Cradling the baby between her breasts, she encouraged the Ghebites. At that moment the rebels, discouraged, turned and ran. The defenders surged after them. But none of the Ghebites tried to stop Reothe as he dismounted and walked towards her.
Imoshen’s stomach lurched. Her legs threatened to give way. Heart pounding, she stood her ground. The baby was a trusting being, oblivious to all threat and unaware of his vulnerability.
Reothe came to a stop within an arm’s length of her. Imoshen could hardly breathe. She expected him to strike her down with one blow. She had no defenses against a T’En warrior who could barter with the Ancients and bind the Parakletos to his will. She faced Reothe in the knowledge that now that he knew her loyalties he would kill her.
And what did it matter? Tulkhan must be dead. Otherwise Reothe would not be standing before her, eyes blazing. She had wagered everything on one throw of the dice and lost. The baby woke and struggled against her. She cradled his warm head, feeling his fragile skull under the powder-fine hair and skin.
Why did Reothe hesitate?
Perhaps he did not want to hurt the baby. How could she be so naive? He was the ultimate pragmatist. He would not hesitate to kill Tulkhan’s son before the boy grew old enough to cause trouble.
A flood of fury engulfed Imoshen. No one would touch her child while there was still breath in her body Reothe studied her, unmoving. Amidst the mass of fleeing, fighting figures, they were still.
“Very clever, Imoshen. This time you’ve won, but it is only a skirmish.”
Tension sang through her limbs. She did not understand why he hadn’t dealt her death blow.
“Tulkhan is dead,” he continued. “Do you really want to stand alone against me?”
When she looked into his hard eyes she saw an image of Tulkhan bleeding but still alive. Imoshen’s heart leapt with relief but she was careful to hide this from Reothe.
“Think on it, Imoshen, then come to me. I will not be so patient again.”
He turned and walked unharmed through the Ghebites who were dealing with the injured rebels.
Imoshen sank to her knees, dizzy with relief. But Tulkhan lay out there, injured and alone. And if she knew Reothe, he was going back to deliver the killing blow.
Tulkhan! she cried silently, opening her T’En senses to search for him.
The merest flicker of his essence prickled on the periphery of her mind. She felt his fading strength. The General lay dying somewhere out there, without her.
As she ran out of the gate the Ghebites called after her, but she ignored them.
Tulkhan lay propped against a rocky outcropping where he could see the entrance to the narrow gully. Dawn lightened the sky so he could make out hazy shapes.
Once Reothe had secured the fortress Tulkhan expected him to send several rebels to make sure he was dead. His hand still grasped the sword but he did not raise it, preferring to save his strength. He would take at least one or two of them with him before Reothe’s prediction came to pass.
He heard running boots, shouts. This was it.
But they ran on past him. He heard hoofbeats and suddenly a figure blocked the entrance. It was Reothe.
“Come to finish me yourself? I’m honored,” Tulkhan grunted. He lifted the sword in greeting.
“You are a hard man to kill, Ghebite.”
Stepping forward, Reothe drew his sword. Tulkhan knew the end was inevitable but he would not go quietly.
At that moment three of his own men charged through the cleft’s opening. They looked from him to the rebel leader.
Reothe spun around, saw the odds, and hesitated. For an instant no one moved, then Reothe dropped his weapon and leapt. With amazing agility he scaled the almost sheer rock wall.
The Ghebites charged after him, but not one of them could climb the wall. They cursed fluently. Tulkhan looked up to see Reothe’s boots disappear over the crest.
Tulkhan’s men returned to him, taking in the extent of his wound. He saw from their faces that there was no hope. How had Imoshen and his men turned the tide of the attack?
Almost as if the thought had called her up, Imoshen slipped through the gap into the narrow ravine. She stepped gingerly toward him, muttering something about the stench of Ancient greed.
“We are too late. He’s dying,” one man told her.
“You forget who you’re talking to,” another said. “This Dhamfeer can heal.”
When she crouched beside him Tulkhan noticed the baby asleep between her breasts.
“My son slept through it all?” he asked, his voice thick with equal measures of laughter and pain.
Imoshen smiled then inspected the General’s wound. Her heart sank. There was blood on his lips, it bubbled with each breath—a very bad sign.
What could she do, exhausted as she was? She met the General’s eyes. The sweat of pain stood on his greying skin but he looked at her with perfect faith. He trusted her to save him.
It was too cruel.
She took a deep breath. The stench of Reothe’s sorcery was so thick she almost gagged, though the Ghebites appeared unaware of it.
Tulkhan coughed. It was a horrible sound. She could not, would not, lose him now.
She pressed her cheek to his chest where she could sense his heart laboring. The baby’s weight made her back ache and she straightened.
“I failed you,” Tulkhan whispered. “How did you defeat him?”
“No. You were victorious!” one of his men insisted. “When you appeared in the gateway the rebels broke and ran.”
“I don’t understand,” Tulkhan rasped.
Panic seized Imoshen; his voice was fading.
Looking into his eyes she searched for a flicker of something she couldn’t name. It was instinctive. Healing his grazed knuckles had drawn on his will, using only a small portion of her gifts, but this was a far greater healing. It would exhaust all her reserves, and this time Reothe would not willingly come to search death’s shadow for her.
“When this is over, General, you must take me home.”
“Of course.”
“This could hurt.”
“You think it doesn’t hurt now.”
That made her smile.
Closing her eyes, Imoshen called on the General’s own fierce will. Whatever the cost, she would help him to heal himself.
It was the second hardest thing she had ever done.
Tulkhan woke from a disturbed sleep, his mind a jumble of half-remembered images—confronting Reothe, facing death, Imoshen coming to save him.
“Thirsty.”
The cup that the bone-setter lifted to Tulkhan’s lips held the sweetest water he had ever tasted.
That was when he looked up and saw the framework of the roof over his head, stark against an endless blue sky. Above him the men sang as they fitted wooden slates to the staves.
“Don’t drop one on my head,” Tulkhan tried to shout but it came out a croak. He pulled himself upright. “How long have I been asleep?”
“One day.”
“Where is Imoshen?”
The man moved to one side and Tulkhan saw her asleep on a pallet in the far corner of the room.
“What, sleeping in the middle of the day?” Tulkhan laughed, rolling to his knees. The movement tugged at the pain in his chest, his muscles ached and his joints popped, but he was determined to wake her.
The man caught the General’s arm, a warning in his eyes.
Tulkhan felt fear, by now a familiar companion. Forewarned, he crawled across the floor to kneel beside Imoshen. His son was asleep at her breast, her nipple still in his mouth. She lay completely still, her face pale.
He knew the signs, but this time he could not call on Reothe for help.
“How did this happen?”
“As the color came to your skin, she grew paler.”
“But she is a healer. It’s her T’En gift.”
The man shrugged. “Maybe even she has limits. Remember, in Gheeaba a woman would not ris
e from her bed for one small moon after giving birth, or take on her normal duties for another moon. She would be waited on by the other wives and her baby brought to her for feeding.
“This Dhamfeer crossed the ranges barefoot. She walked a day and a night to get here. She reversed the night terrors when the fortress would have fallen—”
“Then she saved me.” Tulkhan bowed his head. He had begun to expect the impossible of Imoshen.
The baby woke and opened his wine-dark eyes. His gaze traveled up Tulkhan’s chest to his face. There was no greeting, no recognition in those eyes, just impassive interest.
“Here, General.” The bone-setter lifted the baby. “You’ll have to give him a name.”
“A name?” Tulkhan had not thought of that, could not think of it when Imoshen lay so still. He would have to find a wet nurse. “Why is the baby still feeding from Imoshen?”
“The milk flows. She rouses herself to take a little food and water—”
“What!” Then it was not the same as the last time. There was hope.
As the bone-setter moved off to clean and change the baby Tulkhan grasped Imoshen’s hand in his. He stroked her cheek. “Imoshen, wake up and tell me what to call our boy.” Tulkhan grinned. His father would be turning in his grave. A Ghebite father always chose his son’s name. “I can’t call him babe forever.”
He saw her lips move ever so slightly as if she would like to smile. Elation filled him. Stroking her pale hair from her forehead he leant closer.
“You can hear me. Is there anything I can do for you, get you?”
With great effort her lips formed the word, Home.
Tears of relief stung Tulkhan’s eyes and he kissed her closed lids. “Rest easy, I will take you home.”
They rigged a cover over the supply wagon and Imoshen traveled in that. Their progress was slow but Tulkhan was pleased. Every day Imoshen regained her strength and the baby grew.
The day before the Midsummer Feast they stood on the rise before T’Diemn. Tulkhan called a halt to the caravan and climbed into the wagon.
“We are home,” he told Imoshen and lifted her in his arms so she could see. “There.”
He watched her face as she stared across at T’Diemn. It was one of the loveliest cities he had ever seen. Its spires and turrets shimmered in the rising waves of heat.
Imoshen’s face fell.
“What?”
She glanced away quickly. “The Stronghold is my home.”
He understood. What could he say?
“Where is your home, General?”
He could never return to Gheeaba. He knew that now.
“My home is where you are,” he said simply.
He saw her register his meaning. Her fierce hug warmed his heart.
She pulled away from him. “Since we are here we must make the best of it. The people will want to see us and our son, Ashmyr.”
Imoshen had insisted they call the boy Ashmyr. She’d said T’Ashmyr had bound the island to him during the Age of Tribulation, uniting the T’En and locals alike; only the Keldon Highlands had resisted him. So Tulkhan’s son was named after a T’En emperor. He did not mind.
“Do you think you should ride?” Tulkhan was uneasy. She had hardly so much as peeped outside the wagon except during their night camps.
“No. But you could carry me and I could hold the babe. The people of T’Diemn would like that.”
When they arrived in the capital they received a rousing welcome. The populace was celebrating the birth of the baby and the rout of the rebels, which he was sure had grown in the telling. The townsfolk came out of their houses and shops to cheer. And they cheered loudest of all for Tulkhan’s son.
“You won’t reconsider?” Imoshen asked.
Tulkhan looked across at her. They were sharing a rare moment of privacy in the ornamental garden. Delicate blossoms hung from the trellis above them. It was a place of ethereal, dappled light and sweet scent.
Nothing in Ghebite society was valued for its beauty. They valued wealth, military power, but not pure aesthetics. In his brash youth he would have despised the waste of effort, but now he could only admire a culture which had time for the pursuit of beauty for beauty’s sake.
“Now that we’ve hosted the Midsummer Festival, I must return to the south. The fortress controlling Greater Pass is almost finished, but I must complete the one sealing off the Lesser Pass before the harvest. Let the Keldon nobles winter in the ranges without fresh supplies.”
“I don’t like it,” Imoshen stated. “It’s a static defense. It gives the rebels a chance to study the fortresses, learn the patterns of your guards. In time they will spot a weakness and strike.”
Tulkhan knew that. Tactically, Reothe could not let the Protector General finish the fortresses. All trade and large caravans had to use the passes. If Tulkhan succeeded in barricading the Keldon Highlands, it would be a blow to Reothe’s reputation. His supporters would be prisoners in their own estates.
“I must go.” He joined her on the seat. “I delayed only for the Midsummer Festival.”
She looked down, playing with the baby’s hands. Imoshen never let the babe far from her side. He had noticed her waking at night to check on him.
“Your workers will be attacked,” she whispered.
“I don’t expect Reothe to disappoint me.”
“What will you do without me?”
Tulkhan sighed. He knew that only Imoshen’s gift had saved him and his men last time. Though she would say no more about that night, she often woke muttering in High T’En, her skin cold with the sweat of terror. And he recognized the High T’En word, Parakletos.
Oh, he needed Imoshen all right, but she would not leave the baby with a wet nurse.
“I won’t risk you and the baby. You can defend yourself, but my son can’t.”
“I won’t leave him behind.” She rose, annoyance flushing her cheeks, and stepped into a shaft of dappled sunlight. The faint breeze played with wisps of her pale hair so that it seemed to have a life of its own. Anger and the stirring of her T’En powers exuded from her skin, making his heart race.
He ached for her but his bone-setter had warned him that there was good reason the Ghebite men did not touch their women for two small moons after the birth. His description of the injuries of an ordinary birth had horrified Tulkhan. No, he would not inflict himself on Imoshen until she was ready. But it had taken great self-restraint.
“You are my bond-partner,” Imoshen told him, refusing to rise to the bait of an argument. “And though I respect your wishes, I will do what I believe to be right. I could not live with myself otherwise.”
“Then we are at a deadlock,” Tulkhan said and left her.
Imoshen watched him walk away. Only yesterday Ashmyr had looked into her eyes and recognized her. He had been born more than one large moon short of a full year, but she was not sure that her exertion and the danger she faced had not brought him on early. Even so, he was doing well and so was she. But while she had recovered physically, she felt more vulnerable than ever before. Reothe was so powerful he was willing to traffic with the Ancients and call on the Parakletos, at risk to his own soul. To defeat Reothe she had to discover his limitations.
The palace library was no help. She had to get into the Basilica and search the archives. Somehow she would translate the T’Endomaz and use the knowledge against Reothe. How ironic.
How cruel. He had given her the most valuable thing he possessed—his parents’ last gift—and she would use it to destroy him. Tears stung her eyes. But it was her lot to face terrible choices, as it had been Imoshen the First’s; she had bound her T’En warriors to her with oaths that went beyond death. How she had done this was probably told in the T’Elegos. Again Imoshen mourned its loss.
Putting such thoughts aside Imoshen stretched, arching her back. Tonight was her last night with the General. The soft tug on her nipple made her other breast run with milk. She pressed it to stop the flow. Her body tingl
ed. She thought longingly of Tulkhan’s rough hands. If only he would hold her. She was sure she could overcome whatever scruples were restraining his ardor.
Tulkhan sprawled on the bed watching Imoshen feed their son. He and his men were ready to move out. All that remained was this one night with Imoshen. He longed to hold her in his arms, but did not know if he could trust himself to do that without wanting more.
The baby fed eagerly. Tulkhan could hear him gulping milk.
He grinned. “My greedy son will get wind and keep you up all night.”
“Oh?” Imoshen fixed him with teasing eyes. “So you’re an expert now. I wager Ghebite men never care for their children.”
“Not true.” Tulkhan leaned against the headboard and linked his hands behind his head. “When I was six I left the women’s quarters and joined the men’s lodge. There I was reared by the men who served my father. They trained me in the arts of war, preparing me for my role as first son of the King’s second wife.”
He caught her watching him, her expression horrified.
“You mean you never lived with your female relatives after that? How sad.”
Her reaction startled him. “Why?”
Imoshen shook her head. “No wonder Ghebite men think women are a race apart!”
She detached the drowsy baby and tucked him into the basket by their bed before moving to sit before Tulkhan. A drop of milk still clung to her nipple. He found himself staring at it, unable to think of anything else.
Imoshen rose to her knees, her breasts tantalizingly close to his face. “Are you thirsty?”
A shaft of urgent desire shot through him. Surely she wasn’t suggesting . . . ? It went against everything he had been taught, yet it was so tempting. . . .
He tore his gaze from the full expanse of her creamy white breast. “Imoshen!”
She tilted her head, a smile playing about her lips.
“Is this how the women of Fair Isle act?” His voice was hoarse with the effort of denial.
Imoshen sighed and closed the bodice of her shift. “I don’t know. It was never mentioned in my lessons on sharing pleasure with a man.”
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