Dark Dreams (7 page)

‘What is wrong with Jacolm?’ Imoshen asked, changing the subject.

Before Tulkhan could stop her she hurried down the long table and ordered Jacolm to his feet. The man stood resentfully, favouring his right side. His thick eyebrows pulled together as Imoshen told him to open his shirt.

The room fell silent. Tulkhan tensed. Jacolm’s hasty temper was renowned in the ranks. Yet he stood at this woman’s command and bared his flesh to her eyes.

Imoshen ran her hands over the man’s torso as he gaped, too stunned by her temerity to react. ‘Just as I thought, a cracked rib. Let me –’

Jacolm stepped back. ‘I will not be tainted by the touch of a Dhamfeer.’

Tulkhan saw Imoshen’s face grow pale with the pain of rejection, but he also understood his man’s reaction.

Imoshen was too much the diplomat to respond with anger.

‘Let me heal your rib,’ she offered. ‘It must be painful. At least let me strap it.’

But Jacolm’s answer was to lace up his shirt. His sword-brother came to his feet in a gesture of solidarity.

Imoshen glanced at Tulkhan, who could only shrug.

She lifted her hands and turned them over for all to see. ‘I see no taint on these fingers.’ She met Jacolm’s eyes. ‘True, these are T’En hands with six fingers, but they have healed many a True-man and woman, and it mattered not whether they came from Fair Isle or Gheeaba.’ Gracefully she took three steps back and gave them the T’En obeisance among equals. ‘I bid you sleep well.’

As Imoshen glided out of the room Tulkhan considered following her, but his men would not be impressed if he ran after
the Dhamfeer bitch
, as they called her none too quietly behind her back.

When the door closed on Imoshen, there was a long moment of silence, then Harholfe made a jest about what would help him get to sleep and the men laughed. But they spoke too loudly and laughed too long, anxious to ignore the issues Imoshen had raised.

Tulkhan could not. He poured himself another wine and drained it grimly.

A
S
I
MOSHEN WALKED
the long gallery she seethed. Jacolm’s rejection stung, particularly when she had offered nothing but help. It was two steps forward and one step back with Tulkhan and his Ghebites.

She made her way to her bedchamber, where one of her stronghold guard stood at the door. The young woman straightened at Imoshen’s approached. All twenty of Imoshen’s stronghold guard could not hope to save her if Tulkhan’s elite guard turned on her, but it was the symbol which carried weight. These people were as loyal to her as the General’s guard were to him and they had done her proud today.

Imoshen congratulated the young woman, then entered her room, where she found the fire set and candles laid out. She lit the candles and carried them to the bathing chamber beyond. Wearily, she checked that the burner was working, then let the water flow.

Alone at last, Imoshen dropped her guard. As she sank onto a low stool she shuddered, recalling the death ceremony. The Parakletos were things half-glimpsed in nightmares... From now on, she would leave such things to the T’En church priests trained for the task.

Many times she had stood at the Aayel’s side while her great-aunt said the words for the dead, and not once had she sensed the Parakletos. Was it because her T’En senses had been less mature? Her gift had always been healing and it came more easily now.

Instinctively she knew she must hide her growing powers from the True-people, particularly the Ghebites. One wrong move and she would be dead, assassinated by enemies or even executed at the General’s command.

Though she suspected Tulkhan would regret ordering her death, she knew he would do so if he thought it necessary. She’d heard how he had conquered the defiant mainland kingdoms in the early days of his career. He had been utterly ruthless. Yet, when Tulkhan met her eyes, she sometimes thought she read...

Anger fired Imoshen. She rose and prowled the chamber. A metallic taste settled on her tongue. With a start she recognised the first signs of the T’En gifts moving unbidden, and unwanted. Dismay flooded her. If only she knew how to harness her gifts. If only her great-aunt had lived long enough to instruct her.

Before the Aayel died, she had revealed that Imoshen’s parents had forbidden her to instruct Imoshen in the art of using her powers. All those years she had walked at the Aayel’s side, learning herb lore, memorising the T’Enchiridion, watching her great-aunt serve the people, she might have been learning about her heritage.

Instead she was ignorant.

Imoshen grew utterly still. The Aayel hadn’t lived, but the palace library was even more extensive than her stronghold’s. The palace library was sure to contain learned discourses on the T’En gifts. It might take all winter, but she would sift every ancient document.

If only she didn’t have to organise the feast to celebrate Tulkhan’s signing of the church agreement.

Resentment flooded her. She hated palace protocol and had never wanted to play a role in court life. Yet now she had the responsibility of running the palace. How her sister would have envied her!

Imoshen’s eyes filled with tears. Her sister would never mix in the Empress’s inner circle. Her brother would never compete at the Midsummer Feast for the duelling poet’s crown of fresh flowers. All her kinsfolk had died in a futile attempt to halt the General’s advance. How could she discard them so easily to plot for her own future?

Imoshen hardened her heart. To survive she had to look forward. She would not let the General relegate her to the position of a Ghebite woman – a piece of comfortable furniture to be used when needed then put away in a gilded room. She would be the architect of her future and the future of Fair Isle.

Imoshen tested the water and turned off the spigot. She sank into the bath, feeling her muscles relax.

Today she had saved the life of the cooper’s child, but she had offended the Beatific, who was so ready to distrust her.

Yet the Beatific should have been her ally. After all, the church retained its position as arbiter of law only because Imoshen had convinced Tulkhan to sign the document.

Between the church, the proud Keldon nobles, the conniving mainland ambassadors and the arrogant Ghebites, she must somehow keep the peace while consolidating her position with General Tulkhan and his position with the people of Fair Isle.

So much was at stake, her head spun.

S
ATISFIED WITH THE
menu for this evening’s feast, Imoshen left the kitchen wing. She had only just entered the main gallery when she heard raised voices echoing through the great marble foyer.

Built during the Age of Consolidation, the palace entrance had been designed to impress, with huge marble columns, a grand divided staircase and an intricately painted ceiling which appeared to open up to the heavens.

Imoshen peered around a marble column and cursed softly. A party of Keldon nobles had arrived sooner than expected. Lord Fairban and his three daughters were welcomed by the flustered palace footman. Behind the old lord an entourage of servants waited, wary but curious.

This meant more places to set at the feast tonight, more volatile tempers to soothe. The Keld had not yet formally surrendered or offered fealty to General Tulkhan, and the situation was extremely delicate.

What must her southern cousins think of her, aiding and abetting the invader? Surely they realised she had to choose the path of least resistance to ensure her survival, just as they must give lip-service to General Tulkhan to avoid having their lands and titles forfeited?

What good was honour if you were dead?

Below her the master of the bedchambers arrived and hastened to greet Lord Fairban. Imoshen smiled. Let the palace dignitary earn his keep. He could escort the new arrivals to their chambers while she spoke with the master of ceremonies and adjusted the seating.

But after this was done, Imoshen decided to deliver the dinner invitation to Lord Fairban’s daughters in person. She would need the support of the Keldon noblewomen if they were to civilise the Ghebites.

Imoshen plucked her metal comb from her key chain and scratched briefly on the door tang. To her trained ear every comb had a different sound. She could identify a servant or a noble by the note their comb made when run across a door’s metal tang. The Ghebites’ habit of thundering on doors grated on her nerves but it certainly identified them as a race.

Discarding protocol, she entered the suite’s outer chamber. A maid gave a muffled shriek and ran off to get her mistresses. The Fairban sisters entered, followed by curious maids laden with clothing and jewellery.

Trying to hide their surprise, they gave the obeisance appropriate for the Empress. But the Empress would not have slipped unannounced into their rooms. The younger two Fairban women exchanged stiff smiles and Imoshen recognised that tolerant, half-embarrassed look. They could not ignore her height and her colouring. She was so obviously pure T’En that even her own family had found her an embarrassment.

But she was not going to apologise for her existence. Instead, Imoshen studied the three women. Would they suit her purpose? The two younger girls were very like their father – small, fine-boned and truly of the people – but the eldest who stepped forward graciously was nearly her own height.

‘I greet you, T’Imoshen,’ Lady Cariah said. In her bearing Imoshen recognised the polish of the Old Empire. The woman was several years older than her, in her early twenties.

A pang of insecurity stabbed Imoshen. How she longed to have that air of effortless elegance. Again she was reminded of the painfully self-conscious sixteen-year-old she had been on her first visit to the palace less than two years ago. Just finding her way about the endless rooms had been a challenge, without trying to unravel the politics of the court. But she was no longer that child. She had a role to play and she needed the Fairban sisters’ cooperation to do it.

Imoshen took the older woman’s hand, returning her formal greeting.

She couldn’t help admiring Lady Cariah’s hair. It fell around her shoulders like a shawl of burnished copper. Good. All three of the Fairban women were beautiful enough to arouse the interest of the Ghebite commanders.

‘I am honoured to greet you and your sisters. We need the civilising influence of your presence at...’ Imoshen’s fingers curled around Cariah’s, the invitation on the tip of her tongue, but all thought fled as she registered the oddity of the woman’s hand. Lord Fairban’s eldest daughter had six fingers. She did not have the wine-dark eyes, but she carried the T’En blood.

Startled, Imoshen’s gaze darted to Cariah’s face. She read tolerant amusement in the older woman’s gaze.

Heat flooded Imoshen’s cheeks. She was no better than the younger Fairban women. Yet, why did they find her T’En characteristics disturbing when their own sister carried T’En blood? Perhaps it was because Imoshen confronted them with something they wished to deny.

‘Our mother bad the wine-dark eyes, as well as the six fingers,’ Cariah explained, seeing Imoshen’s confusion.

‘Your... your mother?’ Imoshen faltered.

‘Long dead. Father would never bond again.’

The conversation was much too personal for Old Empire protocol, but then Imoshen had always had trouble containing her unruly tongue. Her own mother had despaired of her.

The enormity of her loss hit her.

‘My mother is dead too. They are all dead!’ Even as tears threatened, shame flooded Imoshen. But she could not contain the soul-deep sobs which shook her. She had not let herself grieve. There’d been no time, and now it was as if a dam had broken. Unable to contain the fury of her tears, Imoshen turned away, covering her face in despair.

Surely this worldly woman would despise her.

But Cariah slid her arms around Imoshen’s shoulders, offering unconditional comfort, and for a few moments Imoshen knew the peace of compassion as she weathered the storm of her loss.

Then she pulled away.

Ashamed to have revealed her weakness, she walked to a mirror. As she composed herself she was acutely aware of the shocked noblewomen and their maids reflected behind her. They had been silenced by her social solecism.

‘Forgive me.’ Imoshen turned to face them, giving the lesser bow of supplication. ‘I am here to invite you to the celebration tonight.’

‘You honour us,’ the Lady Cariah said, and though Imoshen searched that beautiful face, she could read no mockery.

Imoshen took formal leave of them and even as the door closed she could hear the buzz of comment behind her. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation.

Though they were stubborn Keldon nobles, poor cousins of the prosperous T’En court, they were still steeped in its traditions. The expression of grief, love, all strong emotions had been highly ritualised in the court.

Imoshen castigated herself. To weep in the arms of a stranger was unheard of. The Fairban sisters would think her as uncouth as the Ghebite barbarians. How could she look the Lady Cariah in the eye tonight?

But she had to. Somehow she would hide her discomfort, for she could not leave the General to host the evening alone. Bracing herself, she set off to ask the cook to prepare Keldon delicacies.

‘T’I
MOSHEN
?’
AN ANXIOUS
voice called. ‘Where is the Empress?’

The cook looked to Imoshen, who summoned a smile, even though the sound of running feet made her stomach cramp with fear. Hopefully, it was simply a crisis of protocol precipitated by an unthinking Ghebite.

A youth thrust the door open and stood there panting. By his dress he was one of the outdoor servants, and by his state he had searched the endless corridors of the palace for her.

‘I am here.’ Her voice sounded calm. Only she could feel the pounding of her heart. Absurdly, her first thought was for Tulkhan’s safety.

‘The Ghebite priest has gone mad,’ the youth announced. ‘He’s destroying the hothouse!’

This was the last thing Imoshen had expected. A laugh almost escaped her. The hothouse supplied the palace with year-round fresh vegetables. Why would that pompous self-important priest object to fresh carrots?