DARK DREAMS

by Cory Daniells

  He raised his voice, indicating the stone lovers. “This will be a permanent reminder to us all. They have paid the price for our failure to understand each other. Let there be no more lives lost so pointlessly.”

  Then he rode away as if he did not expect a knife in his back. Yet he knew that only years of Ghebite discipline on the battlefield, and the nobles’ natural awe of the T’En restrained the crowd from turning on him and Imoshen like a pack of wolves.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tulkhan’s hands shook as he gripped the reins. What had Imoshen been thinking? A familiar suspicion crossed his mind. More than once he had wondered whether the T’En gifts were more of a reflex than a learned skill.

  He glanced down into her still face. Her pallor was worse than usual, but it was the blueness of her lips which made his heart falter. This time she had overreached herself.

  The outbuildings of the royal palace lay just ahead. Stableboys and servants ran forward to hold the General’s horse as he dropped to the ground with Imoshen in his arms, his knees protesting.

  Around him people clamored for news. He gave the servants only a brief explanation as he entered the palace.

  Striding down the long gallery with Imoshen in his arms, Tulkhan called for the fire to be built up in their chambers and the bed heated. He ordered a warm bath drawn immediately. He had to bring the color back to Imoshen’s cheeks.

  He kicked the bedchamber door open and placed her gently on the bed. The maid appeared at his side, her wide eyes fixed on Imoshen’s unconscious form with a mixture of awe and horror. Suddenly Tulkhan feared for Imoshen’s safety. This girl was not Kalleen. What if she was urged by someone, the Vaygharians perhaps, to smother Imoshen while she lay helpless?

  “Is she dying?” Merkah whispered.

  “No, merely exhausted,” he said, hoping it was true. “Leave us.”

  When she was gone, he placed his cheek against Imoshen’s mouth, trying to detect her breath. He felt nothing. Desperate, he tore open her thin shift and laid his face on her pale breast. For an agonizing moment he heard nothing, then he felt a slow single beat and nothing more. What had happened to her out there in the snow?

  A servant entered to tell Tulkhan the bath was ready. He would let no one care for Imoshen but himself. He stripped her single garment and lowered her limp form into the warm water. Though it did bring a little color to her flesh, it did not wake her.

  Before the water could cool he carried her to the bed and tucked her between blankets which held warmed stones. Then he took her hands between his and waited.

  By dusk that evening he had not left Imoshen’s side and she had not stirred. If anything she seemed even less responsive. He was sweating with the heat of the room, but Imoshen’s skin was like porcelain, cool and lifeless.

  The Ghebite bone-setter who had trained at Wharrd’s side had already been there and gone. His skill was in the art of sewing up wounds. This was no True-man injury.

  Tulkhan pressed the heels of his hands to his aching eyes as he waited for the Beatific to send a priest trained in the arts of healing. Someone scratched at the door and he rose hopefully. But it was the Beatific herself who entered.

  “General Tulkhan,” she greeted him softly. Her alert gaze went past him to Imoshen’s still form, and she approached the bed slowly, as if drawn against her will. Gingerly she laid a hand on Imoshen’s pale cheek.

  “Have you ever seen anything like this?” he whispered, desperate for a word of comfort.

  “No. How could I? The pure T’En have almost died out. And even when they lived, they kept the use and extent of their gifts a closely guarded secret.” The Beatific met his eyes. He sensed she was studying him, weighing up possibilities. “If she does not wake soon, she will die. Maybe the babe is already dead. It is for the best. No pure T’En woman—”

  “The babe!” How could he have forgotten his son? He was so consumed with Imoshen that he had not considered the child’s welfare.

  He sank onto the side of the bed. His son was probably dead but he felt nothing. All his being was focused on Imoshen.

  In that moment he knew she had come to mean more to him than life itself. The child she carried was his hold on the future, on Fair Isle, yet he would give it all up if Imoshen would only wake.

  The Beatific opened her arms and pressed his forehead on her breast, offering wordless comfort.

  He pulled away, whispering, “Sahorrd, Jacolm, and Cariah, all dead. I did not think, did not foresee. And now this.”

  The Beatific made a soothing noise and he looked up into her handsome face. Her hazel eyes glowed with compassion. She understood. Hadn’t she confessed to loving Reothe against her better judgment?

  “This is a T’En illness, General. It needs a gifted T’En to bring her back.”

  “Reothe!” The name escaped Tulkhan with all the hatred he felt for the rebel leader.

  The Beatific stepped back as Tulkhan rose impatiently. He paced to the fire. If he were to invite Reothe into the palace to help Imoshen, what chance had he, a mere True-man, against a Dhamfeer male? Reothe had mastered his T’En gifts to such an extent that he could deliver death with a single touch. Tulkhan shuddered, recalling how one of his men had died after delivering a message from Reothe, just as the rebel leader had said he would.

  Frustration raged through Tulkhan. He might as well hand Fair Isle and Imoshen over to Reothe right now!

  But if he hesitated she might die, and with her his unborn child. He could not contemplate such loss.

  “General Tulkhan?”

  “I take it you can get word to Reothe?” He knew he was asking her to implicate herself. He’d suspected all along that the Beatific was playing a double game by currying favor with both him and the rebel leader, while looking to the future to secure her power base.

  Her golden eyes widened and she spoke slowly, as though surprised he would contemplate calling on his sworn enemy. “It might be possible. I have people who watch and report. But it would not be safe to invite Reothe here. Better to let nature take its course. No, listen!” She caught Tulkhan’s shirt in her hands, as if her woman’s strength might sway him. “You cannot sacrifice everything you have achieved for her. Already Imoshen has betrayed you. I heard she was at Reothe’s camp the night before you were bonded.”

  “What?”

  The Beatific flinched as he grasped her shoulders.

  Tulkhan released his vicelike grip almost immediately, already regretting his slip. He would not be manipulated. “Rumor, mere speculation.”

  “Not necessarily.” She worked her shoulders gingerly and looked up at him, gauging his reaction. “The country people say she was with Reothe till dawn. They claim she saved his life after he was mauled by a snow leopard.”

  Tulkhan recalled Imoshen’s sudden appearance in his bedchamber, naked and disoriented.

  “There is more,” the Beatific continued. “It is said Imoshen and Reothe planned to lead a surprise attack on the palace, to strike while you were in disarray. If Reothe were to march into T’Diemn with Imoshen at his side, the people would lay down arms and join him. Only your Ghebite soldiers would remain loyal.”

  It was nothing but the bitter truth. The strategist in Tulkhan knew that he should let Imoshen die.

  What chance had he if Imoshen and Reothe united against him? He would never hold Fair Isle alone. Already this accursed island had robbed him of his father and his half-brother.

  He looked across at Imoshen’s pale, still form on the bed. How he longed to trust her!

  Unable to stand still, he paced the room, aware of the Beatific’s eyes upon him. Perhaps this woman hoped to gain from Imoshen’s death. Did she imagine he would turn to her for comfort? Never! Yet, without Imoshen, he would need the Beatific’s support to hold Fair Isle. . . .

  He found himself standing over the bed, staring down at Imoshen. Full dark had fallen and he hadn’t lit more candles. She appeared pale even against the white covers. He sensed that th
e longer she stayed in this state, the harder it would be to rouse her. He had to make a decision.

  “Leave us.”

  “General Tulkhan?”

  “Just go!” He wanted time alone with his thoughts. “I will call you when I am ready.”

  Silently the Beatific retreated.

  He lit the candles methodically. Then he returned to the bed and stripped the sweat-dampened shirt from his back, removing his boots. Clad only in his breeches, he slipped beneath the covers, rolling the warming stones onto the floor.

  Despite the stone’s residual heat, Imoshen’s flesh was cold and her body limp. With infinite gentleness Tulkhan slid his arm under her shoulders so that she lay draped across his body, her face cradled in the crook of his neck. He guided her still hand to his lips and kissed her fingers, even her sixth finger. Pain twisted inside him.

  He rubbed her wrist across his lips, inhaling her sweet scent.

  Odd. He lifted her hand to study her left wrist. Why had he never noticed that pale scar before? It was barely visible yet ... He pressed her inner wrist to his lips, feeling the thin ridge of flesh where the skin had knitted. The scar felt more visible than it looked. Perhaps this was because her skin was so fine.

  Imoshen was dying, and he should let her die, even though his heart railed against it. Tears stung his eyes. A great knot of sadness swelled inside his chest.

  Her cold body leached the warmth from him despite the many blankets. His eyes closed as a terrible weariness overcame him. His thoughts grew blurred and slow. It was a cruel choice. He wanted her to live. . . .

  Sleep, then decide.

  Drifting away, he felt nothing but a deep abiding sorrow. He had come too far to lose it all like this. He sensed oblivion calling and welcomed it.

  Tulkhan woke with a start. The huge fire he had built up had burned down to glowing embers, and the candles had guttered into wax. He had not meant to sleep so long. He sensed he would have slept longer but something had woken him.

  His body screamed a warning. Through half-closed lids he watched the air at the end of the bed shimmer. A figure took shape in the flickering candlelight.

  Fear froze Tulkhan’s limbs. His breath caught in his throat.

  The last T’En warrior stood studying the two figures in the bed, his features unreadable.

  Tulkhan kept his eyes mere slits, hoping Reothe would not realize he was awake. Had the Beatific betrayed him? If she had sent a messenger to Reothe, he could not have arrived so soon unless he was just outside the city gates.

  “I can tell you are aware of me,” Reothe whispered softly. “How does it feel to he helpless?”

  As he said this Tulkhan discovered he was paralyzed.

  Reothe laughed softly. “Your fear is sweet. I could drink it down in one gulp. Don’t look so horrified. You hold Imoshen in your arms and yet you don’t know her true nature? Her gifts grow, living off all of you, the fears and hopes of so many little lives. The T’En serve True-men and women because you serve us.”

  He fell silent for a heartbeat, then a sweet smile illuminated his face. “I can feel the Beatific in the next room. She plots to console you once Imoshen dies. She desires you, admires your virility. But if I were to go to her now, she would take me into her arms, her body, her heart. It is the fate of you who call yourselves True-people to serve the T’En for love.”

  Tulkhan raged against the truth he heard in Reothe’s words.

  “How?” His voice was a mere creak, but at least he had spoken. “How are you here? Now?”

  Reothe tensed, studying him. “You are a determined creature. I could enjoy your resistance for a long time before overcoming you.”

  Terror clogged Tulkhan’s throat as Reothe walked around the bed to crouch at his side, bringing their faces level. He could not protect himself, let alone Imoshen, from this alien creature.

  “You want to know how I come to be here?” he asked, then smiled. “You called me. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  Tulkhan couldn’t move his head. He could only see his tormentor from the corner of his eyes. The strain made his head ache and distorted his vision so that the fire’s embers seemed to flicker through Reothe’s features.

  “Called you? Never!” he gasped.

  “But you did. You see, Imoshen and I are bound, betrothed in the old way. Earlier today I sensed a dimming in Imoshen’s life force. When you touched our bonding scar you called me.” Reothe paused, observing Tulkhan’s face. “Didn’t she tell you? The night before she was to bond with you, she joined with me. We mingled our blood, our breath to complete what we had begun last autumn. See.” He held his left arm out to reveal a scar that matched Imoshen’s. “Everything she has ever shared with you was meant for me.”

  Tulkhan could not believe it. Would not!

  “Deny this.” Reothe turned Imoshen’s left wrist to Tulkhan’s face. “She may knit the scar seamlessly. She may cloak its very existence from you but that cannot change what is!”

  Before this day he had never noticed the scar. Imoshen had been hiding it. Was she tricking him, playing some deep, double game? She couldn’t be, she had come to him so openly; yet, perhaps she wasn’t even aware . . . No. He could not believe . . .

  “This is too sweet!” Reothe crowed. “You tear yourself apart. Let me ease your pain.”

  If Tulkhan could have moved he would have screamed, but his body was not his to command. He could only lie writhing in mental torment as Reothe spread the fingers of his left hand over Tulkhan’s face.

  Instinctively the General closed his eyes to protect them, but instead of flesh on his skin, six cool points caressed his senses. Soothingly they sank deeper into his awareness, siphoning off the terror which threatened to engulf his sanity. He was aware of a sense of Otherness which was Reothe. It was not unpleasant, just . . . different.

  He knew he should be terrified, but fear was a distant memory. When the presence that was Reothe retreated, he was almost sorry to lose contact. He had never experienced the intimate presence of another being like that. As he opened his eyes he was aware of a cruel separation. Until this moment he had never known how truly alone he was.

  Reothe rose to stand beside the bed. A delighted laugh escaped him as he pulled back the covers.

  “See what you have done for me. I grow more substantial on your emotions.”

  Now Tulkhan understood that this Reothe was only a projection. There was something chillingly innocent in the T’En warrior’s delight. It was as if he was so far removed from a True-man that the rules Tulkhan lived by could not affect him.

  One part of the General knew he should be mortified to lie defenseless before his most dangerous enemy, but the mind-touch had left him strangely distanced; he could only watch as Reothe studied the way his body entwined with Imoshen’s.

  Reothe’s six-fingered hand glided over Imoshen’s thigh. His touch was proprietorial. Instinctive resentment flooded Tulkhan, yet an equal and opposite surge of hope filled him. Could Reothe help?

  “Ask for any reward, anything.” Tulkhan’s words were a breathy whisper.

  “Anything?” Reothe leant closer, as though fascinated despite himself. “There is nothing you can give me, True-man. Mere-man. By this time next winter I will have this palace, Imoshen, and Fair Isle. You are merely holding it in safekeeping for me.” His hand passed over Tulkhan’s face to rest on Imoshen’s temple. A frown settled between Reothe’s narrow brows. “Why did you delay so long? I may be too late to escort her from death’s shadow.”

  “But you will try?”

  Reothe gave a short laugh, his eyes as sharp as the jewels they resembled. He searched Tulkhan’s face. “Did you know she saved my life the last time we were together?”

  Tulkhan wanted to deny this. Reothe’s satisfied smile told him the Dhamfeer was enjoying his reaction. Instinctively he tried to control his emotions. But how could he bluff Reothe when the T’En could sense his feelings, possibly even catch a whisper of his thoughts?

  W
ith what he had learned of Reothe during the mind-touch, Tulkhan understood that every word was a weapon designed to wound him. He recalled the old nursery rhyme about Dhamfeers and tried to steel himself against Reothe’s cunning.

  “The bond Imoshen and I share is of an older, deeper making than yours, Ghebite.” Reothe made the word an insult. “One day she will look into your True-man eyes and realize what you are, and that her place is with me. I will save her, not for you, but for that day. And when it happens you will remember this moment.”

  Tulkhan closed his eyes. It felt as though Reothe were revealing a greater truth, something Tulkhan had always known but refused to acknowledge. Yet Tulkhan did not believe in fate, did not believe Imoshen was fated to be with Reothe. A man made his own future.

  “You may feel a little pain. I haven’t done this before,” Reothe warned.

  Tulkhan met Reothe’s eyes and read something he didn’t want to acknowledge. Instead of mocking cynicism, he saw the naked soul of a man who knowingly faced death, and for this he felt a grudging respect.

  The Dhamfeer was insubstantial now. Narrow parallel scars ran down his chest, weeping fresh blood. Had Reothe been wounded when he arrived? Tulkhan couldn’t remember. The glowing coals of the dying fire flickered through Reothe’s body as if he was consumed from within.

  One part of Tulkhan wanted to shrink from the contact as Reothe stretched on the bed beside him. He felt the T’En male’s intense questioning gaze.

  “What?” Tulkhan mumbled.

  Those insubstantial fingers pressed his lips closed.

  “Pray to your gods that I succeed, Ghebite, because if I fail, you lose us both and possibly your own life, too, since I am going to anchor myself to you. Concentrate on that burning candle, do not let it go. Ignore me even if you find what I do disturbing.”

  Tulkhan wanted to watch, to know what was happening, but the words triggered a compulsion and his gaze focused on the flame at the end of the bed. He was fleetingly aware of Reothe’s presence at his side and then his insubstantial body moving over Tulkhan’s own, settling atop Imoshen’s unconscious form.