Dark Dreams (42 page)

The first pain took her midway in deep water. It was so intense she could barely keep her head above the surface. Terror gripped her.

At last the pain slipped away, uncurling its tendrils from her body with a lover’s reluctance. A burst of energy took her swiftly to the far side of the rock pool.

She stood dripping on a rock, considering her options. How far could she travel? How long did she have? The next pain rolled in like a summer thunderstorm, inexorable and intense.

Imoshen rode it. When it retreated, leaving the afterimage of its fury imprinted on her mind and body, she faced the truth. The baby was coming now. It could not wait for a better time or place and she thought longingly of the painkiller tucked safely in her saddlebags. So much for thinking ahead.

She had to find somewhere safe and warm. From the speed and force of the contractions she knew it would be a short, violent birth.

She also knew that the more she moved the faster the baby would come, but she couldn’t stay out here in the open. Driven by necessity, she set off upstream looking for shelter.

There was no way for her to measure the passage of time other than counting, so she took to counting between each pain and the duration of the pain and placing all these numbers in a convenient place in her head to keep track of the birthing process. It helped to think she was in control of at least one thing.

Rounding a curve in the rock wall she stopped and stared in dismay. She had stumbled into a hot spring, a place redolent of the Ancients. The pools held steaming water and mist hung over the narrow ravine.

Imoshen was desperate. She did not want to use a place that belonged to the Ancients, but she knew Drake and his men would avoid it.

Without warning another contraction racked her. They were getting harder to ride. A silent, growing terror told her that soon she would be swamped, drowned by the sensation. From experience she knew there was a point where the body took over and the mind simply had to go with it. She wanted to be safe before that point came.

Walking on rocks warmed by hot pools, she made her way into the mist-shrouded ravine. Her damp clothes had been almost dry, but now they clung to her. A shiver shook her.

Was that a cleft in the rocks? Imoshen picked her way over slippery stones to investigate. It was the entrance to a cave.

Suddenly she felt an increase in pressure and her waters broke, flooding her legs with hot fluid. Her knees almost gave way. She wanted to cry out, but bit back the sound.

Trembling, barely able to walk, she felt her way into the cave. It grew lighter and opened into a natural cavern with a central pool. A shaft of sunlight poured in through a gap in the rocks above. Steam shimmered on the water’s surface. It was a beautiful place. A good place.

Imoshen felt the tightening of her muscles, a sharp clenching as if she was about to cough. Already? She panted, fighting the urge to push. Picking a spot where she could rest her back against the rock, she stripped off her sodden breeches and sank to a crouch ready for the work of birthing.

That was when she saw the creature standing in the mist, aglow with light. It was a child, neither male nor female, a child with ancient eyes.

Imoshen would have screamed, but the urge to push gripped her. She caught her breath and went with it. The baby’s head moved. There was barely time to catch her breath before the urge came again. She felt the baby move again and guessed that its head was emerging. Her skin stretched impossibly.

Panting, she looked up. The ancient creature was still there. Not threatening, just watching.

Once more her muscles contracted. She felt her skin tear as the bloodied head emerged into her hands. By feel she searched for the cord. It wasn’t around the neck.

She gulped a breath and went with the last contraction. She had intended to manoeuvre the infant, easing first one shoulder then the other, but her body wanted to be rid of it. The force of the push tore her further as the shoulders emerged.

Panting, she looked up. The creature was watching intently.

Then the baby’s body came, slithering out into her hands. Stunned, she stared at the baby boy, hardly able to believe he was her son, her flesh and blood. The cord pulsed with life. For now they were still one.

He writhed in her hands, his little head turning, black hair plastered to his head.

Alarm pierced her. The Ancient was still observing her.

She had to get out of here.

Imoshen lifted the baby to her chest and chewed through the cord, pinching it closed. She could not risk using her healing gift in case it drew Reothe, so she tied the cord off with a strip of material.

The baby sucked in a breath and exclaimed to the world. His mouth opened and his arms splayed out, fingers spread. Imoshen laughed.

Six fingers.

Pride stirred her. He was more T’En than True-man.

Would he ever stop yelling and look at her? She wanted to see his eyes. The hair was all Tulkhan.

Stupid man. He should have been here to greet his son. Imoshen frowned as another contraction took her. The afterbirth. It was not as painful as the baby.

True to her training, she checked that it was intact. She had no intention of dying of child-bed fever. The Aayel’s T’Enchiridion remained safely hidden at the palace but she did not need it to recall the words. Imoshen shivered. She would have to find a safe place to bury her son’s afterbirth then say the words to bind his soul.

But for the moment she let herself rest, leaning her head against the rock wall. It was so good not to be in pain.

Yet even as she crouched there cradling the hot, slippery body of her baby, her gaze never left the Ancient. What did it want? Was it merely observing because she had entered its sacred place? She felt a grim smile part her lips. Surely enough blood had been spilt to satisfy it.

Birthing was a messy business. She would have liked to wash herself and the baby in the warm pools but the presence of the Ancient oppressed her.

Collecting the afterbirth and her clothing she rose to her knees and then to her feet. She felt reassured by the warm bundle of life in her arms. Keeping a watch on the creature, she headed for the cave’s entrance, walking carefully across the smooth rocks because her centre of balance had changed.

The Ancient began moving. Making no overt threat, it rose from the water’s surface to the rock, its feet never touching the stone. It positioned itself between her and the patch of daylight.

Imoshen hugged her son to her chest, heart pounding so violently she thought she might be sick. ‘Keep away!’

The voice was hers, but she’d never heard it sound so feral, so full of contained violence. It frightened her.

The Ancient said nothing.

Imoshen glanced around the cave. The only other way out was through the hole in the roof directly over the hot pool. It would have been an impossible climb even without the baby in her arms. She had no choice.

Though she could feel the power of the Ancient radiating like heat from an oven, she forced herself to step nearer, edging sideways in an attempt to slip past.

It shifted to block her path and extended its arms, palms up.

A moan escaped Imoshen. ‘You can’t have him!’

The ancient creature pointed to the afterbirth.

Imoshen gasped. She could not condemn her son to life without a soul. At best he would be a heartless killer, at worst dead within a day. ‘No. The soul must be bound to –’

In her head she heard the Aayel reciting the T’Enchiridion. Only they were not the words of birth, but the opening of the death calling. She forced them from her mind. The last thing she needed now was to call the Parakletos. But she understood the Ancients’ message – they would either take her son’s life force or his soul.

It was her decision.

If the Ancient had asked for her own life she would have given it willingly, but she could not bring herself to part with this new life.

Tears blinded her as she handed over the afterbirth.

The Ancients had claimed her son for their own. In life he would be theirs to call on.

T
ULKHAN GLANCED UP
at the lookout’s signal. It was just on dusk and the cooking fires were going strong. The smell of rich stew hung over the half-built fortress.

‘What is it?’ he yelled.

‘You’d better come and see.’

He didn’t like that tone. Something had startled the watch.

Tulkhan strode past the nearest campfire. He was careful to hide any trace of fear. His men had to believe in him. Once that had seemed so simple, because he had believed in himself; but all the rules had changed since he had taken Imoshen’s stronghold, and now he doubted everything, his own decisions most of all.

Springing lightly up the ladder he climbed onto the lookout tower. The knuckles of his right hand hurt where he had injured them working wood.

Looking down he saw Imoshen. She stood there in one of his shirts, hugging something. His heart soared. She had come to him ready to renounce Reothe. Tulkhan’s first impulse was to let her in. But he checked himself. There was no horse, no sign of companions.

It could not be Imoshen. It was a trick. It had to be Reothe baiting him with the illusion of Imoshen. The attack he had been expecting had begun.

‘Should I open the gate, General?’ the watch asked.

‘No. Prepare for attack. That is not my wife.’

‘You fool!’ Imoshen cried. ‘I am tired and hungry. I have walked a day and a night in bare feet through the ravines to bring you your son. Let me in!’

He had to grin. That certainly sounded like Imoshen.

‘Who knows when my son is due, shape-changer.’

‘Babies come when they are ready. If I don’t get some food soon, I will drop!’

Tulkhan stared at Imoshen’s upturned face, torn by his need to believe she was really there and the sheer impossibility of her appearance. How could it be Imoshen? She was back in the palace. She would not have come to him without attendants. In fact, he had expressly forbidden it. That made him smile – forbidding Imoshen to do something was not going to stop her.

Still, he had to be sure. ‘How did my mother die?’

‘She died alone from fever without anything to ease her passing. Now let me in, General.’

It was Imoshen. Only she called him General in just that tone, and only she knew his secret guilt about his mother’s death. ‘Open the gate.’

Tulkhan raced down the ladder, darted through before the makeshift gate was fully open and swept Imoshen off her feet.

‘Careful, you’ll hurt the baby!’ she warned.

He glanced down, seeing a small face, its mouth opening to launch a cry. He was shocked, even though Imoshen had said she carried the babe.

‘Shut the gate.’

He marched across the campsite, with Imoshen in his arms and a squalling infant in hers. His men stopped their tasks, mouths agape. Those nearest strained to see.

‘Put me down. He needs to be fed,’ Imoshen urged.

He let her slide to the ground by his fire. There were a hundred questions he had to ask, but the baby demanded precedence, tiny arms windmilling, hands splayed with frustration. That shock of dark hair stood straight up.

‘He’s mine!’

‘Of course he’s yours,’ Imoshen muttered, struggling to unlace the shirt one-handed.

‘You can’t feed him here. My men will see.’

‘I’ll feed him where I please. He’s hungry, and if your men don’t like it they can look away. Besides, they were all babies once.’

Tulkhan saw the anger in her face but he also saw the exhaustion. ‘Very well.’

‘I don’t need your permission.’ Her fingers caught on the laces and she cursed, fumbling to undo a knot.

When Tulkhan took his son from her, the boy yelled so indignantly that he had to grin. He was unmistakably a Ghebite. Let Reothe try to claim him now!

Tulkhan turned and held the child out for his men to see. The naked bundle struggled in his hands, screaming lustily. A ragged cheer broke from his men.

‘If you’re quite finished?’ Imoshen had knelt by the fire at his side.

He handed the baby to her and she leaned against the wall of the building behind them. Instinctively Tulkhan stepped between Imoshen and his men to shield her from their gaze. He could not help but watch as the baby turned his face to her breast, mouth open. Without any guidance from her he latched onto her nipple, sucking vigorously.

How could he be so little, yet know what to do?

‘My feet,’ Imoshen whispered. ‘And food.’

He knelt to look at her feet. They were covered in blood and mud. ‘How did you get here in this state?’

‘I walked. I’ll have some of that stew. I don’t care if it’s not ready.’ She kept talking as he ladled out a serve. ‘To escape from Reothe’s people I had to leave my boots and horse behind.’

‘What? Reothe had you abducted from the palace? How?’

‘I was on my way here. Some bread too.’ She accepted a bowl of stew, scooping up the sauce with the hard bread. The baby remained tucked in the crook of her arm and both of them fed with absolute concentration.

‘How long since you last ate?’ Tulkhan asked.

‘Evening, three days ago. This one was born yesterday just after dawn.’ She tore at a piece of bread with sharp white teeth, chewing vigorously. ‘I was coming to warn you. You won’t like this, but I did a scrying. I saw you fall defending this fort. I came to warn you that Reothe’s going to attack.’

This was what he wanted to hear, proof of her loyalty, but perversely he found himself wondering if she had planned this with Reothe so she could open the fortress from within when his back was turned.

‘You don’t believe me.’ Imoshen’s voice sounded weary and indignant. ‘Why do I bother?’

He stared across the fire at her. There were bruised circles under her eyes which shimmered with unshed tears. As he watched, the tears rolled down her cheeks, glistening in the firelight.

Before he could stop himself he crossed the fire circle to kneel before her. He used his thumbs to brush the tears from her face.

She blinked, twisting her head to be free of his hands.