
“If I had known the man you are, I would never have imprinted you with the T’En stigmata,” Imoshen said. “And I removed it when you asked.”
“You cannot remove the knowledge that I could not resist the T’En. It remains a stigma on my mind.” Lightfoot gave her the bow of a Vaygharian merchant prince and backed away.
Imoshen frowned and rubbed the inner curve of the ring that Tulkhan had given her. Was there some way she could use the Ghebite seal to trick Gharavan?
Tulkhan stared into the fire, determined to precipitate a battle before his men lost heart. Raised voices made him look up to see a messenger dismount, his horse’s sides flecked with foam. The man pulled two folded messages from inside his jerkin and handed them to Tulkhan. The first was addressed to him, the second was to Reothe; both were written in Imoshen’s hand. As if the thought had called him, Reothe walked into the fire circle.
Silently, Tulkhan handed him his message and broke the seal on his own. Before he could begin reading, Reothe muttered under his breath. “Better for him to die!”
“Who?” Tulkhan whispered, aware of his men on the far side of the fire circle.
Anger and despair tightened Reothe’s features. “Not only is my child a boy, but he has been born before time. If he lives, his gift will be crippled.”
Tulkhan marveled that the child he had feared had been born without the T’En gift. Then the rest of Reothe’s speech sank in. Only a son!
A T’En daughter would have inherited Imoshen’s gifts. Reothe could have trained and manipulated her. Tulkhan recalled his intention to let the child live if it had been a girl. He had been blinded by his culture. He felt relieved that this male child might not live.
“What message does Imoshen send you, General?”
Tulkhan held the page to the firelight, reading with growing anger and astonishment. Wordlessly, he handed it to Reothe.
“We must return to T’Diemn,” Reothe announced.
That had been Tulkhan’s first thought. “It will be what Gharavan expects.”
“The capital lies like a great beast with its underbelly exposed and outer defenses breached in key places, from what Imoshen writes,” Reothe said. “What if Gharavan has another attack prepared for T’Diemn?”
Tulkhan stared into the flames.
“Are you considering breaking up the army to go on ahead with the cavalry?” Reothe demanded. “The foot soldiers can only travel so far in a day, and the majority are un-bloodied. What if Gharavan doubles back and attacks the stragglers? Do you plan to let him butcher me and my contingent, then ride in to mop up?”
Tulkhan spun to face Reothe, ready to deny this, but saw that Reothe was deliberately provoking him. Once he would not have recognized this. Somehow Reothe had become his confidant, someone to argue strategy with, someone who knew him well enough to speak the truth and risk his displeasure.
“Even now Gharavan could get to T’Diemn before us if he pushed his army in a forced march,” Reothe said.
“Until now Gharavan has been avoiding battle. But Imoshen has planted the misinformation that I am being recalled to T’Diemn.”
“Then let him think you have been recalled, draw him after us until we find a place where the lie of the land gives us the advantage, then turn to face him.”
This was what Tulkhan had decided, but he wanted to see if Reothe came to the same conclusion. “I’ll let it be known that T’Diemn nearly fell and that the city is safe but vulnerable. We will give the appearance of returning to the capital.” Tulkhan raised his free arm to clasp the T’En warrior’s shoulder. “For what it is worth, I am sorry about your son.” And he was surprised to discover this was true.
But Reothe would not meet his eyes.
Calling for paper and ink, Tulkhan wrote to Imoshen. He would return to T’Diemn as soon as he had defeated Gharavan. Meanwhile, she was to stay safely behind T’Diemn’s walls.
Imoshen fretted. Somewhere between the capital and the west coast, Tulkhan and Reothe would face Gharavan’s army, and the fate of Fair Isle—her fate—hung on that encounter. She feared only one of them would return.
Seeking comfort, she knelt by the sleeping boys. She stroked her nameless son’s pale cheek and his lips moved as he sucked in his sleep. She raged at her impotence.
Imoshen threw open her chest and found the scrying platter. She hesitated, recalling the imperfection of her previous attempts to steal a glimpse of the future. Her heart might be tearing in two with fear for Reothe and Tulkhan, but she would not let fate mock her by revealing a half truth. Though it cost her dearly, she closed the chest.
Soberly, she went to her desk to reread Tulkhan’s message but in her distraction she bumped the goblet, spilling the claret, which gleamed in the candlelight. Imoshen fell into that shimmering flame.
Sharply silhouetted against the molten gold of the setting sun stood the jagged rock sentinel that guarded the mouth of the River Diemn. Tulkhan knelt on the sand before his half-brother. Gharavan’s naked sword blade gleamed with reflected torchlight as he raised it to deliver the killing strok
e.
The goblet continued to roll off the desk, clattering on the floor. Her Vision had taken less than a heartbeat, but she could not ignore it. Reothe was going to die on the battlefield and Tulkhan would be executed on the beach at the mouth of the River Diemn! But not while she lived.
Imoshen opened the door of the bathing room. Kalleen looked up from the tub, her face flushed, her long hair pinned on top of her head. With a pang Imoshen noted her beauty. It would not be long before some man tried to steal her away. “I have to go to Tulkhan.”
“The little one needs your touch and constant feeds.”
Imoshen knew if she left the babe, he would die. “I saw Tulkhan about to be executed. If you come with me, you could die.”
Kalleen’s mouth hardened. “I will see this out.”
Imoshen nodded.
For the first time on this campaign Tulkhan was within striking distance of his half-brother’s army. To lure him into attacking, the General had selected a campsite that appeared vulnerable. His hardened veterans and the Keldon nobles were camped on low ground by a lake. Their flanks were protected by lush green grass, which hid boggy soil, impossible for cavalry to cross. His unseasoned troops were held in reserve behind a ridge to the south. As soon as Gharavan attacked, Reothe was ready to lead a pincer attack.
Tulkhan had pitched his tent conspicuously on the low ground and spent a restless night expecting battle at first light, but none eventuated. Frustrated, he had sent scouts to discover Gharavan’s movements. They reported his half-brother in retreat. With Reothe at his side, Tulkhan rode out to investigate.
“Gharavan leads us on a merry chase, but to what purpose?” Reothe muttered, riding through the deserted camp. Only wheel ruts, blackened fire circles, and trampled ground remained.
“I don’t know, but I’m tired of playing cat and mouse. We’ll confront him if we have to chase him all the way to the sea.”
Reothe stood in the stirrups, studying the land. “The River Diemn lies to the south, and the sea lies one day’s fast march to the west.”
“Then we’ll force-march the men and pin Gharavan between the river and the sea. He’ll have to fight or drown.”
All day they drove the army. That afternoon Tulkhan’s scouts reported that Gharavan camped on the dunes at the headland. Satisfied, the General settled his forces into position. The feeling as the men made camp was optimistic.
Tulkhan stood on the last dune, staring into the west, the sky lit by the setting sun. Gharavan’s army was a dark shadow on the wide sandy flats.
“When the sun rises tomorrow, we face Gharavan and this thing is decided one way or the other!” Tulkhan told Reothe, who gave no answer. The General was sure something troubled him, but what could he say to the man whose death meant his future happiness?
Imoshen helped haul the boat up the sandy bank of the hollow, which was shrouded in twilight though the sky still blazed with the setting sun’s light.
Kalleen handed a weary Ashmyr to Drake. They’d left Lightfoot to hold T’Diemn. He was none too pleased with Imoshen’s plan but had agreed to hide her absence when she explained her Vision.
They unloaded the boat in silence. Imoshen climbed up the bank and pointed across the dunes. “That’s Tulkhan’s army, Kalleen. Stay here until I return. If I do not come back by midnight, go to the camp.”
Imoshen hugged Ashmyr, who had fallen asleep in Drake’s arms, then she stroked her nameless son’s head and turned away. Determined not to look back, she walked along the riverbank.
If her Vision was to be trusted, Gharavan would be camped on the beach. Her plan was simple. She would make her way into his tent and kill him. According to Tulkhan, Gharavan was not a leader to inspire men. Once they learned of his death and Vestaid’s failure, the Ghebite army would surrender.
As she approached she caught the scent of Ghebite cooking fires. Ahead of her, the sentinel that marked the entrance to the River Diemn stood stark against the setting sun, just as it had in her vision. But she was going to circumvent events by killing Gharavan tonight.
She noticed a man with his back to her, derelict in his sentry duties. To enter the camp she would have to assume the Ghebite coloring. In her heightened state of desperation, it was not difficult to focus her gifts, and her skin stung with a thousand prickles. Now she looked like a Ghebite, down to the boots and cloak, the long black plaits.
A row of torches stood before Gharavan’s tent on the beach. Weaving through the campfires, she passed unremarked right up to the back of the tent. Freeing her knife, she slit the canvas and slipped inside, but the tent was empty. Imoshen fingered the knife hilt, looking about for a place to hide.
Suddenly, a man thrust the flap open and marched in, colliding with her. She spun him around, pulling his arm up behind his back, bringing the knife to his throat. “Call your king.”
“Why should I betray my king?” he countered, and she recognized his voice.
“You were ready enough to betray him for Vestaid, Cavaase.” Then she replayed his words in her head and mimicked his voice, calling, “My king?”
“What is it, Cavaase?” Gharavan thrust the flap aside. His eyes met hers. “You!”
Leaving his countryman to die, Gharavan fled.
Imoshen cursed. She should have guessed Gharavan was a coward. But how did he recognize her?
Taking advantage of her momentary distraction, Cavaase dropped and darted under her guard, bringing her own knife to her throat. “I’d kill you myself if I didn’t know how much pleasure Gharavan will have slitting your throat, Tulkhan.”
It was ironic. In assuming a Ghebite form she had unconsciously adopted the one she knew best.
Cavaase forced Imoshen outside, where curious Ghebite soldiers gathered. “I have your traitorous half-brother, my king.”
“Bring the torches nearer, the better to see Tulkhan beg!” Gharavan ordered.
Cavaase turned her to face Gharavan, who held his drawn sword ready. The rock sentinel stood silhouetted against the setting sun. With cold certainty, Imoshen understood that she had precipitated the Vision. The absurdity of it made her laugh.
“You can laugh?” Gharavan roared, his blade flickering in the torchlight as he advanced.
She recognized the weapon. “Seerkhan’s sword!”
“My sword. How do you think I felt, seeing our father give away what should have been mine?” He frowned, then grabbed her hand, dragging the Ghebite-seal ring from her finger. Stepping back, he held the ring for his men to see. “Our father never guessed he sired a traitor. But tonight I take back the seal just as I have taken back Seerkhan’s sword, and tomorrow Fair Isle will be mine!” His hate-filled eyes settled on Imoshen. “I’ll wash away the shame of your betrayal with your own blood, Tulkhan. Release him.”
Cavaase shoved Imoshen so that she fell to her knees in the sand. Her head spun, superimposing the Vision over reality. Was it the fate of the T’En to foresee their own deaths? Would Reothe die tomorrow and their line be extinguished except for one sickly, nameless babe?
“Come, Cavaase,” Gharavan ordered. “I give you this ring in honor of your service. And I award you my traitorous half-brother’s estates.”
The man accepted the ring triumphantly.
His duplicity revolted Imoshen. “He bears the T’En stigmata on his forehead. Ask him who he truly serves!”
“No.” Cavaase rubbed at his forehead. “The Dhamfeer bitch touched me, but—”
“And sent you back to Gharavan to lead the army into this trap!”
Cavaase stared at her, squinting in the glare of the torches. Then his eyes widened in horrified recognition. He lunged for her throat, but two men held him back.
“Bring the torch closer,” Gharavan urged. “I would see this T’En sign Tulkhan speaks of.”
“That is not the General!” Cavaase cried. “I can smell the Dhamfeer from here. She wears his form.”
“Look for the T’En sign!” Imoshen focused her will on Gharavan, for h
e was an easy target. “Do you see it?”
“Hold his head still!” Gharavan yelled.
“She’s doing it. She’s branding me,” Cavaase cried. “It burns my skin!”
Gharavan’s men restrained Cavaase, as the stigmata on his forehead grew more pronounced.
“Every word you have said, all you have done has been made known to your enemy.” Imoshen let her voice persuade. “He has been the T’En’s eyes.”
She willed them to see the stigmata elongate, become a lid, and open to reveal a single wine-dark eye.
With a scream, Gharavan drove his sword straight through Cavaase’s forehead, releasing the hilt as the dead man fell. His men stumbled away, and what little blood there was seeped into the thirsty sand.
“Look around you, Gharavan,” Imoshen purred. “How many of them do you trust?”
Those men who were susceptible clutched their foreheads, others backed off. Gharavan snatched a sword from a man who staggered with his hands to his head, cutting him down. All around him, his men drew weapons against their fellows.
Imoshen retrieved her knife and lunged for Gharavan, who turned and ran. She darted after him. Around her, torches toppled, setting tents alight, and men turned on one another. Someone collided with her. She fell to one knee.
Gharavan leapt on her, hands at her throat. His weight forced her into the soft pillow of the sand. Stars spun in her vision. His knee on her chest drove the breath from her body. Her skin stung as the illusion left her with her ebbing strength.
“Dhamfeer!” Gharavan hissed, his grip slackening.
She gulped air, and her hand closed over the knife hilt half buried in the sand.
Gharavan recovered from his surprise. “Know this, sorcerous bitch. I’ll choke the sense from you before I rape you. Then I’ll hand you over to my men. You’ll wish you were dead!”
Imoshen drove the knife up between his ribs. His grasp didn’t falter. She twisted the blade. Gray patches swum in her vision. Which of them would pass out first?
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