DARK DREAMS

by Cory Daniells

  In her mind’s eye she still saw Ashmyr falling with his gown flapping uselessly, still heard that terrible small splash echo over and over.

  He could not be dead.

  Where was he? Where should she dive?

  She couldn’t see the boat for the thick mist, but she could hear the splashing, the shouts from the men in the water.

  “Tulkhan!” she cried, probing for him.

  “Here!”

  Two hands surged from the mist holding a small, still form. In the same heartbeat they sank down, hidden by the thick fog.

  “Help! I can’t swim!” Tulkhan called, panic edging his voice.

  She recognized his fear. Her body reacted, heart pounding furiously.

  Dropping to her knees, she searched the swirling mists, identifying the occasional dark shape which might have been any of the Vaygharian’s men struggling to stay afloat.

  “Accept me, Tulkhan. I can swim.”

  She closed her eyes and probed for his mind. There it was, familiar for all that it was filled with cold terror. She slipped into him, felt the baby clutched to his shoulder, their shoulder. The pair of them went under.

  As cold, dark water closed over his head, panic roiled through him. She fought him for control. At last he understood and relaxed enough for her to kick, driving his strong limbs in a thrust that would bring him and Ashmyr to the surface.

  She forced his free hand to form a scoop and drove his arm in an arc which carried him forward, kicking at the same time.

  Now that he could feel the results he let himself go with her, trusting her to save them. It was only possible with his cooperation. She could feel his great heart raging, powered by his determination to live.

  With another stroke his hand brushed the barnacle-encrusted pylon of the wharf. Desperately, he clutched it, trying to keep his head above water. The still baby was wedged safely in the crook of his neck.

  Imoshen detached herself from Tulkhan’s perception and crawled along to meet him. Stretching full length, she hung over the edge of the wharf, feeling through the mist. Her hands encountered Tulkhan’s head, his broad shoulder.

  “Give him to me.”

  Silently Tulkhan passed the baby’s limp form to her. She brought the little body to her chest and rolled away from the edge, huddling in a crouch. In the growing dawn light she saw that the life had left Ashmyr. She probed, but not a flicker remained.

  It could not be.

  She would not let it be!

  In desperation she tore the neckline of her gown and raked the scars of the Ancients. Fiery tendrils of pain raced down her chest, but it was nothing compared to the pain of her loss.

  With all her will she called on the Ancients. Ashmyr was theirs already. She could not begin to understand their purpose, but surely they would not let him die!

  Tulkhan heaved his cold, wet body over the edge of the wharf. Imoshen’s tragic figure riveted his gaze. She knelt, her breasts bared. Parallel rivulets of blood stained her white skin. With her arms extended she held the limp form of their son before her.

  He did not need to be in touch with her mind to share her agony. It was written clearly on her face and it mirrored his own.

  “Imoshen?” Tulkhan would have gone to her but Reodie hissed a warning.

  Startled, he glanced to Reothe. His skin went cold.

  Blood trickled from the Dhamfeer’s nostrils and ears. Even his eyes wept tears of blood. He lay sprawled on the wharf, barely able to lift his head. The rebels had deserted them.

  Reothe lifted a trembling hand. “Help me.”

  Tulkhan found nothing incongruous in this plea. His only son was dead. Nothing mattered.

  He scrambled across the wharf. Sliding an arm under Reothe’s back, Tulkhan lifted the T’En warrior against his chest. Reothe’s hands clutched him in a spasm of pain. A raw groan escaped him.

  Reothe froze. Tulkhan followed his fixed gaze and stiffened as he recognized the same childlike being he’d seen when he had inadvertently spilled blood at an ancient site.

  “The Ancients answer her summons,” Reothe whispered.

  Tulkhan studied the apparition which hovered in the mist above the sea. He could not bear to meet its fathomless eyes as it glided through the fog toward Imoshen.

  “I don’t—”

  “Imoshen called on the Ancients to save Ashmyr,” Reothe explained. “That much is clear even to me.”

  Tulkhan shuddered at Reothe’s tone, equal parts fear and scorn.

  An inner light suffused the Ancient, making Tulkhan squint and his eyes water. As its hands closed on his son’s body he felt a surge of panic. He fought it. The boy was dead, nothing could hurt him now.

  Imoshen’s arms dropped to her sides. Except for the rapid rise and fall of her breasts she was utterly still. Her wine-dark eyes were fixed on the Ancient, her face naked with desperation.

  Hope rose in Tulkhan’s chest. He forced it down. Death could not be denied.

  “Can they save him?” Tulkhan asked despite himself, unable to tear his eyes from the eerie tableau.

  “For a price.”

  The Ancient extended a hand and touched Imoshen’s closed eyelids. She shuddered visibly, took a deep breath, then gave a slight but firm nod.

  Taking the baby in both hands the Ancient lifted Ashmyr’s head and breathed into him. The little body jerked in a painful spasm. A grunt of sympathetic pain escaped Tulkhan but his heart raced as hope surged, closely followed by revulsion. This was not right. No one returned to life from beyond death’s shadow.

  It was too much for Tulkhan to grasp. He strained to see through the radiant glare which consumed Imoshen, the Ancient, and his son.

  Was it possible? Would the baby’s life be returned? Would the child be whole? Surely he must be tainted? Tulkhan wanted to ask Reothe for reassurance. Only by an effort of will did he hold his tongue, straining for the slightest sound.

  A vibrating cry broke from the baby. Imoshen gasped, her hands lifting, pleading.

  The Ancient held the baby in one arm and floated closer to Imoshen. It leant towards her until its forehead touched hers. They might have kissed. For an instant they stayed thus, then the Ancient transferred Ashmyr to Imoshen’s hands and retreated.

  She swayed, steadying herself with difficulty, the baby pressed to her body.

  “What did it do?” Tulkhan whispered.

  “I can’t tell, I am as blind as you.”

  “Reothe?” He studied what he could see of the T’En’s face. His eyes were not blank like a blind man’s. Surely he did not mean his T’En gifts had been destroyed? “What happened to you?”

  Reothe grimaced, raw pain and despair passing across his features. “Look!”

  Imoshen now held the baby, a living, breathing child. As Tulkhan watched, the glow which had illuminated her and the Ancient faded and with it the apparition, until only Imoshen and Ashmyr remained.

  She sank to her knees. Oblivious to them, she stripped the wet gown from the baby, lifting him to her breast for food and comfort.

  A sliver of silver dawn light illuminated the horizon behind the town, bringing the first hint of natural color to their surroundings. Tulkhan shifted Reothe a little to ease his tense muscles. He felt the other give an involuntary shudder of pain.

  Behind him he could hear voices, and guessed the rebels had drifted back and would soon find them. Quick as the thought, he slipped the knife from Reothe’s waist and held it to the rebel leader’s throat.

  A painful laugh escaped Reothe. It scraped across Tulkhan’s raw senses like salt on an open wound. But he would not falter. The T’En warrior was his bargaining tool. Tulkhan had the rebel leader where he had always wanted him—helpless. Why then did he feel no rush of victory?

  “Imoshen?”

  Imoshen looked up, startled to hear her name. She felt like a sword’s blade forged beyond recognition by the fires of pain.

  Dawn’s subtle light revealed the two people dearest to her.

&nbs
p; “Ashmyr lives.” She stroked the soft dark head at her breast, joy and wonder suffusing her.

  “But at what price?” Reothe whispered.

  His question was an unwelcome intrusion. She glanced his way, noticing for the first time how he lay limply in Tulkhan’s arms. The way the General’s blade was pressed into Reothe’s throat made her flinch. Cradling the baby she crept over to them.

  Already Tulkhan’s long, dark hair was drying in the breeze which carried the mist away. He held the knife so tightly his knuckles were white.

  But it was Reothe who made her gasp. Blood had dried in painful paths where it had trickled from his nose and ears. It looked as if he had wept tears of blood.

  Her heart turned over with outrage. “Who did this to you?”

  His eyes closed and he gave a wordless almost imperceptible shake of his head. A rueful smile touched his lips.

  When he opened his eyes the knowledge was there for her to read.

  “No, impossible!” she cried. “I would not, could not, hurt you!”

  Tulkhan muttered something in Gheeaban. She glanced to him and registered his pain, but there was nothing she could do.

  It was a terrible burden to feel for them both.

  Silently she offered Tulkhan her apology. He looked away, unable to accept it. Her heart faltered.

  Dragging in a tight breath, Imoshen returned her attention to Reothe. Blood-tinged tears slid from under his closed lids.

  “Are you in pain?” Imoshen touched his temple, anxious to ease his discomfort, and felt a blankness.

  Tulkhan shifted, stretching his cramped muscles. “He says he is blind. His T’En gifts are gone.”

  Instinctively Imoshen spread her fingers over Reothe’s face. She probed. His body stiffened, a guttural groan escaped him. It tore at her. Sweat broke out on her skin, making it grow chill in the dawn breeze as she searched.

  “I can’t find you.” She could not believe the essence she had felt so acutely was dulled to a point where she could not perceive it. Gone forever? “I can’t—”

  “He said your gifts are greater than his,” Tulkhan told her softly, almost sympathetically. “That they always have been.”

  “But—”

  “You did this to him,” Tulkhan continued, almost cruelly. “Had you but tried, you could have withstood Reothe at any time!”

  Imoshen’s gaze shifted from Tulkhan’s remote, obsidian eyes to Reothe’s pain-ravaged face.

  “All bluff, Imoshen,” Reothe whispered. He held her eyes silently, asking forgiveness. “A great gamble and I almost won.”

  His smile wrenched at her.

  “Stay back!” Tulkhan barked suddenly.

  Imoshen turned to see the rebels approaching, followed by a stream of townsfolk. The baby at her breast gave a soft whimper. She soothed him automatically and came to her feet to face Reothe’s rebels. As they edged forward, weapons drawn, the townsfolk hung back behind them, torn between fear and curiosity.

  Imoshen studied the wharf and the bay, now visible through a thin film of retreating mist. The Vaygharians in the water had slunk off like rats.

  “There will be no more fighting.” Imoshen met the eyes of the rebels. “Sling a sail between two poles to make a stretcher. T’Reothe is hurt. I want him carried to the Citadel.”

  As the rising sun chased the last of the mists away Imoshen watched the rebels work. Tulkhan sheathed the knife and released Reothe, placing him gently on the deck. The Ghebite General did not approach her when he stood. It was a painful omission.

  The rebels seemed subdued, concerned for their injured leader, and obviously unsure of their own status as prisoners.

  The creaking of a boat’s oars made Imoshen turn.

  “Wharrd comes,” Tulkhan announced, then added grimly. “I must have the Vaygharian ship’s captain captured before he can carry a message back to my half-brother.”

  He strode past her to the end of the wharf.

  Tulkhan did not trust himself near Imoshen. This night he had seen into the dark depths of his soul and he did not like what he had learned. It was as the Beatific had said. A True-man forfeited much if he loved one of the T’En. Logic told him to climb into Wharrd’s small boat and leave Fair Isle while he still owned his soul, but that would mean deserting his son, his only heir. Common sense told him his son was dead, that this creature Imoshen cradled was a changeling, but he could not bring himself to leave.

  A spear of insight stabbed Tulkhan. Would his son grow into a being like Imoshen? Would the adult Ashmyr look upon Tulkhan with garnet eyes and scorn him as a Mere-man?

  No wonder the T’En had been cast out of their home beyond the dawn sun. How could True-people live with the knowledge that Tulkhan was now privy to?

  Wharrd lifted an arm and waved.

  Tulkhan returned the signal automatically.

  “Don’t leave me, General,” Imoshen whispered, suddenly at his side.

  He snorted. “I have no intention of relinquishing what I have taken. And do me the courtesy of keeping out of my head, T’En.”

  She gasped softly. “I was not ... I did not mean to. I need you, General Tulkhan.”

  “Oh?” He felt like laughing. What could Imoshen possibly need from a Mere-man like himself? “You have my son, you have Fair Isle, and now you have your betrothed, suitably chastised. What could you possibly want with me?”

  He looked down into her face, illuminated by the soft morning light. She looked tired, fragile, and vulnerable. He knew his words had hurt her. The irony of it was that in hurting her, he had hurt himself, because despite everything he still loved her.

  Against his better judgment he cupped her cheek, feeling the softness of her skin on his calloused palm. Wisps of her pale hair lifted in the breeze.

  She turned her face into his palm and kissed him. It was the gentle gesture of a supplicant, but her eyes were as sharp as ever.

  “I need you to rule Fair Isle, General Tulkhan. The people are afraid of the T’En. I need someone they trust to represent their interests.”

  He almost choked. “So I am to be your tool, your puppet king? Truly, I am honored.”

  “Don’t!” It was a plea from her heart.

  “Think what you ask, Imoshen. I won’t be your tool, I could not live with myself.”

  “I know,” She slid closer to him, pressing against his side. He had to acknowledge how much he craved her touch. “I don’t want a public life. You are a good man, a true man. You have earned Fair Isle, General Tulkhan. Keep it. I know you will rule wisely. And—”

  “Kill him!” The words were out before he knew he meant to say them. “Have Reothe executed.”

  He felt her stiffen as the boat with his supporters bobbed nearer.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He is the last of my kind. I can no more kill him than you could order your half-brother’s death. Remember what you said to me when I advised you to kill him?” Sorrow made her eyes luminously intense. “You said if you could kill that easily, I would be dead. Now I give you the same answer. There have been moments when I could have taken another path, one that would have led to your death, but I did not. Don’t ask me to kill Reothe.”

  “Then banish him.”

  “I need Reothe. He has knowledge of the T’En which I must have for my own peace of mind. And for the time being he is harmless.”

  Tulkhan laughed bitterly. “We should stone him now while we can!”

  He looked into her eyes, seeing the knowledge there. They both knew that, with Imoshen untutored in her T’En legacy, if Reothe should regain his gifts he would be too powerful and cunning to contain. She did not attempt to deny this but offered Tulkhan a rueful smile.

  “Reothe is the last of my kin.”

  “And the father of your child?” It cost Tulkhan to ask it.

  She nodded, searching his face. He waited for an explanation, a plea for forgiveness, but she said nothing.

  “Imoshen
, tell me he took you against your will. Offer me cold comfort.”

  A rope snaked up through the air towards them. Tulkhan caught it on reflex and made it fast. As he straightened he met Imoshen’s gaze. A charged silence hung between them. Then Wharrd and the Ghebites clambered up onto the wharf, demanding an explanation, and the moment was lost.

  Imoshen stepped back as Tulkhan moved forward to lift Kalleen onto the wharf. In a few moments he was surrounded by his own people. They greeted him exuberantly, knowing only that the rebel leader lay strapped to a litter unable to move, while their General stood with Imoshen at his side, apparently victorious.

  The irony of it was bitter. Yet he could not help but smile and accept their heartfelt congratulations. They had feared for his life. They had stood by him when all was lost and he had worked a miracle. He was their legendary General Tulkhan, a man capable of pulling victory from the jaws of defeat. Fair Isle was his and they shared a golden future.

  Not one of them knew he was bound by chains of love to a creature more dangerous than his worst nightmare. He met Imoshen’s eyes above their heads and saw only her Otherness. Her expression reminded him of Reothe.

  In that moment Tulkhan realized they were all her tools.

  Imoshen slipped away from the celebrating Ghebites. Their hearty joy grated on her raw emotions. But Kalleen darted after her, hugging her, a thousand questions on her lips. When she attempted to take the sleeping baby, Imoshen would not part with him.

  Ashmyr was more precious to her than life itself.

  Returning her friend’s hug Imoshen felt the rush of new life illuminating Kalleen and smiled, though the sudden expansion of her T’En gifts startled her.

  Kalleen wrinkled her nose as she studied Imoshen. “What is it, Imoshen? You look . . . different.”

  Tears stung Imoshen’s eyes. Kalleen grasped her arm impulsively, offering comfort.

  Imoshen blinked the tears away and shook her head, dredging up a smile of reassurance. “I need you to go to the Citadel. Have chambers prepared and food laid out. Tell them the General has triumphed and is reconciled with the T’En. The rebels must not panic. There will be no retaliation, no executions.”