Dark Dreams (8 page)

‘Come and see!’ Even in his agitation, the youth did not dare touch her.

Imoshen marched out of the kitchen, followed by the kitchen staff. Human nature being what it was, they welcomed any excuse to stop work, and besides, this promised to be entertaining; for no one liked the Cadre.

She smiled grimly, but the smile slipped from her face when she heard the sound of smashing glass. Even in T’Diemn glass was valuable, especially glass crafted for large windows.

She caught the arm of the nearest scullery maid. ‘Fetch General Tulkhan.’

The girl gave the Old Empire obeisance and hurried off.

With the youth dancing in front of her like an agitated puppy, and a growing crowd of spectators in tow, Imoshen approached the large hothouse. Several anxious gardeners ran up to her, their voices strident with outrage as they told her how the priest had marched into the hothouse raving about blasphemy.

It made no sense. No sense at all.

Imoshen thrust the door open and the heat hit her, followed by the rich smell of fecund earth. Tray after tray of sprouting seeds stretched before her. Inoffensive tomato seedlings lay bruised and trampled.

Unaware of his audience, the Cadre swung the rake at another window. The sound of shattering glass threatened Imoshen’s composure. She tasted the forewarning of the T’En on her tongue, aroused by her anger.

‘Cease this destruction immediately!’ Her voice rang out as she strode through debris.

But the priest was too intent to hear her. He positioned himself before another window and raised the rake. Imoshen came up behind him, tore the rake from his hand and tossed it aside. She caught him by the scruff of his neck, swinging him off his feet.

Empowered by fury, it took little effort for her to hold the Cadre off the ground. The startled priest shrieked and clutched frantically at his collar, which had risen up under his chin.

‘What is the matter with you?’ Imoshen shook him like a dog shakes a rat and said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you hate fresh carrots?’

The absurdity of it made the servants laugh. She suspected they were as relieved as she was to find the threat was not armed Ghebites slaughtering innocents. The priest clawed at his throat, his face going red. Imoshen opened her mouth to speak, but General Tulkhan forestalled her.

‘What’s going on here?’ His deep voice cut through the nervous giggles, silencing everyone.

Imoshen dropped the priest in disgust, indicating the destruction. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Your priest objects to fresh vegetables!’

Tulkhan fought the urge to laugh. When frantic palace servants had summoned him, he’d expected the worst. He turned to the Cadre. ‘Explain yourself.’

Glaring at Imoshen, the priest rearranged his elaborate collar ruff and dirt-stained robe of office. ‘It is an abomination!’

‘Since when is fresh food an abomination?’ Imoshen countered.

Tulkhan gestured to the odd, glass-roofed building. ‘What is this place?’

‘The hothouse where the palace’s fresh vegetables are grown,’ Imoshen said. ‘You wouldn’t need this in Gheeaba. During our long cold winters the windows capture the heat of the sun.’

‘It is an abomination in the eyes of the great Akha Khan!’ the Cadre insisted and darted past Imoshen to pull a plant out by its roots, shaking it fiercely so that damp earth flew everywhere. ‘This is the abomination, this and all its brothers!’

Imoshen wrinkled her nose. ‘You object to a cup of herbal tea?’

Tulkhan felt his lips twitch but kept his voice neutral. ‘This is a tea plant?’

‘We dry the leaves, boil water and make an infusion which we drink,’ Imoshen explained. ‘It is one of many teas sold in the tea-houses throughout –’

‘Tell him what it’s used for,’ the priest insisted, his eyes gleaming triumphantly.

‘Women drink it to control their fertility,’ Imoshen replied.

‘Exactly!’ The priest stepped forward, waving the plant under General Tulkhan’s nose. ‘This is the root of the evil in Fair Isle. This plant is an abomination. No wonder the women of this island know no shame. No wonder their men are emasculated!’

Spittle flew from the Cadre’s lips and Tulkhan sensed the locals draw back.

‘It is a woman’s lot to bear children. She is the property of her husband, and the sons she produces are his heirs. The more sons the better, to make a strong house-line!’ The Cadre glared at Imoshen. ‘To interfere with a woman’s natural bearing of children is an abomination, an affront to Akha Khan. Think of all the Ghebite sons who would never be born to take up arms if this plant were used in Gheeaba!’

Imoshen made a rude sound. ‘I should prepare a shipload and send it –’

‘You dare to mock me, Dhamfeer bitch?’ the priest rounded on her. ‘You are twice over an abomination!’

The palace servants gasped, turning fearfully to Imoshen. She towered over the priest, her brilliant eyes flashing dangerously. Even from half a body-length away, Tulkhan could feel the overflow of her T’En gifts rolling off her skin.

‘Leaving aside my race,’ Imoshen’s control was more frightening than rage, ‘leaving aside the fact that Ghebite men don’t think their women possess true souls but are only one step above the beasts of the field, I would like you to explain to me what is wrong with preventing unwanted children? Surely it is better for a family to be able to feed the children they have than to breed irresponsibly?’

‘See how she twists everything?’ the priest demanded of Tulkhan. ‘Cunning Dhamfeer. Listen to her long enough and you’ll believe black is white. General, you must protect yourself from her. You must protect your men from the women of Fair Isle. These women would emasculate our men, play them false with their vile herb. What man does not want sons? What man would not believe himself a lesser man if his wife did not produce a babe every year, or at least every second year?’

‘Like a prize pig?’ Imoshen asked, her eyes glittering.

Tulkhan was aware of her fury, but he was also aware that a Ghebite warrior who had risen high enough to afford to keep three or even four wives expected to see them all heavy with child. Thirty, maybe even forty children was not unheard of. At least half would be male. With all those sons to further the interests of his house-line, while his daughters married to consolidate alliances, he would be considered a rich man.

But that was back in Gheeaba and this was Fair Isle.

The priest flung the herb to the cobbles and ground it underfoot. ‘General, you must order all these plants destroyed. Send your men throughout the island to collect them. Pile these vile herbs in every village square and burn the lot. It is the only way to teach the women of Fair Isle their place!’

Imoshen felt her world tilt on its axis. General Tulkhan’s Ghebite features gave nothing away. Surely he could not be considering this? The priest would undo six hundred years of civilisation and reduce the women of Fair Isle to slaves like their Ghebite counterparts.

She covered the distance between them, instinctively taking the General’s arm, seeking contact with his mind. In the moment before he raised his guard she sensed his reluctance to shame the priest.

Her fingers tightened. ‘Every woman of Fair Isle grows this herb in her garden. Every woman decides when to have a child. Would you deny her this? Would you make her fearful of physical love? As a healer I know there are women who cannot carry a baby. It would kill them.’ Imoshen searched Tulkhan’s face. His features remained impassive. How could she convince him? She recalled his one secret fear. ‘There are other women who have trouble conceiving children. They use a variety of this herb to bring on fertility. Would you deny those women and their bond-partners the joy of their own child?’

She saw a muscle jump under the General’s coppery skin.

‘Cadre.’ Tulkhan’s voice was harsh in the strained silence. ‘An agreement with the T’En church has been signed.’

Imoshen took a step back, releasing the General’s arm.

‘By the terms of this agreement,’ Tulkhan continued, ‘we will not interfere with their worship and they will not interfere with ours. I charge you not to force your beliefs on these people. This law you propose would be impossible to enforce. Any plot of dirt or windowsill pot can be used to grow this herb. Would you have my army reduced to gardeners, rooting out unwanted weeds?’

Put that way, it did seem absurd. The palace staff tittered and the Cadre glared at Imoshen. She held his eyes. He had brought this ridicule upon himself.

‘Take care of your soldiers’ souls, Cadre,’ Imoshen advised, linking her arm through Tulkhan’s. Whatever dissonance there might be between them personally, before his men and her people they had to present a united front. ‘Leave the ruling of Fair Isle to us. Come, General.’

They left the Cadre fuming and walked towards the hothouse door.

Once they were outside, Tulkhan turned to Imoshen, deliberately removing her arm from his. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are about.’

Imoshen stiffened. ‘General, what is at stake here is much larger than you or me. It is the fate of the women of Fair Isle. Would you see half your subjects reduced to wife-slaves? Would you be the cause of a generation of unwanted children left to roam the streets, begging or stealing their bread, as I have heard they do on the mainland?’

‘T’Imoshen, a word?’ a gardener spoke, hovering at a polite distance.

Imoshen searched the General’s face. He was a clever man but he was also steeped in the culture of his people. How far could she push him before he pushed back?

‘I have work to do,’ Tulkhan ground out, according her the barest, nod of civility.

Imoshen gave him the obeisance between equals, the significance of which would not be lost on her servants and, knowing how sharp he was, it would not be lost on the General either.

Imoshen turned to the aggrieved palace gardeners, assuring them repairs would be carried out in time for the seedlings to re-establish. But her mind was on the General. Tonight the two of them must sit side by side at the feasting table without revealing their differences.

Chapter Four

T
ULKHAN’S GAZE FOLLOWED
Imoshen as she stepped lightly through the patterns of a complicated dance. Three pretty noblewomen made up the corners of the intricate pattern; together they partnered four town dignitaries. His commanders watched, waiting for a Ghebite dance so they could break in and claim the women.

Tulkhan noted how Imoshen moved with casual grace. She wore a deep plum velvet gown. It was the same vivid colour as her eyes and it made her pale skin look even paler. Her hair was loose, confined only by a small circlet of electrum inset with purple amethysts. When she turned, her hair fanned out over her shoulders like a rippling sheet of white satin. She came to the end of the dance, her hair and skirt settling around her long limbs. Tulkhan swallowed. He wanted to run his fingers through those long pale tresses, wanted to lean close and inhale her heady scent. Just watching her made him ache with need, and there wasn’t another woman anywhere who could do that to him.

‘T’Imoshen dances well,’ observed his table companion.

He turned to the Beatific. In Gheeaba she would not dare to address him. An unmarried woman, or a married woman past child-bearing age, was thought fit only to mind the small children or feed the animals.

‘You seem distracted, Prince Tulkhan.’

‘I am not a prince.’ He baulked at explaining the complicated family structure of his people. ‘As first son of the King’s concubine I was not given a title. I earned my position through merit and years of service in my father’s army. I prefer to be called by the title I’ve earned.’

‘And soon to be King of Fair Isle,’ she agreed smoothly.

He caught her clever hazel eyes on him. Pinpoints of golden candlelight danced in her pupils. He reminded himself that he must not underestimate her simply because she was a woman. Imoshen had taught him that.

‘I must congratulate you on your forthcoming bonding, General.’

The words were innocuous enough, but there was something in her tone which warned him to be on his guard. Did he detect a trace of mockery? Did these people think him presumptuous to crown himself king?

Of course they did. He was barely three generations from his nomadic herdsman grandfather who, through his wiles and great stature, had united the Ghebite tribes.

‘Thank you,’ Tulkhan said, turning to watch Imoshen, who was making the robust Ghebite dance a thing of precision and grace. How could he wait for their bonding?

‘T’Imoshen is very...
beautiful
isn’t the right word. The T’En are too dangerous to be beautiful. They have a kind of terrible beauty. You never met the rebel leader, T’Reothe?’ The Beatific paused, making it a question.

Tulkhan shifted in his seat, trying to appear only mildly interested. He neither denied nor admitted meeting Reothe.

Deep in the Keldon Highlands, Tulkhan had inadvertently called on the Ancients by spilling blood on one of their sacred sites. Attracted by the surge in power, Reothe had appeared before him. The rebel leader had laughed when he had realised who Tulkhan was and cursed him, saying,
I am your death. You do not know it, but you are a dead man who walks and talks
.’

His words had often returned to haunt Tulkhan’s darkest hours.

‘I was surprised when the Emperor and Empress approved Reothe’s betrothal to Imoshen,’ the Beatific said. ‘By custom she would have taken the vows of chastity at seventeen when she made her Vow of Expiation. Instead the Empress informed me I was to witness the historic bonding of the last two pure T’En. They were to be joined this spring, did you know?’ She did not pause for him to reply. ‘Reothe could have looked to almost any woman for his partner, any woman but a throwback. He went to the Emperor and Empress for special dispensation. By the time I learnt of it, they had already agreed. It was so unexpected. The custom has always been to marry out, T’En male to True-woman. Imoshen the First made it mandatory. Do you know much of the T’En history?’

Tulkhan no longer pretended only polite interest. He spoke slowly. ‘There are rumours of great powers.’