DARK DREAMS
Page 18
“Welcome, Vaygharians.” He gave a small inclination of his head, the barest minimum for civility, then held Imoshen’s gaze. “T’Imoshen, would you find a suitable apartment for the Vaygharian entourage, and arrange for their seating during tomorrow’s ceremony?”
He knew Imoshen would understand the political necessity of acknowledging the Vaygharians, but it was clear she didn’t like it. He grasped her arm, willing her to rely on his judgment. If he sent the Vaygharians packing on the eve of his coronation, how would the other ambassadors react?
Only this morning he’d had news confirming that his half-brother was bitterly plotting revenge. It was not enough that Gharavan had inherited the extended Ghebite empire, benefiting from years of Tulkhan’s faithful service. He wanted Fair Isle too.
Tulkhan feared his half-brother and with good reason. He knew the strength of the army Gharavan could raise. If he had been in the King’s position he would have mobilized a massive force by calling on alliances and bringing in auxiliaries from the annexed countries. He would have struck swiftly and without mercy. Rebellion had to be put down before it could spread. Only one generation separated Gheeaba’s annexed kingdoms from freedom, and they did not wear the yoke of servitude willingly.
If he did not want to see the island’s fertile fields and jaunty townships reduced to rubble, Tulkhan must make the Vaygharian ambassador welcome. Politics disgusted him.
Imoshen gave the General a sharp look then turned to face the Vaygharians, giving them the formal T’En greeting. “Welcome. Come take refreshment and watch the performance while I prepare your rooms.”
She escorted them into the salon then swiftly returned to Tulkhan’s side. He was standing at the window, watching the swirling snow. It was almost dusk and he looked tired and depressed, as if he missed his warm homeland. Imoshen felt a tug of fellowship. She had lost her family, but in conquering Fair Isle the General had lost his family and his homeland. She wanted to ease that frown.
“I know you welcome Kinraid because of political necessity but I cannot forget—”
“Do you think I can? Because of Kinraid’s lies my half-brother hates me!” Tulkhan expelled his breath in an angry sigh. “I know what Kinraid is, Imoshen. I’d rather he was here where I can watch him than have him stirring up trouble elsewhere.”
“He will report back to the Ghebite King.”
Tulkhan’s wolfish smile made her heart lurch.
“Yes, he will report back to Gharavan. And he will tell him what I want him to know.”
Imoshen felt the twin of Tulkhan’s smile tug at her lips but she was still uneasy. Her hand closed around the General’s arm, seeking reassurance, contact. “I don’t like it.”
He straightened, looking down into her face, his obsidian eyes unreadable. “Do you think I do?” He smiled grimly. “My father taught me many things, but one above all else. Keep your enemies close where you can see what they plot.”
Cold fear lanced Imoshen. Was Tulkhan telling her that she was his dearest enemy, the one he would keep so close he would bed her?
Sickened by the thought she pulled away. “There are arrangements I must see to. Please excuse me, General.”
Much later, as Imoshen unpinned her elaborate hairstyle she massaged her throbbing temples. There had been no opportunity to eat or relax, least of all speak privately with General Tulkhan. Earlier tonight she had observed those around her, gauging their loyalties. She was exhausted.
When she downed a tisane to ease her headache the bitter aftertaste clung to her tongue, so she poured a wine and drank that. Tonight she would need to sleep well, because tomorrow she must not falter. Imoshen stared into the fire, watching its leaping patterns.
To think, once she had imagined her bonding day would be a day of great joy and spiritual significance—the joining of her soul with Reothe’s.
Dreamily she unclasped the lace tabard and laid it over the chair, followed by the rich velvet underdress. Kicking off her formal slippers, Imoshen knelt naked before the flames on the fur rug. Her hair slid across her shoulders and down her back like a silken shawl. She felt the fire’s warmth caress her bare skin.
The fur was deep and so fine it enticed her to enjoy its caress. Sinking into its embrace she vaguely understood that the herb was having a strong effect, mixed with the wine on an empty stomach. She let herself drift, safe at least for now. Come tomorrow she would face the enemy.
At first her overworked mind ran on and on, replaying images like brilliant jewels—flashes of conversation, a peel of laughter, the flickering candles, the heat of sweating, perfumed bodies pressed together—then it all faded away and she felt pleasantly empty.
Her limbs grew weightless and her body became an insubstantial thing which had no hold on her. It seemed she slipped painlessly from her physical shell and she floated upwards. She turned to look down on her pale slender form, lying with such innocent abandon on the fur before the fireplace. Did she really look like that, an alabaster sculpture, her blue-veined skin like fine marble?
This incorporeal state was so peaceful she doubted she would ever feel the need to return. What did that body have to offer her but responsibilities and cruel choices? She wanted nothing but to relinquish all thought and give herself over to the warm haze which enveloped her.
“So you never felt that you truly belonged?” her companion asked.
She knew she was dreaming yet felt her leg muscles work as she strode up the slope. Around them the amber leaves of autumn fluttered down to crunch underfoot.
“Did you?” Imoshen asked Reothe. She recognized the place and time now. They were walking their horses through the woods. He had just asked her to bond with him and she had said yes.
A strange excitement animated her. Every time she looked at him her breath caught in her throat. There was something unknown in his eyes, a pre-sentiment of their joining which promised something thrilling, dangerous.
Yet she felt safe in his company. He was the one who had held back when she would have taken their kisses further. He had laughed, delighted with her response. She felt a heated blush stain her cheeks with the memory and saw his knowing smile.
Annoyed because he could read her so clearly, she turned away from him and strode on. “Don’t tell me the Emperor and Empress welcomed you with open arms.”
“You forget, I was only a boy of ten, orphaned by my parents’ suicide. As my guardian, the Empress tried to make up for that, rearing me with her own children. Because she was open to me it was easy to win her over.”
When Imoshen had first heard this she had taken it at face value, but this time she understood. Reothe was talking about finding the Empress’s Key. She was the center of the palace, adored by the Emperor, revered by everyone else. Reothe was only a boy. He had to win her over to protect himself. Imoshen could almost believe it had been an instinctive thing. He was gifted indeed if he could use his T’En ability at ten years of age. Her healing gifts had not come to her until puberty.
As if thinking of it brought on her powers, a prickle of T’En awareness made her skin itch with danger. What was that smell? Tallow-dip candles?
Suddenly Reothe was beside her and she felt the hard planes of his body.
“You made a vow,” he whispered hoarsely.
His hands circled her waist, bare palms on bare flesh. A familiar flash of longing ignited her body as she recognized him on a primal level. She wanted him. Why hold back? They had just agreed to bond. Her parents would oversee the betrothal ceremony . . .
But her parents were dead and this was all a he, an impossible dream.
“No!”
Painfully, the illusion fell from her vision. Reothe still held her but she was naked in his arms. Desperately she tried to orient herself. She was in a dimly lit cave. Plush rugs covered the ground and hung on the walls, yet the only furniture was a crudely made table, set with crystal goblets and a matching decanter of ruby wine.
“Where am I?”
Reoth
e laughed.
Instinctively she brought her knee up but he was already stepping back, leaving her off balance. Why wasn’t she cold? They were in a warm cave. The hot springs!
“Answer me. What have you done, Reothe?”
His smile was triumphant. “I proved my theory.”
“Theory? I am no theory!”
He laughed delightedly and hauled the simple lawn shirt off over his head, tossing it across to her. “Here, cover yourself if you must.”
She caught the shirt, wanting to throw it back in his face. His expression told her he knew her dilemma and was amused by it. Defiantly she pulled the garment over her shoulders. His scent enveloped her. The fine material was warm from his body. It brushed her bare flesh like a caress.
Then she noticed the designs etched on his wiry chest with dried blood. Though she was not familiar with their meaning, Imoshen recognized the symbols of the Ancients.
“Your chest.” She tasted the air with her tongue. “Blood and death?”
“Don’t worry, it’s not my own blood. I had to seal the pact.”
“With a death?”
“It was necessary. The Ancients crave a little blood and death. They are a greedy lot.” He smiled and she realized that this beautiful creature had no more true humanity than . . . than her.
No. She wasn’t like that.
“What games have you been playing, Reothe?” Her heart thundered with fear but she would not reveal it. Planting her feet to confront him, she felt the uneven stone under the rugs. “How did I get here?”
“I brought you to me. We made our vows and we are all but bonded. Your body calls to mine.”
“You killed tonight to do this!” Was she bound to him in ways she did not understand? She feared so.
“Only a snow leopard.”
“Still. A creature’s life force has been extinguished and to what end?”
“To unite us.”
A trickle of dread made its way down her spine to settle in her belly. Was he brilliant or mad, or both?
Reothe poured two goblets of wine, holding them up to the crude candles, turning them back and forth.
“Your eyes flicker like this, red flame as dark as wine. Come, drink, Imoshen. Celebrate our bonding.” The timbre of his voice stroked her senses.
She found she was standing beside him, her hand on the glass stem of the goblet, yet she didn’t remember moving. Her head felt slow, her tongue thick.
“Tomorrow I make my vows with General Tulkhan, all is arranged.” But it took a great effort to speak.
“No. Today you make your vows with me. You did not think I would let you bond with another, did you? We are the last of the T’En. We owe our forebears this much. And we owe it to each other.”
She felt a delicious anticipation and a sense of completion as if this was always meant to be.
He raised the crystal and sipped the wine; she found her body mimicking his. The wine was tart on her tongue. Drugged?
A spurt of fear cleared her head. What would General Tulkhan think if she deserted him on their bonding day? He would never believe she had been abducted against her will. Panic spiraled through her.
“Drink,” Reothe whispered.
She put the goblet down with so much haste that wine spilled across the table.
He laughed softly and took a deliberate sip of his wine. She saw it glisten on his lips but didn’t see him swallow.
Somehow she knew what he intended before he moved to take her face in his hands, yet she couldn’t refuse him. The touch of his lips on hers was like velvet, warm, wine-flavored kisses. And then she tasted wine on her tongue and swallowed instinctively, drinking from his mouth.
Imoshen moaned. It was the bonding in its most primitive form. In the modern ceremonies she and General Tulkhan would sip from the same cup, their lips touching the same place.
Reothe pulled away, a deep growl rising from his throat. She took an instinctive step back.
“How can you think of him when you’re kissing me?”
She shook her head, unable to explain. “I won’t do this, Reothe. I gave my word—”
“To me!” His fist hit his chest. He stared at her then shook his head and lifted a hand in entreaty. “Our vow predates your word to the General. Let’s finish this now.”
He leant closer, eyes closing as he inhaled her scent. When he spoke his voice was raw with need, calling up an instinctive response in her. She wanted him, had always wanted him.
“I promise it will be like nothing else, nothing you’ve known with him. I heard how he chose you the night of the Harvest Festival.” His hands settled on her shoulders, tightening painfully. “Yet you came to me that night with his scent on your skin. Why do you torment me like this?”
Imoshen wanted to deny it. That night she had walked the battlements alone and frightened. Her need for something familiar had taken her to Reothe, but she did not know how. She had never meant to torment him. What would Reothe say if he knew . . .
“What?” His eyes flew open, alarmingly alert. The dark centers were large and flecked with the moving flames of the candles.
“I love the General.” She had said the first thing that had come into her head, but even as she said it she knew it was true.
He laughed. “You can control him, you mean. You can’t love less than your equal. Look!”
He raised his arm between them. Disbelievingly she saw the scar of his old bonding wound split open. A ragged gasp escaped him as blood welled to the surface, trickling freely down his inner arm.
Every instinct told Imoshen to run, yet she couldn’t bring her body under control. As if in a dream she saw her arm lift between them to reveal her bonding wound to mirror his. The scar was so well healed it was almost invisible.
“You did this,” he whispered. “Did you think you could erase our bonding by seamlessly knitting the skin?”
She shook her head.
He clasped his fingers through hers, palm to palm, wrist to wrist. She could feel his hot blood on the sensitive skin of her inner arm.
His eyes held hers. “Bond with me. Bond our blood, our bodies, then our minds. There is no turning back what we began that autumn.”
“No.”
“Part the skin, open for me.”
Something shifted, warm and willing inside her.
A sharp sound escaped her. The old scar stung.
He smiled. “Your body wants me.”
“No. You’re doing this.”
“I don’t have to.”
And Imoshen knew he was right. Her body had always wanted him, had recognized him before she did. She was falling into an abyss.
“As our blood mingles, so will—”
“No!” She would not say the formal bonding words.
A scream rent the air. For an instant Imoshen thought it was her own. But Reothe’s startled expression told her it was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.
“Say the words!” He gave their interwoven fingers a squeeze.
“Not while there’s breath in my body!”
Another scream filled the air. This time she recognized it for what it was. A great cat’s death scream. Suddenly sound permeated the cavern. Men and women yelled instructions; their boots pounded on stone as metal scraped on metal.
Reothe cursed. Dropping her hand, he flicked aside a wall-hanging, revealing a passage, and left her without a word.
Imoshen ran after him, his shirt flapping around her bare thighs. As she ran she brought her wrist to her mouth and licked the old wound. It was all she need do to make the skin knit.
Her feet carried her through a short passage and out of a torchlit opening into the night. Flaming torches did little to dispel the mist. People rushed past her. Then she heard another terrible feral scream, but this time it was the roar of attack closely followed by the ragged shrieks of someone dying in terror. She did not need to see them to know the cat was shredding its victim’s belly with the claws of its powerful hind legs.
The beautiful beast slowed and prowled nearer, a growl trickling from its chest. It sniffed, must have smelt her fear, yet its head lifted as if it was listening to something. Then she noticed the far under its throat. Shocked, she saw the gaping neck wound. Yet no blood dripped for it had already been spilt. A prickling sensation, part awe and part terror, traveled over her skin. If the beast was dead, what was animating it?
Instinctively she searched for the force which gave the cat life. Now that she probed she felt it, an unknown power source, angry and ancient.
Shrieks and Reothe’s shouted commands told her that his people were making a stand somewhere in the mist.
The beast looked into her eyes, ancient intelligence illuminating its feline features. She knew she was in more danger from this fell creature than from a hungry snow leopard. This had to be the beast Reothe had killed to bring her here.
Despite her fear, Imoshen knelt as if in supplication and extended her hand, fingers limp. The cat stepped forward, dainty for such a large animal, and lifted its great muzzle. Jaws capable of crunching bone lightly brushed her flesh. She watched its nostrils flare as it inhaled her scent, identifying her. Then its tongue rasped across her skin.
“If you have been wronged. I will right the wrong,” Imoshen offered.
The screams of the dying drove her to her feet. The cat caught her hand in the feather-light grasp of its massive jaws and led her away, its great shoulders brushing her bare thigh. With its guidance she found the defenders.
The snow cat at her side she stepped out of the heated mists into a clearing. More than a dozen people were backed up against the far cliff face by several prowling snow cats. Some swung blazing torches, others had weapons of steel. In their front ranks stood Reothe, bare chested, dressed in nothing but boots and breeches, his hair loose. Imoshen knew it was only a matter of time before the great cats brought him down.