DARK DREAMS

by Cory Daniells

  After this day she would be the Empress she supposed, though by Ghebite custom, General Tulkhan would accept the kingship, which in turn made her his queen. Imoshen grimaced. She did not feel royal. She felt dizzy with trepidation.

  “Your hands are so cold.” Kalleen rubbed them between hers and blew on the icy fingers. “What is it?”

  Imoshen shrugged. She felt Cariah’s sharp eyes on her. She had washed Reothe’s scent from her skin, but he remained in her thoughts. It felt as if she had left a piece of herself behind in that camp amidst the hot pools. No matter how she rationalized it, she had hated to leave Reothe. Yet she believed it was for the best. For all his talk of equality, Reothe threatened to dominate her in ways Tulkhan did not. She felt as if she had abandoned her younger, naive self when she had abandoned Reothe last night.

  But this very morning Tulkhan had sworn to bond with her, and she knew he would stand true to his oath. Yet as the day progressed he was sure to draw away from her. If only she could get close to him, intimately close. She knew that if she could slip into his mind when he slipped into her body, she could imprint herself on him and . . . But no, that would not be right. What good was love if it was not freely given?

  “What troubles you, Imoshen?” Cariah whispered.

  “Tulkhan does not love me!” It was out before she could stop herself.

  “He wants you,” Kalleen said. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You are to be bonded—”

  “You speak of bonding as in the old way of the country folk,” Cariah corrected. “In bondings of state, the best you can hope for is companionship, and if you are very lucky a little fondness. Don’t despair, Imoshen, love may follow, especially since his body pulls him to you. Make use of this.”

  Cariah’s old-empire tone made Imoshen flinch. “My parents raised me with the old values. Their bonding went beyond the flesh to their souls. From what I know of life in the Empress’s court, I’m glad my family avoided it.”

  “You can’t avoid your responsibilities,” Cariah said.

  “Enough, Cariah!” Kalleen squeezed Imoshen’s hands. “It will be for the best. I have seen how Wharrd has changed since we were bonded. The General will grow to love you.”

  Imoshen sighed. “I am being foolish. Forgive me. As Cariah says, this is a bonding of state. Sometimes when I look into the General’s eyes I think that as much as he desires me, he also hates me.”

  Kalleen and Cariah exchanged swift glances, their silence damning. Imoshen stifled her dismay. The murmur of the approaching noblewomen who would be escorting her to the great hall filled the pause.

  “They come,” Cariah said. “Stand tall. Don’t let them suspect.”

  Kalleen hugged Imoshen. “I wish you happiness. You have been so good to me.”

  The women entered and for the rest of the day Imoshen knew she would have no peace.

  For Imoshen, the bonding ceremony felt unreal, almost as if it were happening to someone else. For one thing it went on longer than was traditional, because both Churches played a role. The Cadre performed his with bad grace, having been relegated to giving his blessing before the Beatific oversaw the giving of vows in the manner of a Fair Isle bonding.

  Standing next to her, Tulkhan seemed alien and distant in his barbarian splendor. He wore the ceremonial belt over a red velvet tunic with black sable trim. His long hair fell free down his back and two plaits hung from his temples, threaded with fine gold beads.

  The two of them clasped hands and the Beatific tied a slender red ribbon around their wrists. Imoshen recalled how Reothe had used the old form of bonding, cutting their skin and pressing their wrists together. When their blood mingled she had refused to make the vow. With the words unsaid they were not bonded by the laws of the Church. Yet her unruly body had responded to Reothe by breaking the old bonding scar. She shuddered.

  Hands still joined, they accepted the bonding chalice. Imoshen offered it to Tulkhan. When he had taken a sip, he offered it to her, turning it so that her lips touched where his had. The memory of drinking from Reothe’s lips made her dizzy. Resolutely she banished him from her thoughts.

  The Beatific retrieved the bonding chalice, then the moment came for Imoshen to make her vow to Tulkhan, before the gathered nobles and town officials. It was a relief to say the words. This final step was irrevocable. It freed her from Reothe’s claim. It must!

  There was still the long noon feast and then the coronation ceremony to be endured, but tonight when she lay with General Tulkhan it would erase all thought of her once-betrothed.

  * * *

  As the pale winter sun set on the great dome of the Basilica, Tulkhan and Imoshen faced the Beatific on their knees, ready to accept the coronation symbols of the Emperor and Empress.

  They had crossed the square to the Basilica as supplicants, barefoot and bareheaded, but after the ceremony they would be transported in the coronation chariot as befitted their new roles.

  It was this which troubled General Tulkhan. The ornate coronation made him deeply uncomfortable. He was sure the Keldon nobles considered him a barbarian upstart, and with all this pomp and ceremony he felt himself drawing away from his own men. He wished this T’En rite over. But first, Imoshen must be accepted by the Orb before she could be Arbiter of Truth.

  With deep reverence, the Beatific donned gloves so that her flesh did not defile the relic. She unlocked a delicate cage and withdrew the Orb. According to Imoshen, it came from the land beyond the dawn sun. Tulkhan stared at the fragile glass and wondered cynically how many times it had been replaced with an identical glass bauble in six hundred years of journeys and battles.

  Imoshen seemed nervous. Her face was paler than usual and she wore old-empire makeup which heightened her T’En characteristics. The torque he had given her was nowhere in evidence, indeed her whole outfit was different from the gold and black of this morning’s bonding ceremony. Now she wore a white underdress overlaid with fine silver lace. Her hair was loose on her shoulders like a satin cloak, and her head, like his, was bare, ready to accept the crown.

  Her eyes closed briefly as she prepared herself. The tang of her T’En gift registered on Tulkhan’s tongue, making him wonder about the source of the Orb’s power.

  Imoshen raised her arms, hands cupped to receive the Orb. It left the Beatifies grasp, falling into Imoshen’s. The instant her bare fingers touched the Orb’s surface it flared brightly, surprising Tulkhan and making him question his earlier cynicism. A gasp of reverence escaped the masses gathered behind them. The Orb responded to Imoshen’s T’En blood.

  The Beatific returned the Orb to its resting place. Then she turned to the couple, ready to finalize the coronation. An awed silence fell as the Beatific raised the twin crowns for public blessing.

  Stiff with inactivity, Tulkhan waited impatiently with Imoshen at his side. Self-derision twisted within him. Whether he called himself king or prince, he would never be as respected as the rulers of the old empire. He ground his teeth.

  “What is it?” Imoshen mouthed softly, though she continued looking straight ahead.

  “I can’t do it.” His own words surprised him. “I won’t claim to be something I’m not.”

  “What do you mean?” Startled, Imoshen turned to him.

  The Beatific stepped toward them, her assistant carrying the twin crowns on their bed of velvet.

  Revulsion stirred in Tulkhan. “I’m no king. I’m a soldier!”

  “If you can lead an army, you can lead an island.”

  Tulkhan knew she was right. Suddenly he rose to his feet, pulling Imoshen with him. The Beatific took a step back, her expression a mixture of annoyance and confusion.

  “Trust me?” Tulkhan asked Imoshen.

  She searched his eyes, then smiled. “Yes.”

  He felt a corresponding smile ignite him and faced the crowd.

  “I am not your emperor and I never will be.” His words carried, echoing in the great dome. Not surprisingly, a murmur of confusion g
reeted his announcement. He lifted his free hand, signaling for silence. “I am not the King of the Ghebites. I am simply a soldier, first son of a king’s second wife. I claim no royal privilege for myself. I am a general. I will place no one, whether they be noble, guildmaster, Fair Isle farmer, or Ghebite soldier, above the other.” The investiture of his men returned to him. “Like my lord commanders, I am here to serve Fair Isle.”

  He paused to study the sea of faces, their expressions ranging from outrage to astonishment. Certain factions would not approve. The Keldon nobles for one, but he had already acknowledged their rights and the laws of their Church.

  “I declare myself Protector General of Fair Isle, and this is Imoshen, Lady Protector of the People.” He took Imoshen’s hand, placing it along his forearm so that her fingers draped over his.

  A tentative cheer broke from the ranks of his men, telling him his instinct had been right about them. The people of Fair Isle were harder to read. A furious whispering broke out in the crowd as they debated his repudiation of the emperorship.

  Imoshen’s fingers tightened on his. He looked to see anger, but pure joy suffused her features.

  “Signal the musicians and choir,” Imoshen ordered over her shoulder to the Beatific. “We will dispense the coins and make our triumphal ride around the square now.”

  “The Vow of Expiation!” the Beatific hissed. “You must give that vow or negate the bonding and coronation!”

  “I had not forgotten,” Imoshen whispered, still facing the crowd.

  Tulkhan squeezed her hand as the choir began their rehearsed piece, their voices soaring high into the great dome like streams of living sound.

  “Are you disappointed?” Tulkhan asked under cover of their song.

  Imoshen smiled. “No, Protector General. You have confirmed my faith in you in a most unexpected way.”

  “Good.” He smiled, enjoying her approval.

  They stepped off the dais, making their stately way down the aisle under the center of the dome. There, inset in the floor, was an ancient circle of stone, so old its engravings were almost worn away.

  Before everyone, Imoshen sank to her knees and placed her left hand in the impression on the stone. Her six fingers fit the indentations perfectly.

  As she gave her Vow of Expiation, promising to serve the people of Fair Isle without fear or favor, Tulkhan noted the intense expression on the face of the man opposite him. Dressed in a dark mulberry tabard, his garnet eyes glittered as they fixed on Imoshen’s bent head.

  For a moment Tulkhan could not remember who the man was. Then it came to him. Murgon, leader of the Tractanans, the branch of the Church dedicated to hunting down rogue T’En.

  Imoshen came to her feet and the choir resumed their paean of praise. At the doors of the Basilica, two acolytes knelt to help Imoshen and Tulkhan slide their feet into their shoes. They had entered the Basilica barefoot and bareheaded; they left it wearing the mantle of their office. The crowns, however, remained on their bed of velvet.

  “If only the pomp of position could be escaped as easily as the crowns and titles,” Imoshen whispered, as if aware of his thoughts.

  Tulkhan wanted to laugh. But she was right. There were still hours of formality ahead of them as they presided over the coronation feast, where they would sign the charter giving the three largest banks royal endorsement.

  When they stepped outside, the crowd greeted them with song. Along the steps of the Basilica, two lines of people formed an honor guard. They were high-ranking nobles, Tulkhan’s men amongst them, town officials, and ordinary citizens chosen by lot.

  The acolytes handed Tulkhan and Imoshen their chests of newly minted coins. Imoshen’s profile graced one side, his the other. It was dated six hundred seventeen, though the new year did not officially start until tomorrow.

  “Time to share our good fortune,” Imoshen said. “These coins will be collectors items in years to come.”

  They distributed the coins and accepted endless congratulations. At last the empty chests were returned to the acolytes and Tulkhan and Imoshen stepped into the open coronation chariot.

  The square was packed with residents of T’Diemn and outlying farms, all come to witness this historical occasion. The chariot made its slow, stately way ‘round the square, its two horses led by a groom. Then it came to a stop directly in front of the palace’s grand entrance, where two tall towers stood like arrogant sentinels.

  Imoshen’s hand covered his. “Now you will see the display I promised.”

  A wizened little man scurried towards them, passing several objects to Imoshen.

  “I always wanted to launch one of these things,” she confided as she pulled on a leather glove and took the cylinder in a pair of tongs.

  It didn’t look particularly inspiring. Tulkhan had expected jewels and gold.

  The little man opened his coal pouch and blew on it to quicken the flame, warning, “Take care to hold it away from your body, Empress.”

  Imoshen dipped the cylinder’s wick in the flame. It sparked into life immediately, brighter than striking a flint. A tail of fire shot from the cylinder and it leapt from Imoshen’s hands into the air. Rapid as an escaped bird, it arced across the sky, trailing sparks of light, only to burst star-bright above the palace.

  Tulkhan blinked, stunned by the afterimage as much as by the improbability of what he had seen. But the crowd was not surprised. They cheered delightedly then grew expectantly quiet.

  “Watch the towers,” Imoshen whispered. She stripped the glove from her hand and returned it to the little man.

  Tulkhan frowned. A spark flared on the nearest tower, followed by another. The crowd gasped as waterfalls of living sparks poured from the tower tops.

  “The palace will burn to the ground!” Tulkhan muttered.

  “Not at all. Members of the Pyrolate Guild spend years learning their craft. Surely you’ve heard of the T’En fountains of light?”

  Tulkhan had, but he had discounted them just as he had the rumors of the Dhamfeer powers. He stared in awe, as from every tower fountains of golden light poured down, illuminating the palace. The crowded square was utterly silent. “What are they made of?”

  “Naturally the guild keeps their knowledge secret. But they are quite harmless.”

  Tulkhan marveled. How could Imoshen be so casual? “I will inspect the apparatus that makes these fountains and that starbird you shot into the sky.”

  Imoshen laughed softly. “You would have to convince the Master Pyrolate himself, and that would be no easy task. When they are apprenticed they take a vow of secrecy.”

  She pulled him around to face her, pressing her strong body against him. Fey laughter danced in her eyes. “Kiss me under the fountains of golden light, General.”

  So General Tulkhan of the Ghebites claimed Imoshen, last princess of the T’En, savoring the impossibility of the moment.

  As the coronation feast wound down, Tulkhan stretched, easing the tension in his shoulders. Imoshen was his now by every law of man, and by god he wanted her.

  “A word, Protector General?”

  Tulkhan turned to see the self-important Ghebite priest. He contained his annoyance and stepped back so that their conversation would be more private. “Yes, Cadre?”

  The smaller man glanced over his shoulder at Imoshen who was playing an elaborate game with a young Keldon noble.

  The complexity and variety of games played by the people of Fair Isle never ceased to amaze Tulkhan. He supposed they had to find some way to amuse themselves. Too much peace, he thought sourly.

  “Did you know she holds the records of all property ownership?”

  Tulkhan grimaced. Obviously the Cadre was not talking about Imoshen. “The T’En Church has always held the records.”

  “It is run by a woman!”

  “It is their way.”

  “It is not our way!”

  Tulkhan looked down at his indignant priest. “And this is not our land. But we will make it so
.”

  “Then relegate the Beatific to a lesser function. Give me the task and I will reorganize their Church.”

  Tulkhan almost laughed. “Why should they give up what they have?”

  The Cadre stiffened. “Half of them are women; only women!”

  This time Tulkhan did laugh. He gazed at Imoshen who was now performing an elaborate sequence of movements which could have been a dance. “There is no only!”

  Anger hardened the Cadre’s features. “You let your lust rule your head!”

  “You let your anger rule your tongue!” Tulkhan snapped. The Cadre made to apologize but he waved the priest aside. “No. Go now. We will speak again later.”

  Tulkhan folded his arms and leant against the wall. Obscured by shadows, he observed the game and the purpose finally struck him. Imoshen and her opponent were performing a series of dance movements. At the end of each sequence they added another movement. The two competitors had to remember the whole sequence, perform it, and add to it each time. The first one to make a mistake lost.

  He wished the game would end so he could lead Imoshen away. They had done their duty. Didn’t she want him as badly as he wanted her?

  “Protector General?”

  “Beatific.” He straightened, cloaking his uneasiness.

  She returned his acknowledgment with the elaborate obeisance reserved for Empress and Emperor. Was she mocking him or did she seek reassurance because he had been speaking with the Cadre?

  But she said nothing. Instead her gaze followed his, and he realized he had looked past her to Imoshen.

  “T’Imoshen is at her most charming. Unfortunately, it is an illusion. Forgive me, I am going to speak plainly. You are a Ghebite and a True-man. Do not be lulled into a false sense of security. Imoshen is not one of us. The T’En are both more and less than True-people.”

  Tulkhan did not want to hear this tonight. He wanted that part of Imoshen which was only too real and womanly, her quicksilver passion. But he had to placate the head of the T’En Church. He met the Beatific’s eyes expecting her to give another vague warning about Imoshen’s gifts. ‘What could she possibly say that he hadn’t already thought of in the dark, lonely nights?