Chapter Twenty-five
Imoshen found herself crawling through cool, silken sand. The damp air shimmered with pale light. Perhaps this was the elysian plane reserved for those who died protecting their fellows, but she did not remember traversing death’s shadow.
Under her hands, the dune was threaded with silvery strands of runner vine, each perfect little star-shaped leaf bejeweled with dew. Looking about, she realized the world was cloaked by a pearly mist, and the night’s events returned in a rush of revulsion. Imoshen tried to stand but her knees gave way. Then she felt the merest whisper of a questing awareness. Opening her T’En senses, she recognized Reothe. Relieved, she sank into the sand, concentrating on drawing him to her. Soon she heard the soft susurration of his boots in the dunes.
“Imoshen, what have you done to yourself?” His face swam above hers, familiar and dear. She tried to say his name but her throat was too tender. He frowned. “That necklace of bruises.”
“I think I killed Gharavan,” she croaked.
He leaned closer. “I cannot smell his death coming from your skin.”
Tears of failure stung her eyes as others joined them.
“Carry her between you,” Reothe directed, and she held on to the broad shoulders of two men as they plowed through the sand.
“Reothe, what of Kalleen and the boys?” she asked.
He was right behind her. “Safe. She came to us during the night. Told us of your Vision and what you attempted.”
Imoshen concentrated on staying conscious. She wanted to ask him if he had seen his son but would not speak in the presence of True-men.
People appeared out of the mist, their muffled voices alarmed but oddly disjointed as her consciousness wavered. When the General took her in his arms, she confessed, “I failed. Gharavan still lives and he has Seerkhan’s sword.”
“In safekeeping only.” Tulkhan was secretly horrified to find her so frail. He ducked into the tent. As he knelt to place her on the bedding, his knees cracked. Imoshen caught his arm and he squeezed her hand.
Tulkhan sat back to let Kalleen bathe Imoshen’s face with warm herbal water, removing the dried blood, but she could not remove the bruises. Imoshen swallowed, wincing with pain.
Tulkhan cursed. Under cover of this mist Gharavan and his army might escape. “Did you wound my half-brother, Imoshen?”
She nodded.
“We heard—” Tulkhan hesitated, recalling the screams. Despite Imoshen’s injuries, he had to know how things stood in the enemy camp. “What happened last night?”
Imoshen slipped her left hand free from his. Trembling with the effort, she touched Reothe’s forehead with the tip of her little finger. Reothe stiffened, his lids lowered over his eyes, shuttering his thoughts. His mouth narrowed in a thin line and he gave a soft exclamation of surprise.
Kalleen’s small hand closed on Tulkhan’s arm as her frightened eyes met his. He could feel the backwash of Imoshen’s T’En gift. Kalleen picked up the bowl. “I can’t stand this.”
Tulkhan followed her from the tent, which was isolated in a world of glowing mist. She threw the water onto the sand, barely visible under their boots.
Kalleen gave a sob of relief. “I thought her dead.”
Tulkhan hugged her. “Even though Reothe insisted Imoshen still lived?”
He had wanted to invade Gharavan’s camp as soon as the screaming started, but Reothe had argued against it, claiming it would place Imoshen at risk.
Tulkhan’s fingers tightened on Kalleen’s shoulder as the tent flap opened and Reothe stepped out.
“Well?” Tulkhan asked.
Reothe met his eyes, his own shadowed by knowledge Tulkhan did not want to share. He glanced to Kalleen, who slipped inside the tent. Reothe lowered his voice. “Imoshen lost consciousness while Gharavan was trying to throttle her. I believe only her T’En instinct preserved her life, cloaking her from them, driving her to crawl away like a wounded animal.”
“But the screams, the fires?”
Reothe met his eyes, and what Tulkhan read there belied his words. “Mere trickery. The sooner we attack the better.” Reothe inhaled. “The sea breeze will drive the mist away soon.”
“Your gifts are healed.”
“I never had Imoshen’s gifts, never.... Did you know in High T’En the word for gift also means curse?”
Tulkhan repressed a shiver. Then he felt the breeze on his face as Reothe had predicted. “Time to move.” He led the way to the tallest dune to see the headland revealed as the mist cleared. Gharavan had drawn up his army in a defensive position, with the river and sea curving around behind them so that they could be attacked only on two sides. “We could drive them back, force them into the river.”
“You both think like landsmen,” Reothe said. “By the time the sun is directly overhead, the tide will have gone out and the sand will be hard enough to send the cavalry in on his flanks. His defenses will crumble. We must divert him with the attacks he expects while we keep the cavalry in reserve.”
Tulkhan held Reothe’s eyes. “You have given me victory with this advice.”
“You would have realized it when the time came.”
“Still, I give you the honor of leading the cavalry.”
A strangely painful smile illuminated Reothe’s face and for a moment Tulkhan thought he would refuse, then he gave the old-empire obeisance of acceptance.
Imoshen woke to find herself lying on the mat with Ashmyr asleep on one side and her nameless son at her other breast. Kalleen was preparing food. Smoke drifted up to the hole directly overhead, playing in the shaft of noonday sun. It was peaceful except for the distant roar and shouts of battle blown inland from the beach.
“I—” Imoshen began. “My voice will never be the same. How goes the battle?”
“They will tell us when there is news.”
Imoshen nodded. She did not want to discuss what was closest to her heart. Only time would tell if Reothe would die as he believed or if Tulkhan would be defeated by Gharavan’s army and fulfill the Vision she had tried to circumvent.
The babe made a soft noise and she stroked his head. The fine silver down had fallen off, leaving his skin soft as silk and pale as milk. On Fair Isle it was customary for the mother to name her sons and the father to name his daughters. Imoshen had been waiting for Reothe to meet his son, to see if there was a name he preferred, but she had never admitted before Kalleen that the child was Reothe’s. “Perhaps I should name him; then if we are all killed, at least he will die with a name.”
“Imoshen! What have you seen?”
“Nothing, my gift has ebbed away. I am useless.”
“Then you will just have to wait for the outcome like True-people do.”
Imoshen winced. “I am sorry, Kalleen.”
“Sorry doesn’t mend a broken pot.”
“But it may appease the potter.”
Kalleen smiled despite herself.
* * *
As the sun approached the zenith, Tulkhan arched his weary back and flexed his sword arm. He had pulled back to the dune to see how the battle was going. Gharavan’s army formed a solid core of seasoned men, who had succeeded in holding off Tulkhan’s troops. His half-brother rode up and down behind the lines. Imoshen believed Gharavan carried a mortal wound, yet there he was in full battle armor.
The sea had retreated, leaving a wide band of hard-packed sand. Reothe had chosen to lead the cavalry that would attack from the sea flank. A second charge of Keldon nobles, led by Woodvine and Athlyng, would come from the river flank, where the tidal flats had been revealed. Tulkhan raised the cavalry horn to his lips and the signal rang out loud and clear.
Pride filled him as his men poured down from the dunes to form two spearheads. These outflanked Gharavan’s army, aiming for the soft underbelly. Gharavan’s own cavalry were hemmed in. Armed foot soldiers, no matter how well drilled, could not withstand a mounted charge.
He saw Gharavan attempt to send reserves, but befo
re he could, Reothe’s mounted division broke Gharavan’s flank, allowing Tulkhan’s foot soldiers to attack the less seasoned reserves.
Tulkhan kneed his horse. Now that it was clear the attack would work, he wanted to be at Reothe’s side in the melee. If ever there was a chance to redeem his Ghiad, this was it.
Galloping down the soft sand of the dune, he felt his mount gain confidence on the hard-packed tidal flats. He followed the path his cavalry had taken, picking through the bodies, forging to the front ranks where he’d seen Reothe’s red and gold helmet.
Rising in the stirrups, Tulkhan slashed at a defender. When he straightened, Reothe had disappeared. The General aimed for the place where he had last been. Now Tulkhan was in the thick of the battle—screaming horses, roaring men, and flying hooves. His own mount kicked and bit as he had been trained to do. For several heartbeats he fought with no time for thought.
At last the pace eased and Tulkhan wheeled his black destrier. A space had cleared around him. Reothe lay amid the fallen, one leg trapped under his slain horse, his sword shattered. Three men bore down on him, weapons raised.
Tulkhan rode down the nearest man, taking his sword arm off. A pike man lifted his weapon. A man leapt for the destrier’s bridle. Tulkhan concentrated on keeping his seat. He broke the man’s pike and kicked him in the chest, sending him onto a protruding spear.
Tulkhan’s horse lost its footing, dragged down by the man at the bridle. The General jumped off his mount, coming up in time to block a killing blow. He followed through with a counterstrike, opening the man’s belly. His horse rolled upright. It stood shivering and snorting as it pawed the ground.
In one of those odd moments of battle, Tulkhan found himself in an island of stillness. The fighting had moved on, leaving him and Reothe amid a sea of bodies, dead and dying.
“Your Ghiad has been served,” Reothe said. The meaning of the words reached Tulkhan through the roar of battle and the pounding in his head. “This is your chance to kill me.”
It was the perfect murder. When Reothe’s body turned up with the slain, they would assume he had been killed in battle. Fair Isle and Imoshen would be his. Tulkhan saw the foreknowledge in Reothe’s eyes. With a shock, he realized Reothe had suggested the battle plan and agreed to lead the cavalry charge, knowing this moment would come.
Time stretched impossibly.
Suddenly Tulkhan knew he could not kill Reothe. Silently, he extended his left hand.
Behind him, his horse snorted. Tulkhan spun. The man who had fallen on the spear charged him. There was barely time to bring the sword point between them before he was upon Tulkhan. The man’s weight drove the blade into his body and carried them both down. His attacker was dead before Tulkhan could get out from under him. He rolled the corpse aside and came to his feet, disengaging his sword. If he had paused to slay Reothe, this man would have killed him. In sparing Reothe’s life he had saved his own.
“That part I didn’t see,” Reothe said. “Free my leg.”
Sweaty and soaked in the blood of the men he had killed, Tulkhan put his hands under the horse’s rump and lifted. Reothe struggled out. Tulkhan searched the bodies for a sword, cleaned the scavenged weapon, and presented it to Reothe.
“Why didn’t you kill me?”
Tulkhan shrugged.
A fey laugh escaped Reothe. “If you don’t know, then I surely don’t. Your walls are much too strong for my crippled gift!”
Tulkhan signaled his destrier, which picked its way fastidiously to join him. Another abandoned horse followed his mount. Reothe caught its reins, swinging into the saddle with care for his bad leg.
Tulkhan surveyed the beach from high in the saddle. The battle had turned with the tide. The defenders could drown or surrender. He would offer them seven years’ service. By Ghebite custom, a surrendering soldier could accept death or service. While in service, if he refused an order his life was forfeit; if he survived the seven years, he was free.
“Gharavan’s tent is down,” Reothe said.
Tulkhan watched his father’s standard fall. Seeing it trampled in the bloody sand brought him no joy.
Gharavan’s army threw down their weapons. They wore the colors of Gheeaba and, despite everything, Tulkhan found he still thought of them as his men. He recognized many who had served him on other campaigns.
As he approached the ruined tent, soldiers dragged Gharavan before him. It should have been a moment of supreme triumph but, like the moment just past when he had looked into Reothe’s eyes, Tulkhan felt no surge of killing lust.
They had torn the helmet from Gharavan’s head and the armor from his chest. Tulkhan noticed blood seeping through his clothing and guessed the wound Imoshen had inflicted was bleeding.
“Tulkhan, brother!” Gharavan cried.
The General clenched his teeth.
Reothe urged his horse nearer and spoke for Tulkhan’s ears only. “If he dies of the wound Imoshen gave him, she will suffer for it. If you don’t kill him, I will. I already face death’s shadow tonight, and I am skilled in that plane.”
Tulkhan swung down from the horse, drawing his weapon. A soldier rushed forward, presenting him with Seerkhan’s sword. Tulkhan took his grandfather’s blade, feeling its familiar weight and balance.
Gharavan faltered. “Think of the blood we share!”
He would have fallen to his knees but Tulkhan’s men held him upright.
“Let him go.”
The men stepped back. Tulkhan became aware of numerous small wounds, making his skin sticky and limbs weary. He tossed his borrowed sword across the gap so that it speared into the soft sand at Gharavan’s feet. “I offer you honorable death. Defend yourself.”
Gharavan hesitated.
Someone in the ranks muttered, “He does not deserve—”
“Quiet!” Tulkhan barked.
Gharavan attacked.
Tulkhan deflected and countered on reflex. The huge blade cleaved Gharavan diagonally from shoulder to hip. He was dead as he stood. He blinked once in disbelief, then toppled, his blood soaking into the sand.
“The Ancients will be pleased. They belong to the land and they are eager for the life force of beings like us,” Reothe explained. Imoshen’s words returned to Tulkhan. Conquerors come and go, but Fair Isle endures.
“Throw Gharavan’s remains in the sea,” Tulkhan ordered. It was the ultimate insult to deny a proper burial. Before they could move the body, he reclaimed his Ghebite-seal ring and took Gharavan’s in memory of the boy he had taught to ride.
Then he mounted his horse and rode through the battlefield with Reothe at his back. It came to Tulkhan that Fair Isle was truly his, and the realization hit him: The Ghebite Empire was also his for the taking.
Restored by food and sleep, Imoshen soothed the wounded all afternoon, relying on herbs and stitching for the most part. It would have exhausted her to the point of death if she had tried to heal them all, yet it made her weep to turn her face from their desperation and let them die. She needed a hundred—no, a thousand—healers with her gifts.
Someone touched her arm and she recognized Woodvine, the woman who would have led the Keldon uprising.
“T’Imoshen, will you come this way.” Woodvine led her through Tulkhan’s men to the Keldon encampment. Silently, the iron-haired matriarch opened a tent flap.
Imoshen ducked to enter, recognizing Lord Athlyng on the low bed with his kin clustered around. She met Reothe’s eyes briefly across the tent.
“Empress T’Imoshen,” the others whispered, drawing back.
Lord Athlyng’s pain-glazed garnet eyes focused on her. She knelt by his low bed. “I regret I cannot save you.”
“I am ready to go. I have lived to see my children die of old age before me. That is a terrible thing.” His gaze went past her to Woodvine and Reothe. “There are those who counsel war and death before dishonor. But I believe you see with vision beyond your years. Take the path of peace, Imoshen. You were given that name for a reas
on. Carry on her work.” His breath rattled in his chest. “Reothe, are you there?”
“I am here, Grandfather.” He knelt at Imoshen’s side, tears on his cheeks. His long fingers threaded through the old man’s six fingers.
“This time heed my advice, boy; take the path of peace. This Ghebite general is a worthy True-man. Build on what he has begun.”
Woodvine tapped Imoshen’s shoulder. She wanted to comfort Reothe but she came to her feet.
Woodvine held the tent flap open, meeting Imoshen’s eyes. “With his passing the Keld lose a great statesman.”
“We are not Keld or Ghebite or T’Diemn merchant,” Imoshen replied. “We are Fair Isle.”
Woodvine gave her the obeisance reserved for the Empress. “Athlyng was right—you see with vision.”
Heart sad, Imoshen continued her work with the sick until she had emptied her herbal pouch. A little later she heard the pipes playing and knew Lord Athlyng was dead. Many Keldon pipes played that afternoon.
At dusk she returned to her tent to eat and to feed her smallest son. For all her talk she had not named him.
Tulkhan opened the tent flap. “Have you seen Reothe?”
“No,” Imoshen said. “Is something wrong?”
Tulkhan shook his head. He let the tent flap drop and kept looking. After asking around the camp, he learned Reothe had walked to the dunes alone.
Tulkhan found the T’En warrior on a tall dune, wrapped in his cloak, watching the last of the sun’s setting rays fade from the sky.
As the General joined him, Reothe met his eyes, then looked away. Tulkhan knew Reothe did not want to discuss what he faced when the souls of the men he had killed tried to drag him through death’s shadow, but... “Wouldn’t it be safer in the tent?”
“I take no pleasure in killing. I turned the flat of my sword on True-men, but even so I killed several, more than I could count in the rush of battle. Their souls linger after violent death. They cannot believe they are shades. But soon they will realize. And one by one they will come for me.” His eyes were dark pools. “I don’t want to frighten your people.”
DESPERATE ALLIANCES Page 42