DARK DREAMS

by Cory Daniells

  He cursed under his breath. “They are my men and your ancestors. You can’t turn your back, Imoshen!”

  He saw a flare of anger displace her fear. Still she hesitated.

  “If you expect my respect you must earn it,” he told her. “A good general has a responsibility to his people.”

  “A good leader does not attempt the impossible.”

  “What? What is so impossible?”

  “Tulkhan, I am out of my depth!” Her hands lifted in a silent plea.

  He did not let himself feel compassion. “Please yourself.”

  Turning his back, he walked down the narrow stair. Though she moved soundlessly, he knew when she caught up with him because he could feel the skin-lifting tension of her T’En gift. It made his temples throb and left a metallic taste on his tongue.

  When he came to the long passage, Imoshen caught his arm. “They brought this on themselves by forcing entry to the secret passages. If they have gone down into the catacombs, we must seal the door and leave them there.”

  Cold horror closed like a vise around his chest. He hardened his voice. “You know I cannot do that.”

  She stared at him, her face pale and set. Suddenly with a string of high T’En curses, or perhaps it was a prayer, she darted around him. Still muttering, she plucked the candles from his hand and went ahead.

  Tulkhan smiled grimly to himself. But the hand which gripped his sword hilt was slick with sweat as he followed.

  Imoshen went unflinchingly down another staircase. At the base he noticed the exit panel was wedged open with a broken tile. They stepped into a long narrow gallery. The candles could only illuminate the nearest walls and part of the vaulted ceiling. Their lowered voices echoed.

  “See the style of vaulting? This dates from the Age of Tribulation. This way.” Imoshen spoke as if she was conducting a leisurely tour of the palace, but her eyes never ceased searching the shadows.

  Tulkhan followed, his senses on alert. The tension which rolled off Imoshen’s skin was not so bad now. She had to be controlling it, because she had not relaxed.

  “How far along was it?” she muttered. “All these archways look the same.”

  A man’s raw scream cut the air. Imoshen went utterly still. Tulkhan strained to hear as the echoes of the cry faded. He was just about to speak when the clatter of boots reverberated on the stonework.

  “This way.” Imoshen ran, trying to shield the candle flames.

  Tulkhan pushed past her. He could see light and leaping shadows coming from a narrow opening. He stopped as Sahorrd and Jacolm stumbled out.

  “General?” Jacolm raised his candle.

  “One of them. Behind you!” Sahorrd warned, lunging forward, his sword drawn.

  Tulkhan spun, unsheathing his blade. Sahorrd aimed for Imoshen’s throat. She parried with the candle branch, disarming him even as Tulkhan struck using the flat of his sword. The man went down with a grunt of disbelief.

  Jacolm swore. “The Princess.”

  “Who did you think it was?” Tulkhan hauled Sahorrd to his feet. The man rubbed his head, avoiding Imoshen’s eye as she handed him his weapon.

  “Much good it would have done you, if I’d been who you thought I was,” she hissed. “Let’s get out of here. But first I must seal the catacombs.”

  Jacolm stepped between her and the open passage. “Harholfe’s still down there, General.”

  Anger flashed through Tulkhan. “You left him down there?”

  “He was right behind me!” Jacolm bristled.

  “Harholfe had the battle axe,” Sahorrd said. “He used it to pry the lid off the coffin.”

  Imoshen gasped. She made the sign to ward off evil, raising her left hand to her eyes then over her head. “May their eyes pass over me, over all of us.”

  “Your long dead T’En warriors?” Tulkhan asked. “The Para—”

  She hissed, cutting him short.

  Tulkhan looked to her for an explanation.

  “Names have power.” Imoshen’s voice quavered. “We invoke them by name to serve us.”

  “But what of Harholfe?” Jacolm ground out.

  “We will go down,” Tulkhan said. “You two stay here, cover our retreat.”

  He caught Imoshen’s eye. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then moved into the narrow stairwell. He stepped down after her, aware that Jacolm and Sahorrd were following despite his orders. He was not surprised. No matter how deep their terror, they would not abandon their brother-at-arms. To display cowardice would mean ostracism.

  Imoshen waited at the base of the stair, holding the candle branch high to illuminate a long barrel-vaulted catacomb. Heavy stone coffins lay in wall niches.

  Silently Imoshen pointed upward. Above them were life-size paintings of the legendary Paragian Guard in full armor. The inlaid gold and silver flickered in the candlelight.

  There was no sign of Harholfe.

  “This way, General.” Only the glisten of Sahorrd’s fearful eyes betrayed his dread as he led them to the right, where a waist-high stone coffin rested under a High T’En inscription.

  “Imoshen?” Tulkhan indicated the words.

  She raised her candles.

  “ ‘Here lies the Aayel, First of the Last,’ ” she translated.

  “What does it mean?” Tulkhan asked.

  Her awed eyes met his. “It is the sarcophagus of Imoshen the First’s own nephew, Aayel, First Emperor of Fair Isle. After he abdicated in favor of his half-T’En daughter, Abularassa, he served the Church and the people of Fair Isle. The title the Aayel was created to honor him. He was the first to serve in this capacity and the last pure T’En male to be born in the old country. Only children, those born on the long journey and those too young to remember, were left.” She touched her forehead giving the deep T’En obeisance to the first Aayel. “This is almost worth the—”

  “But where is Harholfe?” Jacolm took two impatient paces past them then stopped. Holding his candle high he looked back, radiating furious fear. “Come on.”

  Imoshen ignored him, studying the lid of the sarcophagus instead. Tulkhan joined her. The lid was decorated with a raised stone carving of a very old T’En male. He was richly dressed in clothes of state and carried no weapons. The individual hairs of his plaited beard had been delineated in stone, then silver thread.

  “For Akha Khan’s sake, can we move?” Sahorrd hissed. “The coffin is just around the corner.”

  “The one you were foolish enough to open?” Imoshen snapped.

  He did not meet her eyes.

  “You desecrate my heritage,” she told him. “These are the T’En of legend and you—”

  “Imoshen!” Tulkhan barked. “We must find Harholfe and get out of here.”

  As he strode past Jacolm, he sensed the man’s terror and knew he was not far from violence. Tulkhan’s small pool of candlelight moved forward with him and soon he identified another stone block. The lid was off, tilted against the side.

  “So small,” Imoshen whispered.

  “It contains a child,” Sahorrd explained as they came abreast of it. “The carving on the lid was inlaid with precious metal and jewels. That’s why we—”

  Imoshen’s whimper cut him short. She swayed as if she might faint. Tulkhan steadied her; her skin was ice cold and her body felt stiff.

  He peered into the opened coffin expecting a skeleton. Instead he saw a perfectly preserved ten-year-old child. She was richly dressed in red velvet embroidered with gold thread. Jewels were sewn into the broad yoke collar that lay across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed and he could see the individual lashes, the soft curve of her top lip. A single ruby lay on her forehead.

  “Why didn’t you plunder this one?” Tulkhan asked.

  Sahorrd and Jacolm stared down at the child, their weapons forgotten.

  “I don’t understand.” Panic edged Sahorrd’s voice. “The ruby ...”

  Tulkhan felt a sense of time stretching out so that he could hear his ow
n heart beating in his ears, echoing hollowly in his head, drowning all sense of urgency.

  “Imoshen?” He had to force himself to speak.

  She left his side, walking around the stone block to read the inscription on the lid which rested against the sarcophagus.

  “ ‘Here lies Ysanna. Killed by rebels.’ ” Imoshen touched the date. “In the early years of Fair Isle’s settlement. She was six years old. I’ve never heard of her.”

  Imoshen looked across at him her eyes were awash with tears. “My daughter . . .”

  “You have no daughter.”

  Tulkhan glanced into the coffin again and felt himself falling away. He forced his numb tongue to work. “What T’En sorcery is this and where is Harholfe?”

  “He claimed the big ruby,” Sahorrd said.

  “But he’s put it back for some reason,” Jacolm muttered. His hand darted forward as if to take the precious stone.

  “No!” Suddenly Imoshen’s fingers were between his and the stone, holding it in place on the child’s forehead. She glared at him, her features austere, her eyes flickering red in the candlelight.

  “Curse your witchy eyes, woman!” Jacolm spat, his sword lifting threateningly.

  “Enough,” Tulkhan snapped. “Where is Harholfe?”

  They looked around but there was no sign of him, only empty stone walls.

  “Tell me what happened,” Tulkhan ordered.

  “They came for us when he took the ruby.” Sahorrd shuddered. “Three Dhamfeer dressed in warrior’s armor appeared from the shadows. The priests say a True-man should turn his eyes from the black arts and now I know why. These beings made the blood run cold in my veins. I’ve never known such terror. . . .” He looked down in shame, then met their eyes resolutely. “I fled.”

  Jacolm indicated back the way they had come. “When we ran for the stairs I swear Harholfe was right behind me.”

  “Then where is he?” Tulkhan turned to Imoshen only to discover she was standing absolutely still, the big ruby pressed to the center of her forehead between her closed lids. She opened her eyes and replaced the ruby. When she met his gaze, her garnet eyes were cold and contemptuous.

  “I thought you didn’t want the grave desecrated?” Tulkhan fought down a surge of fear when she merely looked at him in silence. “Where is my man, Harholfe?”

  Closing her eyes, Imoshen lifted her left hand. Her splayed fingers seemed to feel the air.

  “What is left of him is just beyond the next coffin propped up against the wall.” Her voice was rich and strangely intimate.

  Jacolm cursed. He darted away, candle held high, weapon drawn. They followed him.

  “Nothing. I see nothing but his battle axe.” Jacolm spun around, gesturing to the dressed stone walls and floor which were bare except for the discarded weapon. “Here is the stone coffin, but where—?”

  “Where is the body, Imoshen?” Tulkhan went to catch her arm but before he could touch her he felt a sharp blow as though someone had given him a resounding slap. The flesh under his nails throbbed painfully. He cursed.

  Imoshen pointed to a blank wall, lifting her candles high. “There.”

  The reflection of the flickering flames glistened on the stone’s slick surface, glistened and coalesced into the outline of a man’s body.

  Sahorrd’s indrawn breath sounded loud in the silence. “It is his shadow. I mean . . .” But he had no words for what he saw.

  Like oil dropped into water, the outline of a man appeared on the wall’s stone. Tulkhan could see Harholfe’s expression of frozen terror. He felt cold to the marrow. As a general he had seen men die in many ways—in battle, in agony, raving with fever, even too weary to care. But he had never seen a man die of fear, leaving his last moment of terror imprinted on stone.

  “Where is Harholfe’s body?” Jacolm turned on Imoshen, sword raised. “His weapon lies at his feet unbloodied.”

  “Of course. Steel cannot kill those who are already dead.” Imoshen held his eyes until he lowered his weapon. “Your companion broke the ward protecting the grave. His soul was forfeited.”

  “Don’t play your riddles on me, Dhamfeer bitch!” Jacolm’s voice vibrated with fear-laden fury. “Where is Harholfe?”

  Imoshen’s eyes closed. Tulkhan felt the overflow of her gift and took a step back, his fingertips still throbbing. Sahorrd and Jacolm made the Ghebite sign to ward off evil.

  When Imoshen opened her eyes, they glowed with an inner radiance. “The Parakletos are escorting him through death’s shadow into death’s own realm.”

  “I thought you said . . .” Tulkhan stopped. Suddenly it struck him as odd that Imoshen no longer evinced any fear and seemed at ease with her T’En gifts. Her expression was unfamiliar and she looked on him as a stranger. His skin crawled with understanding; some long-dead T’En being was animating Imoshen. “I think it is time to go. Sahorrd, Jacolm?” He used the battlefield gesture to signal retreat. They moved to stand behind him, never turning their backs on Imoshen as they edged away.

  “We can’t leave,” Jacolm protested. “Harholfe has not been properly buried.”

  Imoshen stabbed a finger at him. “You and your two friends trespassed on a sacred place and desecrated an innocent’s grave. This Harholfe has paid. It is finished.”

  She walked past them unconcerned by their battle-ready weapons. To Tulkhan she seemed invulnerable, despite her bare feet and the thin nightgown which brushed her slender ankles.

  He bent to retrieve the undamaged battle axe. As he stood, stone grated on stone. He heard his men’s surprised intake of breath and spun to see Imoshen straighten, pivoting the stone slab into place.

  The candle branch was on the floor at her feet behind the coffin. It illuminated her from behind as she leaned over the stone statue to kiss the child’s cold lips, whispering something in High T’En. When she wiped the dust off her hands, he glanced at the stone lid. It had taken three men to move it. He had fought with Imoshen, sword against sword. He knew she did not have the strength to move that slab.

  Imoshen bent to retrieve the candles.

  The moment stretched. She did not rise.

  Dread made Tulkhan’s movements stiff as he walked around the sarcophagus to find Imoshen sitting on the ground looking dazed. “General?”

  Relief flooded him. He helped her to stand. Her skin was warm and soft.

  “Come,” he said.

  “What of your man?”

  “Dead.”

  She accepted this. In silence, except for the scuff of the Ghebite boots on stone, they hurried toward the first Aayel’s sarcophagus. Jacolm and Sahorrd turned the corner, taking their light with them. The need to get out drove Tulkhan’s legs, powering his muscles. Suddenly Imoshen stopped. She planted her feet, nicking free of his grasp to stroke the Aayel’s tomb.

  “What?” Tulkhan asked.

  “My feet walk on history’s path. Sardonyx used to come down here and he on the stone slab meant for his body.”

  “We must go.”

  “They said it drove him mad.”

  Tulkhan took her hand even though it made all the hairs on his arm rise in protest. “Come.”

  “His own cousin and kinswoman condemned him to death.”

  Tulkhan tugged on her arm. “The others are waiting.”

  “My heritage is one of tragedy.”

  “Not now, Imoshen!” Tulkhan hurried her toward the steps, under the cold garnet eyes of the T’En warriors of legend and up the steps out of the catacombs to join his men who waited impatiently.

  As they stepped out into the gallery, Imoshen shuddered. “Close the passage, seal the catacombs. No one must go down there!”

  “How do I close the passage?” Tulkhan handed her the candles.

  “The shoe.” Imoshen pointed to an old shoe which was wedged into the door frame. “Long ago a boy used it to hold the door open.”

  “What boy?” Tulkhan asked.

  “Some lost boy. I don’t know any more.”

/>   Tulkhan sheathed his sword and worked the shoe loose. It came free with a tug and the panel slid into place, grating stone on dust. It did not close completely, remaining about a finger’s breadth open.

  He grunted. “That will have to do. Let’s get out of here.”

  Jacolm and Sahorrd were already moving, but Imoshen pressed both hands on the stone trying to force the door.

  “Leave it be, Imoshen,” Tulkhan urged. “We’ll seal the secret passage from above.”

  “No . . . Yes!” Regret and fear mingled in her features.

  “What happened down there? Do you remember finding the child?”

  Her eyes widened and she looked away, saying, “I’m not sure it is safe to leave the door like that.”

  “I’m not sure of anything. Not since I ...” He had been about to say not since I met you. “Since I came to Fair Isle I doubt everything.”

  Her sharp eyes met his.

  “General?” Jacolm called from the base of the stair.

  “We’ll seal the entrance at the portrait gallery. That will have to do,” Tulkhan decided.

  “What about Harholfe’s body?”

  Tulkhan realized she did not remember. “Harholfe has paid for his folly. There was no body.” He wondered how he would explain Harholfe’s disappearance to his men. “Come.”

  They hurried after the others and stepped through the shattered wainscotting into the portrait gallery. Grimly, Jacolm and Sahorrd sheathed their weapons. Tulkhan knew by tomorrow night they would be boasting of this in their cups, denying their terror.

  So much had happened since he had entered that secret passage, Tulkhan felt as though it must be nearly dawn.

  Imoshen inspected the damage done by the battle axe. “I will have the Masterbuilder provide a stonemason. This will be sealed securely and the wainscotting replaced.” She turned to Jacolm and Sahorrd. “You see there was nothing down there but storerooms and rat holes.”

  “But—” Jacolm began.

  “Nothing but storerooms and rat holes,” Imoshen repeated.

  Tulkhan’s temples throbbed and his head ached. He saw Sahorrd rub the bridge of his nose.

  “But—” Jacolm frowned.

  “Nothing,” Imoshen urged. “Nothing worth a man’s life.”