Dark Dreams (17 page)

‘Life is cruel!’ Cariah turned her face away, wiping the dampness from her cheeks. The bitterness in her voice surprised Imoshen. ‘We must take what we can, while we can.’

‘I don’t believe that.’ Imoshen took hold of Cariah’s shoulders, turning her, willing the woman to meet her gaze.

Cariah shook her head pityingly. ‘You are so young. One day you will see.’

‘No. I have to believe there is hope,’ Imoshen whispered, fervently. ‘If I did not, I could not bear to live. My family are all dead. The Aayel died so that I would live. I must believe we are capable of greatness –’

Cariah kissed her.

The gesture was so unexpected Imoshen froze, experiencing those soft lips on hers, salty with tears. The gentleness of the caress was unmistakable. Cariah offered love.

Imoshen gasped and pulled away.

Cariah sank back onto her heels. Her mouth trembled, unshed tears glistening in her pleading eyes. ‘Don’t reject me, Imoshen.’

Stunned, Imoshen stared.

Cariah’s hand lifted imploringly.

‘I...’ Imoshen floundered.

Abruptly Cariah rose and stood before the mirror over the mantelpiece. In the dim light she made a great production of straightening her hair and smoothing her face to remove all traces of emotion.

‘I surprise you. You are unsophisticated. This was the way of the Old Empire,’ she explained with brittle casualness. ‘T’Ysanna was my first lover. She shared her men with me, taught me to enjoy them for what they could give but to look elsewhere for true love.’

Imoshen could hear Cariah distancing herself while denying what had passed between them.

With a smile Cariah returned to face Imoshen, offering a hand to help her rise. ‘Come, tidy your face. They will be watching us.’

Imoshen stood stiffly, clasping Cariah’s hand. She refused to release it, instead she lifted it to her lips, kissing the soft skin. ‘Don’t draw away from me, Cariah. I am out of my depth. I need your counsel.’

‘You deny me in one breath then ask for my loyalty in the next.’ Cariah stiffened. ‘You are too cruel.’

‘H
ERE WE ARE.
Just for you.’ The Keeper of the Knowledge beamed at Imoshen as he unwrapped the first of two packages. ‘You would not believe what I went through to hide these from King Gharavan’s men!’

Imoshen gasped. She had never seen anything like it. The edges of the pages were thick with gilt, but it was the cover and spine which astounded her. She stroked the plush velvet, her fingers tracing the inlaid jewels. ‘This must date from the Age of Consolidation.’

‘Middle period,’ the Keeper nodded and gently unwound the calico wrapping of the second volume. ‘This one is even more magnificent.’

‘Pure gold?’ Imoshen laughed.

‘It is exquisite work,’ he said. ‘See the filigree, the granulation. This is real craftsmanship.’

Imoshen had to agree. ‘May I?’

He hesitated, unwilling to let the book pass from his hands to hers.

‘I will take care,’ Imoshen promised. ‘You know how much I value knowledge.’

At last he left her alone to search the books’ indexes, but she was disappointed. Though the books themselves were invaluable works of art, they contained nothing more unusual than a collection of poems and a study of Keldon Highland customs. Still she would search them for any reference that might offer a clue to understanding her T’En gifts.

Imoshen sighed, rewrapping the volumes. She felt so alone. Cariah had drawn away from her and she could not blame her. The noblewoman helped with the entertainments, but instead of sharing her private time with Imoshen she spent it with her lovers. Imoshen tried not to begrudge this, just as she tried not to resent Cariah’s popularity. It was curious. Lady Cariah of Fairban was enough like her sisters to be accepted. When she sang beautifully and danced with others from the Thespers’ Guild, no one acknowledged that it was her T’En heritage which enabled her to move them to tears of joy.

In the days leading up to her bonding with General Tulkhan, Imoshen had walked the corridors of the palace with no one to call friend, cut off from Cariah and cold-shouldered by the General.

Food had no flavour and her life was as grey as the ever-shortening winter days. By the cusp of spring the babe would begin to show and she would be even more isolated as everyone would see how she had flaunted tradition.

‘Finished already?’ the Keeper asked. ‘If you told me what you are after...’

Imoshen shook her head. She did not dare reveal her real purpose. ‘Just curious. I am content to wander the library. You may go.’

She knew the old man liked to spend his days in the kitchen, sipping mulled wine near the ovens where the heat warmed the ache from his bones. There he enjoyed the company of the cook and bored the scullery maids with his stories.

He nodded and smiled, bright old eyes fixed on her.

‘He was very like you, earnestly studying the old tomes.’

Imoshen’s mouth went dry. Only one other person was like her. ‘Reothe?’

‘He was a pleasure to teach.’

Imoshen did not want to hear tales of Reothe’s boyhood. She did not want to dwell on how lonely he must have been. Knowing the high court, he would have been an object of pity and ridicule. Her heart went out to that boy, but Reothe was no longer a defenceless child and she would do well to remember that. ‘You were his tutor?’

‘Yes, before he went to the Halls of Learning.’ The Keeper’s face glowed with pride. ‘I have a copy of the treatise on philosophy he wrote when he was fifteen.’

But Imoshen had no time for philosophy. She tried to sound casual. ‘Was there anything on the T’En that he particularly liked to read?’

‘Everything. He devoured everything on the T’En, then he moved on to the great library in the Halls of Learning. He was disappointed because they don’t study the T’En there, but his debates were legendary. When he took his place on T’Ashmyr’s stone there was standing room only around the library stoves!’

Imoshen tried not to show her disappointment. ‘Can you show me the books about the T’En?’

The old man laughed. ‘Every book mentions the T’En.’

Imoshen looked down. She longed to trust the Keeper. But what would he say if she revealed she wanted to harness her gifts?

‘No matter how high he rose, Reothe never forgot his old teacher,’ the man continued fondly. He pulled something from inside his vest and unwrapped it. ‘When he returned triumphant from his first voyage to the archipelago he brought me this.’

‘What is it?’ Imoshen asked. ‘A religious artefact?’

‘A shrunken human head.’

Imoshen shuddered. How primitive the dwellers of the archipelago were. Fair Isle was literally an island of culture in a sea of barbarism. She could not, would not let the heritage of her T’En culture sink into darkness.

T
ULKHAN RUBBED HIS
eyes wearily. The old city of T’Diemn could be made secure again because it had been designed for defence, but the new city sprawled in an ungainly manner over the surrounding fertile basin, making defence all but impossible.

If he could have devoted himself to the problem, he would have come up with a solution by now. But for the time being he had to devote his attention to the visiting ambassadors so he could observe the interchange between them, particularly the triad of prosperous mainland kingdoms which he had not conquered.

He focused on the map of T’Diemn and its surrounds. Every street, every gate and spring was marked. It was all to scale, with the highest points in gradients of colour so that it appeared three-dimensional. There was no point in building fortifications around new T’Diemn if he did not include the hilltop to the south. Any general worth his salt would mount an offensive from that hilltop, yet it would mean taking the fortifications out to the hill since the outlying market gardens only reached its base, or pulling back and being prepared to sacrifice those people and their livelihood. Every decision was a compromise.

The door to his map-room flew open. Imoshen stood there in nothing but a thin nightgown, her feet bare, her hair loose on her shoulders. Her cheeks were pale and her chest rose and fell as if she had been running.

‘You could not leave well enough alone, could you?’ she demanded. ‘You thought you knew better!’

Tulkhan put the scriber down with exaggerated patience. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about.’

Her eyes widened with fear.

Tulkhan felt a prickling sensation travel across his skin. ‘What is it?’

She took a deep breath. ‘You had better come.’

As Tulkhan collected his sword from the back of his chair, she made a noise in her throat.

‘What?’

‘Cold steel will not help,’ she whispered, then hurried off.

He followed, lengthening his stride to keep up with her, while buckling his sword belt. ‘Should I call out my elite guard?’

‘Not for this.’

The evening’s entertainments had finished long ago and the servants had cleared away. Only the occasional sconce of candles lit the way.

Imoshen moved soundlessly. Tulkhan’s boots struck the tiles and then the wooden floor of the older wing. When Imoshen glided down the steps to the Tribulation Portrait Gallery, Tulkhan fought a sense of foreboding.

At the entrance to the gallery Imoshen stopped. It was deserted and unlit except for a branch of candles which sat on the floor about halfway along, before a gaping hole in the wainscoting.

‘The secret passage has been forced.’

‘He fled,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘I don’t blame him.’

‘Who?’

‘The servant who found this.’ Imoshen spoke over her shoulder as she hurried down the hall. ‘He was taking a shortcut through this gallery to meet his lover.’

When they reached the gaping hole, Tulkhan picked up the candles and peered through the splintered wainscoting into the secret passage. The stale smell of old air made him grimace.

He straightened and looked at Imoshen. ‘What would you have me do? How do you even know it is my people? It could be some of your builders.’

‘My builders would not be so stupid. They know better than to disturb the past. And they would not be so crude. If they wanted to explore the passage they would remove the skirting board and wainscoting, then replace it afterwards, not bludgeon a hole with a battle-axe. No. It is one or more of your men. My guess is Harholfe and his friends.’

Tulkhan frowned. ‘They’ve gone looking for gold.’

‘Isn’t the gold room gold enough?’

‘It’s the challenge.’ He grinned then sobered. ‘What do you expect me to do? Go after them like misbehaving boys? Like as not they’ll find nothing down there but storerooms and rat holes, just as you said –’

‘That was not all I said.’

‘No.’ Tulkhan had not forgotten, merely tried to deny what he did not wish to face. He shook his head. ‘We must bring them out.’

He ducked down, stepping through the jagged gap with difficulty. His shoulders were almost too wide. He’d taken four steps when he realised Imoshen was not following him. Turning on the stair he looked back up to her, her face framed by the splintered wood. Six candle flames danced in her fixed eyes.

Tulkhan’s body tightened, responding to her fear. His free hand went to his sword hilt. But Imoshen had said cold steel would not help him against what lay below.

He cursed under his breath. ‘They are my men and your ancestors. You can’t turn your back, Imoshen.’

He saw a flare of anger displace her fear. Still she hesitated.

‘If you want my respect you must earn it,’ he told her. ‘A good general has a responsibility to his people.’

‘A good leader does not attempt the impossible.’

‘What? What is so impossible?’

‘Tulkhan, I am out of my depth!’ Her hands lifted in a silent plea.

He did not let himself feel compassion. ‘Suit yourself.’

Turning his back, he walked down the narrow stair. Though she moved soundlessly, he knew when she caught up with him because he could feel the skin-lifting tension of her T’En gift. It made his temples throb and left a metallic taste on his tongue.

As he came to the long passage Imoshen caught his arm. ‘They brought this on themselves by forcing entry to the secret passages. If they have gone down into the catacombs, we must seal the door and leave them there.’

Cold horror closed like a vice around his chest. He hardened his voice. ‘You know I cannot do that.’

She stared at him, her face pale and set.

With a string of High T’En curses, or perhaps it was a prayer, she darted around him. Still muttering, she plucked the candles from his hand and went ahead.

Tulkhan smiled grimly to himself. But the hand which gripped his sword hilt was slick with sweat as he followed.

Imoshen went unflinchingly down another staircase. At the base he noticed the exit panel was wedged open with a broken tile. They stepped into a long narrow gallery. The candles could only illuminate the nearest walls and part of the vaulted ceiling. Their lowered voices echoed.

‘See the style of vaulting? This dates from the Age of Tribulation. This way.’ Imoshen spoke as if she was conducting a leisurely tour of the palace, but her eyes never ceased searching the shadows.

Tulkhan followed, his senses on alert. The tension which rolled off Imoshen’s skin was not so bad now. She had to be controlling it because she had not relaxed.

‘How far along was it?’ she muttered. ‘All these archways look the same.’

A man’s raw scream cut the air. Imoshen stopped still. Tulkhan strained to hear as the echoes of the cry faded. He was about to speak when the clatter of boots reverberated on the stonework.

‘This way.’ Imoshen ran, trying to shield the candle flames.

Tulkhan pushed past her. He could see light and leaping shadows coming from a narrow opening. He stopped as Sahorrd and Jacolm stumbled out.

‘General?’ Jacolm raised his candle.

‘One of them. Behind you!’ Sahorrd warned, lunging forward, his sword drawn.

Tulkhan spun, unsheathing his blade. Sahorrd aimed for Imoshen’s throat. She parried with the candle holder, disarming him even as Tulkhan struck using the flat of his sword. The man went down with a grunt of disbelief.