Heart pounding, Imoshen slipped away before the priest could sense her. Her hair, her eyes, her sixth finger all marked her for what she was. A surge of hatred for her pursuers overtook her.
Imoshen headed toward the familiar smell of soap and clean air. The laundry was deserted, the coppers emptied of their loads of washing. No one guarded this door for it led to an enclosed courtyard which contained nothing but flapping priestly garments drying in the sunshine.
A mulberry tabard caught Imoshen’s eye and she suddenly had an idea. Crossing the scrubbed tiles of the laundry she entered the courtyard. No one was about. With a sharp tug she pulled a robe off the line, throwing it over her shoulders. She lifted the hood onto her head to hide her hair.
Mouth dry with fear Imoshen went inside. Now she noticed how the other priests avoided her eyes. It had not occurred to Imoshen that there would be a hierarchy within the priesthood, but under the circumstances she was grateful for it.
She crossed the floor of the busy kitchen, taking care to appear at ease with her surroundings. The Tractarian by the door met her eyes briefly. Imoshen willed herself to appear familiar, willed her son to be silent.
“No sign?” the woman asked in High T’En.
Imoshen realized they kept the old language alive to exclude others. She slipped into the language as easily as she had slipped into the Tractarian’s robe. “No. I’ve been sent to check the carts.”
“Good idea.”
With one hand on Ashmyr she moved off, careful not to appear hurried. Once she entered the outer courtyard it was simple enough to follow one of the many delivery carts through the lane and out into the sunshine of old T’Diemn.
Imoshen felt light-headed with relief. This day had taught her a valuable lesson. She had more than one enemy within the T’En Church. If the Beatific was a cunning cat, Murgon was a ravening wolf, leading his pack in pursuit of her.
Walking steadily away from the Basilica she joined a crowd outside a teahouse then darted into a side lane long enough to remove the priestly robe. Without remorse she tossed it onto the rubbish a nearby shopkeeper had left burning. She stirred the coals until the material caught light. As she watched the robe burn she vowed never again to leave herself vulnerable to the Tractarians.
She had risked so much today—and for what?
Reothe had the T’Elegos. But she could wait no longer. Tulkhan was in danger and she must face the most difficult decision of her life.
Exhausted by her close escape Imoshen slept all afternoon and into the evening. Late that night she packed her traveling things. Then she debated over the wording of a message for Kalleen and Wharrd. She dared not give away her plans, but called on their friendship, asking only that they meet her at her Stronghold as soon as possible.
As she watched Ashmyr asleep in his basket tears blurred her vision. It was because she loved him so fiercely that she had to remove him from danger; for she believed the inevitable confrontation between herself and Reothe was fated to be her last.
She would not leave Tulkhan to die alone. She must stand at his side, and if by some miracle they survived, Kalleen would restore Ashmyr to her. However, if as she feared, she fell at Tulkhan’s side, then Kalleen and Wharrd would know to flee Fair Isle. It demanded a lot of their friendship to ask them to raise her son, but if Reothe recaptured the island they would lose everything, their estates, their titles, and their lives.
Secreted in her family’s Stronghold was a king’s ransom in portable wealth. With her great-aunt she had collected and hidden it during the spring and summer of the Ghebite invasion, intending to use it to set free their relatives. Now it would be put to good use. With this wealth Kalleen and Wharrd could take Ashmyr and flee to one of the mainland kingdoms, far from Reothe’s influence and the taint of the Ancients.
Safe and unknown, her boy could be raised in peace. When she saw them in person, she would tell Kalleen and Wharrd not to encourage her son to recapture Fair Isle. There was nothing to be gained by frittering away his life with fruitless revenge. No, she wished only that he be happy.
Imoshen smiled. Maybe when he grew to adulthood he would travel into the dawn sun and discover his T’En origins. But in truth she did not care what Ashmyr did as long as he grew up free of fear and Reothe. Imoshen folded the note and sealed it with a daub of wax and the pad of her sixth finger.
Unable to resist she knelt beside her sleeping son. Her heart swelled with love as she stroked his shock of fine dark hair.
“Merkah?” Imoshen looked up when the girl passed by with an armful of clothes. “I won’t need anything so fancy, just my traveling things. And you’ll need yours too.”
“I am to come with you this time?” Merkah was still resentful.
“As far as the Stronghold. But before you finish packing, please send for Crawen.”
“Yes, my lady.” Merkah hurried away, eyes bright with curiosity.
Imoshen picked up her son, cradling his soft head against her cheek. She would not take him into danger. And she would only venture into danger once she knew that he was safe. If she and Tulkhan lost, she would never see Ashmyr grow up. He would never know how much she loved him. She felt his head bob against her cheek, his little mouth open, he was looking for another feed.
She held him away from her to memorize his perfect little features. Tears ran unheeded down her cheeks. He would never know what it cost her to give him away. Perhaps she should touch his unformed mind and leave a message there for him to find one day. No, she must let him be his own person. One day, Kalleen and Wharrd could tell him that his mother had given him up so that he would grow up free. She had to content herself with that.
“Crawen, my lady,” Merkah announced.
Imoshen held out the message. “I want this to reach Windhaven as soon as possible. Deliver it into Kalleen’s own hands.”
The woman took the sealed missive. “Am I to wait for an answer?”
“No. I’m going to my Stronghold. You can escort Kalleen and Wharrd there.”
Crawen smiled. “It will be good to go home.”
Imoshen nodded but there was no smile in her heart.
Imoshen meant to leave early the next morning, but both she and Ashmyr woke during the night hot and fretful. Merkah talked of the spotted-fever which had swept through the children of T’Diemn. Though Imoshen had had it as a child, it appeared she was still susceptible to a milder version. Rather than take her son on a journey when he was ill, Imoshen sat by his cot and bathed him, speaking softly to soothe him and using her gift to cool his body. All day he lay on the bed next to her, safely tucked in the crook of her body. As she tended to his needs she savored every moment, knowing she must soon give him up.
By evening he was cool and sleeping naturally. There was no sign of spots and her own fever had broken.
“Merkah?” Imoshen sat up, careful not to disturb the sleeping baby.
The maid paused as she tiptoed across the room.
“We’ll leave tomorrow. There’s no point in setting off this late in the day.”
The girl nodded and left.
Imoshen tucked a pillow on each side of the baby then slipped into the bathing chamber to wash the weariness from her body.
Rubbing her damp hair dry, she entered the room to find Merkah beside the bed, the baby in her arms.
“He was stirring so I picked him up.”
“Thank you.” As Imoshen stepped forward she noted the glow of color in Merkah’s cheeks. “Are you feverish?” Imoshen touched her forehead. The girl had the same fever. Strange, her mind was closed. Imoshen would not have thought Merkah had the strength of will to resist the T’En gifts. “I will mix you something—”
“No, I will use the herbs my mother used.”
“I am a healer, Merkah, I know which herbs to use.”
But the girl would not be swayed. Imoshen was not surprised. Some healers guarded their knowledge jealously. “Then get some rest and we will see how you are tomorrow.”
Imoshen spent the day pacing impatiently. Now that her mind was made up, every day was an agony of waiting, but yet the longer she delayed the longer she had with her son.
Over the next few days Merkah’s fever worsened. Imoshen could have left without her but she allowed herself the painful indulgence of prolonging this time with Ashmyr. Besides, it would take several days for her message to reach Kalleen and Wharrd, and they would need time to pack and travel to the Stronghold. Imoshen longed to see the home she had been forced to abandon at an hour’s notice last autumn.
It was a week before Merkah was finally well enough to attend to her duties, and Imoshen faced the fact that their leaving could no longer be delayed. She stared down at her sleeping son and her heart ached with love for him. She could not bear to think of giving him up but it was the only way to keep him safe.
Mid morning they set out with two servants and six of her Stronghold Guard who were happy to be returning home. Imoshen had not told them that she intended to leave them there and continue south to meet up with Tulkhan at the Lesser Pass.
They made good time and were soon into the woods. Imoshen smiled as Merkah frantically brushed away an insect which had fallen out of a tree onto her shoulder. Her maid was not a good traveler. It did not matter, Imoshen would be leaving her at the Stronghold as well.
As they traveled through the balmy summer afternoon Imoshen’s heart lifted at the thought of going home. She would see how the Stronghold and the new town had fared through the winter, and show them her son. For the moment she allowed herself to think only that far ahead.
Trying to make the halfway point, the party rode late into the long summer twilight. Finally they came to the burned-out ruins of what had once been a bustling inn. Imoshen was surprised no one had taken up residence. True, there was no roof, and weeds had sprouted in the walls, but it was an ideal spot. Perhaps the people south of T’Diemn did not have the confidence to rebuild until this trouble with the rebels was settled.
Others had camped here before them and cleared out a hearth space, so they lit a fire on the stones and prepared the evening meal. Merkah seemed distracted. Twice Imoshen had to call her to bring something while she changed and fed Ashmyr.
Her companions sat back and ate their meals, talking happily of the Stronghold, their friends, and families. Imoshen noticed Merkah sat alone, watching the darkness fearfully.
“You must not be afraid,” Imoshen told her, growing exasperated with her timidity. “We are a long way from the rebel camps.”
“True,” one of the Stronghold Guard said. “But I have heard tales of Reothe and his people traveling far into the north while the Ghebites are busy building their fortress.”
“There are many tales,” Imoshen said dismissively. And there were. If you believed half of the reported sightings, Reothe would have had to fly from one end of Fair Isle to the other. “Get some sleep. We’ll make an early start tomorrow.”
Imoshen tucked Ashmyr into the crook of her arm and closed her eyes. The thought of losing her son haunted her. She gave up trying to sleep and reviewed her plans. Were they safe from attack?
Imoshen tried to weigh up the chances. To escape notice she had chosen to travel with a small group, and only her palace staff had known she was going. But there had been the delay due to sickness. They would have already been at their destination if first Ashmyr and herself, then Merkah, hadn’t caught the fever. But she couldn’t begrudge those extra days with her son.
Imoshen woke with an odd taste in her mouth. The larger moon was waxing and their campsite amidst the ruins was bathed in its silvery glow. She sniffed. The air had that strange tang which foretold a thunderstorm, yet the stars were clearly visible.
Stiff from the saddle, she struggled to her feet with the baby cradled in her arms. Her head was thick with sleep, only the sensation of something impending drove her to move. “Merkah, wake up. We must take cover.”
Her maid did not stir.
Exasperated, Imoshen searched the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen. No storm. Then what . . . ?
Reothe vaulted onto the ruined stone wall directly opposite her, his silver hair glowing in the moonlight.
Chapter Twenty
“You!” Imoshen hissed. She tried to swallow, tried to warn her companions. “To arms. We are attacked!” But her people did not stir and Reothe’s people did not attack.
He jumped down into the shadows and prowled towards her, moving into the moonlight. Instinctively she covered the baby, pressing him closer to her chest. Fear closed her throat, robbing her of speech.
Frantically she kicked the nearest guard in the back. She grunted but did not wake.
“They are asleep,” Reothe told her, his soft voice hanging on the still night. “And will remain that way until dawn, when they will wake to discover you have run away during the night to join me.”
“No.” It was a breathless denial.
He came to a stop before her and held out his hands. “Give me the baby, Imoshen.”
Her heart sank. Selfish fool. If she had already given Ashmyr into Kalleen’s safekeeping, she would have resisted Reothe with every fiber of her being, but as long as her son was vulnerable she dare not resist. Every contact with Reothe had confirmed that he was the master of his gifts and she the novice. She could not stand against him—better to play along with him and strike when she was sure Ashmyr would not come to harm.
Reothe smiled as she passed the sleeping baby to him. Turning Ashmyr’s face to the light he studied the boy.
Imoshen could hardly think for the rushing of blood in her ears.
“So much black hair . . . but at least he is half ours,” Reothe muttered. “Come, Imoshen.”
He cradled the small baby against his body and held out his other hand.
She was too devastated to move.
“Bring his things and your own,” Reothe ordered. “Do it, or I will walk off with him. I imagine even on his own he is enough to bring the General running—”
“I’m coming.”
“I rather thought you would.”
Numbly she collected their belongings. Reothe carried the baby and she followed him out of the ruins. None of her people stirred. They would assume she had gone of her own free will. Would Tulkhan believe them?
A dozen rebels mounted on wiry mountain ponies waited in the shadows of the trees. She could just make out their sturdy peasant clothes and weaponry.
Imoshen felt a lightening of the atmosphere as she stepped onto the road. As her head cleared she realized she had been betrayed. Someone had told the rebels her plans. With a sickening lurch Imoshen realized Merkah must have slipped them the herb which mimicked the fever, then taken it herself, yet Kalleen had recommended the girl.
Merkah had to be passing information for someone of influence. The Beatific. . . ?
“Wake up, Imoshen, your horse is waiting,” Reothe chided.
She looked up to see him swing into his saddle. Taking the reins in one hand, he cradled the baby in his free arm.
Her empty arms protesting, Imoshen put her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over the pony’s back. She wanted to rail at Reothe, to plead with him to give back the boy, but she was in no position to bargain.
Reothe wheeled his horse. “Ride out. We will follow.”
The rebels rode off and left her with their leader. Imoshen twisted in the saddle, confused. Reothe laughed and pulled a brass cylinder from inside his jerkin. He tossed it onto the grass outside the entrance to the ruin.
“What’s that?”
“An invitation to your Ghebite lover.”
His tone made Imoshen’s skin turn to ice. Reothe was preparing a trap and she and the baby were his bait.
“What did you promise the Beatific in return for betraying me?”
But he gave nothing away. “Ride on, Imoshen.”
She raged against her impotence but as long as Reothe held her son she would obey him.
During that long night Imoshen never left Reothe’s side. She watched as her son slept peacefully in the arms of the man who had sworn to kill his father. A burning anger grew inside her. Not only had she been betrayed but Reothe was using her child as bait.
At first she paid no heed to the direction they rode, thinking only of escape. But then she noticed as the dawn chorus began and the sky lightened that they were headed north, not south. Trust Reothe to lay a false trail for their pursuers. They would be expecting him to return to his hideout amidst the loyal Keld.
Shortly after dawn the baby began to squall. Reothe halted and the others waited, watching.
“He must be fed,” Imoshen said. She had been waiting for this. When Ashmyr was safely in her arms she would create a diversion, anything she could lay her gift on. While they were distracted she would gallop off. She had enough skills now to cloak her passage from all but Reothe, and if he followed her, well . . . she would find a way to kill him. She had to.
Reothe urged his horse closer to hers. “You are ready to feed him?”
She nodded, leaning forward. They were thigh to thigh.
She was eager to take the babe and her breasts ached in anticipation. Suddenly Reothe swung his free arm around her waist, dragging her off her mount. Frightened by the thought of him dropping Ashmyr, Imoshen twisted and clung to him.
She found herself sitting across Reothe’s thighs as he passed the baby to her.
“Forgive me if I do not trust you, Imoshen,” he said above Ashmyr’s screams. “I want you where I can control you.”
Then he laughed at her expression and urged his horse forward.
Reluctantly she undid the laces of her bodice. With the baby feeding hungrily at her breast she had no choice but to remain where she was. Reothe’s arms encircled her. Holding the reins with one hand, he clasped her firmly to him with the other.
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