Dark Dreams (18 page)

Jacolm swore. ‘The Princess.’

‘Who did you think it was?’ Tulkhan hauled Sahorrd to his feet. The man rubbed his head, avoiding Imoshen’s eyes as she handed him his weapon.

‘Much good it would have done you, if I’d been who you thought I was,’ she told him. ‘Let’s get out of here. But first I must seal the catacombs.’

Jacolm stepped between her and the open passage. ‘Harholfe’s still down there, General.’

Anger flashed through Tulkhan. ‘You left him down there?’

‘He was right behind me!’ Jacolm bristled.

‘Harholfe had the battleaxe,’ Sahorrd said. ‘He used it to prise the lid off the coffin.’

Imoshen gasped. She made the sign to ward off evil, raising her left hand to her eyes then over her head. ‘May their eyes pass over me, over all of us.’

‘Your long-dead T’En warriors?’ Tulkhan asked. ‘The Para –’

She hissed, cutting him short.

Tulkhan looked to her for an explanation.

‘Names have power.’ Imoshen’s voice thrummed with emotion. ‘We invoke them by name to serve us.’

‘But what of Harholfe?’ Jacolm insisted.

‘We go after him,’ Tulkhan said. ‘You two stay here, cover our retreat.’

He caught Imoshen’s eye. She wiped the back of her hand on her mouth, then moved into the narrow stairwell. He stepped down after her, aware that Jacolm and Sahorrd were following despite his orders. He was not surprised. No matter how deep their terror they would not abandon their brother-at-arms. To display cowardice meant disgrace.

At the base of the stair Imoshen waited, holding the candles high to illuminate a long barrel-vaulted catacomb. Heavy stone coffins lay in wall niches.

Silently Imoshen pointed upward. Above them were life-size paintings of the legendary Paragian Guard in full armour. The inlaid gold and silver flickered in the candlelight.

There was no sign of Harholfe.

‘This way, General.’ Only the gleam of Sahorrd’s fearful eyes betrayed his dread as he led them to the right. Their combined light illuminated a waist-high stone coffin resting under a High T’En inscription.

‘Imoshen?’ Tulkhan indicated the words.

She raised the candles and translated. ‘Here lies the Aayel. First of the Last.’

‘What does it mean?’ Tulkhan asked.

‘It is the sarcophagus of Imoshen the First’s own son, Aayel, First Emperor of Fair Isle. After he abdicated in favour of his half T’En daughter, Abularassa, he served the church and the people of Fair Isle. The title
the Aayel
was created to honour him. He was the first to serve in this capacity and the last surviving pure T’En male to be born in the old country. Only children, those born on the long journey and those too young to remember, were left.’ She touched her forehead, signalling the T’En obeisance to the first Aayel. ‘This is almost worth the –’

‘But where is Harholfe?’ Jacolm took two impatient paces past them, then stopped. Holding his candle high, he looked back. ‘Come on.’

Imoshen ignored him, studying the lid of the sarcophagus instead. Tulkhan joined her. The lid was decorated with a raised stone carving of an aged T’En male. He was richly dressed in clothes of state and carried no weapons. The individual hairs of his plaited beard had been intricately delineated first in stone, then silver thread.

‘For Akha Khan’s sake, can we move?’ Sahorrd urged. ‘The coffin is just around the corner.’

‘The one you were foolish enough to open?’ Imoshen snapped.

He did not meet her eyes.

‘You desecrate my heritage,’ she told him. ‘These are the T’En of legend and you –’

‘Imoshen!’ Tulkhan barked. ‘We must find Harholfe and get out of here.’

As he strode past Jacolm, he sensed the man’s terror and knew he was not far from violence. Tulkhan’s small pool of candlelight moved forward with him and soon he identified another stone sarcophagus. The heavy lid was off, tilted against the side.

‘So small,’ Imoshen whispered.

‘It contains a child,’ Sahorrd explained as they came abreast of it. ‘The carving on the lid was inlaid with precious metal and jewels. That’s why we –’

Imoshen’s whimper cut him short. She swayed as if she might faint. Tulkhan steadied her only to find her skin was ice cold and her body felt stiff.

He peered into the opened coffin expecting a skeleton. Instead he saw a perfectly preserved ten-year-old child. She was richly dressed in red velvet embroidered with gold thread. Jewels were sewn into the broad yoke collar that lay across her shoulders. Her eyes were closed and he could see the individual lashes, the soft curve of her top lip. A single ruby lay on her forehead.

‘Why didn’t you plunder this one?’ Tulkhan asked.

Sahorrd and Jacolm stared down at the child, their weapons forgotten. Then Sahorrd looked up like a startled deer transfixed by a spear.

‘I don’t understand.’ Panic edged his voice. ‘The ruby...’

Tulkhan felt a sense of time slowing down so that he could hear his own heart beating in his ears, echoing hollowly in his head, drowning all sense of urgency.

‘Imoshen?’ He had to force himself to speak.

She did not blink.

Tulkhan felt his skin crawl. ‘Imoshen?’

She looked over her shoulder at him, wine-dark eyes awash with tears. ‘My daughter...’

‘You have no daughter. Who is this, Imoshen?’

She left his side, walking around the stone coffin to read the inscription on the lid which rested against the sarcophagus.

‘Here lies Ysanna. Killed by rebels.’ Imoshen touched the date. ‘She was six years old. I’ve never heard of her.’

Tulkhan looked into the coffin again and felt himself falling away. He forced his tongue to work. ‘What T’En sorcery is this and where is Harholfe?’

‘He claimed the big ruby,’ Sahorrd said.

‘But he’s put it back for some reason,’ Jacolm muttered. His hand darted forward to take the precious stone.

‘No!’ Suddenly Imoshen’s fingers were between his and the jewel, holding it in place on the child’s forehead. She glared at him, her features austere, her eyes flickering red in the candlelight.

‘Curse your witchy eyes, woman!’ Jacolm spat, his sword tip lifting.

‘Enough,’ Tulkhan snapped. ‘Where is Harholfe?’

They looked around but there was no sign of him, only empty stone walls.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Tulkhan ordered.

‘They came for us when he took the ruby.’ Sahorrd shuddered. ‘Three Dhamfeer dressed in armour appeared from the shadows. The priests say a True-man should turn his eyes from the black arts and now I know why. These beings made the blood run cold in my veins. I’ve never known such terror...’ He looked down in shame, then met their eyes resolutely. ‘I fled.’

‘We ran for the stairs.’ Jacolm indicated back the way they had come. ‘I swear Harholfe was right behind me.’

‘Then where is he?’ Tulkhan turned to Imoshen only to discover she was standing absolutely still, the big ruby pressed to the centre of her forehead between her closed lids. She opened her eyes and replaced the ruby. When she met his gaze, her garnet eyes were cold and contemptuous.

‘I thought you didn’t want the grave desecrated?’

She stared at him in silence.

Tulkhan fought a surge of fear. ‘Where is my man, Harholfe?’

Closing her eyes, Imoshen lifted her left hand. Her splayed fingers seemed to feel the air.

‘What is left of him is just beyond the next coffin, propped up against the wall.’ Her voice was rich and strangely intimate.

Jacolm cursed. He darted away, candle held high, weapon drawn. They followed him.

‘Nothing. I see nothing but his battleaxe.’ Jacolm spun around, gesturing to the dressed stone walls and floor, which were bare except for the discarded weapon. ‘Here is the stone coffin, but where – ?’

‘Where is the body, Imoshen?’ Tulkhan went to catch her arm, but before he could touch her, he felt a sharp, stinging blow. The flesh under his nails throbbed. He cursed with pain.

Imoshen pointed to a blank wall, lifting her candles high. ‘There.’

The reflection of the flickering flames glistened on the stone’s slick surface, glistened and coalesced into the outline of a man’s body.

Sahorrd’s indrawn breath sounded loud in the silence. ‘It is his shadow. I mean...’ But he had no words for what he saw.

Like oil dropped into water, the outline of a man appeared on the wall’s stone. Tulkhan could see Harholfe’s expression of frozen terror. He felt cold to the marrow. As a general he had seen men die in many ways – in battle, in agony, raving with fever, even too weary to care. But he had never seen a man die of fear, leaving his last moment of terror imprinted on stone.

‘Where is Harholfe’s body?’ Jacolm turned on Imoshen, sword raised. ‘His weapon lies at his feet unbloodied.’

‘Of course. Steel cannot kill those who are already dead.’ Imoshen held his eyes until he lowered his blade. ‘Your companion broke the ward protecting the grave. His soul was forfeit.’

‘Don’t play your riddles on me, Dhamfeer bitch!’ Jacolm’s voice vibrated with terrified fury. ‘Where is Harholfe?’

Imoshen’s eyes closed. Tulkhan felt the overflow of her gift and took a step back, his fingertips still throbbing. Sahorrd and Jacolm made the Ghebite sign to ward off evil.

When Imoshen opened her eyes they glowed with an inner radiance. ‘The Parakletos are escorting him through death’s shadow into death’s own realm.’

‘I thought you said...’ Tulkhan stopped. It struck him as odd that Imoshen no longer evinced any fear and seemed at ease with her T’En gifts. Her expression was calm and she looked at him as though he were a stranger. His skin crawled with understanding. Some long-dead T’En being was animating Imoshen.

‘I think it is time to go. Sahorrd, Jacolm?’ Tulkhan used the battlefield gesture to signal retreat. They moved to stand behind him, never turning their backs on Imoshen as they edged away.

‘We can’t leave,’ Jacolm protested. ‘Harholfe has not been properly buried.’

Imoshen stabbed a finger at him. ‘You and your two friends trespassed on a sacred place and desecrated an innocent’s grave. Harholfe has paid, so it is finished, but first the stone must be replaced.’

She walked past them, unconcerned by their weapons. To Tulkhan she did not seem vulnerable, despite her bare feet and the thin nightgown which brushed her slender ankles.

He bent to retrieve the undamaged battleaxe. As he stood, stone grated on stone. He heard his men’s surprised intake of breath and turned to see Imoshen straighten, pivoting the stone slab into place.

The abandoned candlestick behind the coffin illuminated her as she leaned over the stone statue to kiss the child’s cold lips, whispering something in High T’En. She replaced the sarcophagus’s lid and dusted off her hands. He glanced at the stone lid. It had taken three men to move it. She did not have the strength to move that slab.

Imoshen bent to retrieve the light.

The moment stretched. She did not rise.

Dread made Tulkhan’s movements stiff as he walked around the sarcophagus to find Imoshen sitting on the ground looking dazed. ‘General?’

Relief flooded him. He helped her to stand. Her skin was warm and soft.

‘Come,’ he said.

‘What of your man?’

‘Dead.’

She accepted this. In silence, except for the scuff of the Ghebite boots on stone, they hurried towards the first Aayel’s sarcophagus. Jacolm and Sahorrd turned the corner, taking their light with them.

Imoshen stopped and flicked free of his grasp to stroke the Aayel’s tomb.

‘What?’ Tulkhan asked.

Imoshen looked around the catacomb with awe and wonder. ‘My feet walk on history’s path. Sardonyx used to come down here and lie on the stone slab meant for his body.’

‘We must go.’

‘They said it drove him mad.’

Tulkhan took her hand even though it made all the hairs on his arm rise in protest. ‘Come.’

‘His own kinswomen condemned him to death.’

Tulkhan tugged on her arm. ‘The others are waiting.’

‘My heritage is one of tragedy.’

‘Not now, Imoshen!’ Tulkhan hurried her towards the steps under the cold long-dead eyes of T’En warriors.

As they stepped out into the gallery, Imoshen shuddered. ‘Close the passage, seal the catacombs. No one must go down there.’

‘How do we close the passage?’ Tulkhan asked.

‘The shoe.’ Imoshen pointed to an old shoe wedged in the door frame. ‘Long ago a boy used it to hold the door open.’

‘What boy?’ Tulkhan asked.

‘Some lost boy. I don’t know any more.’

Tulkhan sheathed his sword and worked the shoe loose. It came free with a tug and the panel slid into place, grating stone on dust. It did not close completely, however, remaining about a finger’s breadth open.

He grunted. ‘That will have to do. Let’s get out of here.’

Jacolm and Sahorrd were already moving but Imoshen pressed both hands on the stone trying to force the door.

‘Leave it be, Imoshen,’ Tulkhan urged. ‘We’ll seal the secret passage from above.’

Regret and fear mingled on her face.

‘What happened down there? Do you remember finding the child?’

Her eyes widened and she looked away, saying, ‘I’m not sure it is safe to leave the door like that.’

‘I’m not sure of anything. Not since I...’ He had been about to say,
not since I met you
. ‘Since I came to Fair Isle I doubt everything.’

Her sharp eyes sought his.

‘General?’ Jacolm called from the base of the stair.

‘We’ll seal the entrance at the portrait gallery. That will have to do,’ Tulkhan decided.

‘What about Harholfe’s body?’

Tulkhan realised she did not remember. ‘Harholfe has paid for his folly. There was no body.’ He wondered how he would explain Harholfe’s disappearance to his men. ‘Come.’

They hurried after the others and stepped through the shattered wainscoting into the portrait gallery. Grimly, Jacolm and Sahorrd sheathed their weapons. Tulkhan knew by tomorrow night they would be boasting of this in their cups, denying their terror.

So much had happened since he had entered that secret passage Tulkhan felt as though it must be nearly dawn.

Imoshen inspected the damage done by the battle-axe. ‘I will have the master-builder provide a stonemason. This will be sealed securely and the wainscoting replaced.’ She turned to Jacolm and Sahorrd. ‘You see, there was nothing down there but storerooms and rat holes.’