Dark Dreams (2 page)

He prowled around her. ‘How casually you insult my honour.’

‘All I ask is to be able to defend myself.’ She kept her tone reasonable. ‘Where is the dishonour in that?’

‘Truly, you do not see. In Gheeaba a man is expected to defend his wife. His honour rests on –’

A surprised laugh escaped Imoshen. She caught herself, aware of the slow burn of his anger. ‘I mean no insult, General. But I fail to see how you could protect me unless I never left your side, and even then, wouldn’t you rather have me at your back with a weapon in my hand than clinging to you and encumbering your sword arm?’

Her question drew a reluctant grin from him and she smiled in return. She was not his wife yet, and she never would be. Bond-partners of Fair Isle stood shoulder to shoulder.

Tulkhan lifted his hands. ‘In Gheeaba my wife would be safe within the walls of my estate. You would be escorted to events of importance, protected by the elite guard of my house-line. You would never set foot outside alone, you –’

‘How boring. How could anyone live like that?’

Tulkhan grimaced. ‘You wilfully misunderstand me, Imoshen.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are a trial!’ His hands flexed as if he would like to use them on her.

Imoshen’s heart rate rose another notch. ‘All I ask is to learn to use the Ghebite sword.’

He glanced up at the balcony where she had been watching. ‘So that is your excuse for spying?’

‘Spying? If you call watching your men wield those ploughshares spying, then yes, I was spying.’ She saw a flash of amusement in his obsidian eyes. Sweat glistened on his coppery skin.

‘For a woman to touch a man’s weapon is death in Gheeaba, Imoshen.’

She stiffened. ‘This is not Gheeaba. And I will not be limited, by your... by Ghebite attitudes. Teach me.’

Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Very well, I will enjoy teaching you your place.’

He turned and walked to the courtyard door, calling to someone in the passage beyond. Satisfied, he returned his attention to her. ‘My servant is bringing you a ploughshare.’

Imoshen inclined her head, aware that she might have overreached herself this time. Her skills with the T’En sword were basic. The Ghebite weapon was much heavier and used in a different manner. Being a throwback to the T’En race which had settled Fair Isle, she was taller than an average True-man, but Tulkhan stood half a head taller again, and even a T’En female did not have the muscle bulk of a male.

Imoshen knew she had no chance of beating the General, but then she had no intention of besting him at swordsmanship. Her goal was to create a bridge between them. If he taught her to use the Ghebite sword, he would be one step closer to accepting her as his equal.

The courtyard door opened and a nervous servant handed Tulkhan a second sword. The General dismissed the youth and weighed both weapons in his hands, observing their blades.

‘I suppose you would rather fight with a toothpick and a knitting needle?’ he challenged. ‘Catch.’

Instinctively she caught the sword by the hilt, gauging its weight and unfamiliar balance. At that moment she wished for a sharp short dagger and a tapered sword such as she had been training with. The T’En blade would have given her the advantage of speed and length of reach against the Ghebite sword’s greater weight. Already she felt clumsy, and guessed that before long her wrist would be aching.

If she were using T’En weapons and this were a fight to the death, her only chance would be to strike fast before Tulkhan could use the advantage of his heavier blade and greater strength.

Like all pure T’En, Imoshen was left-handed. She turned her body side-on to the General to present as small a target as possible. Tulkhan took up the same stance. As he was right-handed, the two of them faced the same side of the courtyard, instead of opposite sides. It might unsettle the General, but only for a moment.

‘At least the T’En way offers precision and style instead of brute strength,’ she said.

‘You’re holding it all wrong.’

‘Show me.’

When he stepped around behind her, she felt the heat radiating from his skin. His hand closed over hers and she forced her arm to relax, letting him lower the sword.

‘Not high like that. Hold the sword more naturally.’

Imoshen swallowed, wondering how he could not be aware of her body’s reaction. She ached for him. As he resumed his place opposite, she met his eyes and knew he felt it too.

She cleared her throat. ‘In my lessons I was taught to use my wrist to deflect the attacker’s sword. But after watching your men at practice I see the Ghebite style is more –’

‘Crude?’ he suggested with a hint of anger.

‘I was going to say you appear to bring the whole weight of your body behind the blade, slashing as opposed to lunging.’

‘Hmm.’ Tulkhan’s black eyes studied her. ‘If you were a youth with those scrawny arms, I’d advise you to use a two-handed grip. These are hand-and-a-half grips, designed for two-handed fighting if necessary.’

Imoshen bristled. ‘I am stronger than I look.’

‘Really? Defend yourself.’

He struck, telegraphing his intention but not restraining his speed or force. Imoshen barely had time to bring her weapon up. She took the impact of his strike on her blade, ready to deflect it with a twist of her wrist. But the force jarred her arm right up to the shoulder, numbing her fingers. Only by an effort of will did she maintain her grip on the weapon and divert the blow.

‘Wrong technique, Imoshen.’ Tulkhan’s white teeth flashed against his coppery skin. ‘These are not T’En weapons.’

She darted forward, aiming for his throat, knowing that he would deflect her strike. With a laugh, he caught her blade, using the force of his swing to throw her off balance. She danced out of range, recovering in an instant.

‘You are as light as a cat on your feet. It’s a shame you’re a female. You’d make a fine swordsman. If only you had the strength in your arms and shoulders. Try the two-handed grip.’

‘Wouldn’t that limit my range of movement?’

‘Always an answer. Pity your tongue isn’t a sword.’ He advanced. ‘Defend yourself. This time divert my weapon past your body. ’

He struck, she diverted. The shock of it ran up her arms to her left shoulder. He struck again on the other side and she understood why she should hold the sword two-handed. But there was no time to change grips.

Backing away with each strike, Imoshen barely maintained her guard. She suspected he was playing with her, and her suspicions were confirmed when he struck, skidding up over her weapon in such a way that she knew his energy hadn’t been directed into the first strike. His sword passed inside her guard, striking her ribs under her left breast with the flat of the blade. The blow knocked the air from her lungs.

‘That was a death blow,’ he told her. ‘Had enough?’

Each breath seared. She gritted her teeth. ‘Teach me that trick.’

‘It isn’t trickery. It takes years of practice.’ He punctuated his phrases with strikes, the blows coming faster and faster. ‘Maybe one day I will show you the battle sword I inherited from my grandfather. Now there’s a beautiful weapon!’

The force of his blows jarred her sword arm, numbing her fingers. It was all she could do to block his attacks.

Imoshen knew she did not have the strength in her upper body to counter his. She barely had the skill to defend herself. Backing across the slippery stones she realised it was only a matter of time before her boots sank into the heaped snow and she lost the ability to manoeuvre.

Each screech of the blades echoed around the courtyard, pounding in her head until she could hear nothing but the reverberating ring of steel on steel.

‘I don’t expect to become an expert overnight, General.’ She grunted with the effort it took to hold him off. ‘You said yourself I am light on my feet and willing to learn.’

‘Why bother? By spring you’ll be heavy with child!’ He was barely sweating. ‘That is why men fight and women don’t. Only in Fair Isle is the natural balance disrupted.’

Anger flooded Imoshen. ‘I won’t be heavy with child forever!’

A familiar taste settled on her tongue, warning her that her T’En gift threatened to surface, but she refused to call on her powers to cloud his mind or distract his aim. To use her abilities against the General now would negate everything she had achieved.

Absorbed in her inner battle, Imoshen gave ground, and her heel sank into the snow. Her guard wavered. The General struck. She blocked.

The force of his blow tore the hilt from her useless fingers, sending her weapon spinning across the courtyard to clatter against the stone wall and drop blade-first into a snowdrift.

Silence filled the palace’s inner courtyard.

Tulkhan smiled.

It pleased him to have Imoshen at his mercy. Two spots of colour flamed on her pale cheeks. Damp with sweat, her thin undershirt clung to her breasts as she struggled to regain her breath. He was reminded of the first time he’d seen her, restrained by five of his elite guard but far from beaten. She had been injured defending the treasures of a library of knowledge, crimson blood trickling down her white throat over her high breasts.

He had wanted her then and he wanted her now.

She glared at him. Her distinctive T’En scent, at once so familiar yet alien, drew him. It tempted him to forget all reason.

He needed to make her admit that she wanted him too. At the same time he despised himself and despised his hunger for her. How could he desire her, when she was the antithesis of Ghebite womanhood? There she stood, defiantly tall and strong-limbed, refusing to admit his mastery.

Unlike Ghebite women, Imoshen used no feminine wiles to arouse and entice him. Instead of diminutive womanly curves, delicate coppery skin and deferential dark eyes, he faced those accursed T’En eyes. Rich as ruby wine held to a candle flame, they blazed with keen intelligence. According to legend, the T’En could look into a man’s soul.

He had grown up hearing tales of this legendary race and their ability to enslave True-people. But in Imoshen he had found a much more dangerous enemy – a living, breathing woman whose fierce pride and passion called to him against his better judgment.

His body urged him to ignore the stricture that forbade physical contact before their formal union. His blood was up. He saw the comprehension in her eyes. A flush of anticipation raced across the pearly skin of her throat, and he felt his own body respond. By the gods, he was but a breath away from taking her here in the snow. And who would know? Who would dare raise voice against him if he did?

Imoshen straightened. Dropping the defensive stance, she inclined her head, acknowledging him the victor. A ragged cheer echoed across the courtyard, startling Tulkhan. He spun to see a dozen of his men standing under the arch on the far balcony.

He grinned reluctantly and marvelled that they did not demand Imoshen be punished for daring to raise a weapon against him. Then he returned his attention to her. She had fought as well as any untrained man, and she had fought in the knowledge that she was outclassed.

He raised the sword point to her throat and she lifted her chin to avoid the blade.

‘The Ghebite sword is not meant for a woman’s hand. Kneel and concede me the victor,’ he ordered in a voice meant to carry, then added more softly, ‘Kneel, Imoshen. Do not insult me before my men.’

‘And you do not insult me?’ Her voice was breathy with anguish and exertion.

He frowned, surprised that she would see it this way.

As he watched, the feral light of battle faded from her eyes. She swallowed. He saw her wince and recalled the blow he had delivered to her ribs. He knew her every breath must hurt, yet she did not complain. Unlike Ghebite noblewomen she made light of being pregnant and did not hesitate to ride or work as hard as any man.

‘You fight well,’ he said, recalling another time when she had stood at his side and faced death. Curse his weak-willed half-brother, Gharavan. Curse the Vaygharian’s poisoned tongue for planting the seeds of betrayal in Gharavan’s mind. The youth had been King only one summer when he let his adviser’s words of treachery override Tulkhan’s years of service.

Tulkhan would have served his half-brother as loyally as he had served their father, but he had not been given the chance. Gharavan had had Tulkhan and Imoshen arrested on false charges of treason and thrown into her own stronghold’s dungeon. Only her handmaid’s bravery and Imoshen’s T’En trickery had saved them. ‘You were not outclassed when you faced the Vaygharian’s sword.’

‘That night I fought for my life against an enemy I despised. Besides, the Vaygharian did not seek to kill me; his aim was to escape.’ Imoshen’s gaze flickered past Tulkhan to their audience on the balcony. When she spoke, her voice was low and intense. ‘General, why won’t you trust me?’

A bitter laugh escaped him. Trust a T’En, one of the dreaded Dhamfeer, as they were known in his own language? It went against everything he had ever been taught. ‘Kneel and acknowledge me the victor.’

She hesitated.

Shouting down from the balcony, one of the Ghebites advised the General what to do with this recalcitrant female. Even though he spoke Gheeaban, his meaning was clear enough to make Imoshen’s nostrils flare with fury.

Tulkhan smiled ruefully. He had been a heartbeat away from acting on just that advice.

Imoshen’s eyes darkened to mulberry black, glittering dangerously as she dropped to one knee and slowly bent her head. The men cheered loudly. But when she raised her head, her eyes held defiance and a jolt of understanding hit Tulkhan. She might be on her knee to him, but in her heart she would never yield.

His mouth went dry. Her attitude goaded him. He wanted to lose himself in a battle for mastery. Only when she was in his arms, under him, could he appease his passion for her. But, if he guessed correctly, every touch, every look weakened his resolve against her, laying his mind open to her T’En powers.

Bed her? Yes. Trust her? Never!

‘I yield to you, General,’ she said, but her expression made a mockery of her words.

Tulkhan grimaced. Just as Imoshen had been forced to surrender her stronghold to him, he vowed she would ultimately admit him the master. Then Fair Isle and all it contained would be his.