Dark Dreams (46 page)

‘There could not possibly be anything to interest you in this section of the Basilica,’ the Beatific said. ‘Let me escort you.’

Imoshen smiled. She knew the Beatific would not let her out of her sight, but that would not stop Imoshen meeting the Archivist and probing her mind.

‘Our Basilica contains many great treasures preserved for posterity,’ the Beatific said smoothly, leading Imoshen away from the acolytes. ‘But first you must meet the leaders of each branch.’

The Beatific made a point of showing Imoshen the Tractarians’ training chambers, where she felt as if she had walked into a nest of snakes. One by one the mulberry-robed priests fell silent, turning to watch her. Murgon came to his feet and said the words of welcome, but she read contempt in his eyes. A shudder moved over Imoshen’s skin. This man was half T’En, yet he despised her.

‘I will accompany you on the tour,’ Murgon said, offering his arm.

Imoshen took a step back, unable to hide her revulsion. She could not bring herself to touch him.

Seeing her reaction, the Beatific’s smile finally reached her eyes.

Imoshen felt the colour rise in her cheeks. Let them think her cowed by their display of force. It would make it all the easier for her to trick them.

The Beatific led her away and, after viewing countless trophies of war and tributes from long-dead mainland kings, they finally came to the Archives.

Imoshen was careful to appear only mildly interested. The Archivist and several of her staff came forward.

‘Welcome to the Archives of the Basilica, T’Imoshen,’ the Archivist greeted her. ‘I think you will find this library is even greater than the palace’s.’

While Imoshen pretended to admire the collection, she searched for something neutral to focus their attention. A multifaceted glass sculpture was on display beneath a window. It converted pure sunlight into shafts of rainbow light.

‘Fascinating. How does it do that?’ The delight in her voice was genuine.

She crossed to the captive rainbow. Spreading out her fingers within it, she watched the colours trickle over her pale skin.

‘It is a prism, a child’s toy.’ The Archivist placed a hand on the glass sculpture.

‘We had no such toys in the stronghold,’ Imoshen said, trying to use the tenuous connection between them to sift the woman’s mind. She turned her hand over and over, feeling the light, feeling the outer edges of the Archivist’s mind. She had never attempted this with so weak a link.

‘That’s because your stronghold was one of the earliest built by your namesake, Imoshen the First. There was no time during the Age of Tribulation to indulge the senses. So many uprisings had to be put down.’

Imoshen sensed the Beatific grow tense, but what could the woman do? Imoshen was not touching the Archivist.

She had to keep the woman talking while she concentrated on finding out where the oldest cartularies were kept. They were the key to the T’Endomaz. ‘Because I was named after her I have always felt a kinship with Imoshen the First. It was such a shame the T’Elegos was lost when the palace burned down.’

The Archivist smiled to herself. Imoshen felt the woman’s reaction as though it was her own. The Archivist felt superior because Imoshen was mistaken. The T’Elegos had not been lost. It was safely hidden in the Basilica, in this very chamber!

Imoshen’s mind reeled. She froze, desperate not to reveal herself.

‘...Sardonyx’s revolt of sixty-four,’ the Archivist was saying. ‘Some works predating the conquest did survive the sea journey, but they were lost to posterity along with the first Imoshen’s T’Elegos. During the Age of Tribulation, not only was the palace burned, but your stronghold’s library was destroyed twice.’

‘What a shame,’ Imoshen said softly. When she felt she could hide the triumph in her heart she looked up and smiled. ‘I would like one of these prisms for Ashmyr when he is older. I think it would delight a child to make rainbows.’

‘Of course,’ the Beatific agreed readily. ‘Now, would you like to see the music wing where the choir will be rehearsing?’

Imoshen nodded, hugging her impossible discovery to herself. Joy and outrage mingled freely. She did not understand why the church had hidden the T’Elegos from the people of Fair Isle, but she knew she was close to breaking the T’Endomaz encryption.

Even the arrival of Murgon and several of his Tractarians during the choir’s rehearsal did not dispel her elation. They watched her closely but there was nothing for them to see.

D
ESPITE HER IMPATIENCE,
Imoshen bided her time until Intercession Day. It provided her best chance to slip unnoticed into the Basilica. Every fortnight they opened the disputation hall where anyone from a landless worker to the richest guildmaster was welcome to consult the priests trained in matters of T’En law and its interpretation.

If a disputation could not be settled, applicants requested the assistance of a church representative to present their case to the Empress. Consequently there was always a long line of petitioners awaiting hearings in the public rooms of the Basilica.

Late that afternoon Imoshen fed Ashmyr and strapped him between her breasts. She would have preferred to leave him safely in his little basket, but she trusted no one. Always at the back of her mind was the fear of the Ancients.

Imoshen pulled up her cloak’s hood and shuffled forward, blending with the crowd. She did not intend to use her gifts, which might attract Murgon and his Tractarians. Unchallenged, she moved past public rooms packed with busy priests, each full of their own importance. Excitement powered her legs as she glided up the grand staircase. The first time she had seen its marbled balustrades, she had been overwhelmed by its beauty, but now she barely took in the glistening stone. Thanks to her guided tour she knew her way to the Archives, which were deserted on Intercession Day. Her soft-soled boots carried her soundlessly across the mosaic floor.

She went straight to the false wall panel, recognising it from the Archivist’s memory. The woman had even supplied her with the knowledge to open the panel. Imoshen felt no remorse about her methods. As far as she was concerned the T’Elegos was her heritage. The church had no right to hide it.

The baby stirred against her chest and she crooned under her breath as her fingers traced the design of the carved wood panel which was inlaid with ivory and gold. In her mind’s eye she saw the Archivist trip the mechanism and her hands mimicked the action. It felt exactly as the woman remembered. How strange to have the tactile memory of another person.

The panel clicked and the catch sprang open. Imoshen’s heart leapt. At last she would discover the secrets her namesake had inscribed. She would know what Reothe knew, how to uncover and exploit his weaknesses, and she would have the key to break the encryption of the T’Endomaz.

Sliding the panel across, she peered into the dusty vault.

Nothing?

She blinked in astonishment and her heart missed a beat. It could not be.

The vault was empty.

Had she given herself away? Had the Beatific removed the T’Elegos?

Imoshen sank to her knees. There on the stone floor she could see the dust-rimmed outline where a single jar had stood. This corresponded with what she knew. According to legend and what she could glean from historical accounts, Imoshen the First had spent the last winter of her life working on a long scroll of vellum. She had been determined to preserve for posterity the story of the T’En odyssey and to honour her warriors. Imoshen knew that the best way to preserve a single ancient scroll, to protect it from insects and damp was to seal it in an earthenware jar filled with oil.

The T’Elegos had almost been within her grasp. Her hands clenched in frustration.

Who would have taken it and why? Had the Beatific decided to change the hiding place? And if it wasn’t the Beatific, who else would have had access and the motive? The Archivist certainly believed the T’Elegos was still in its hiding place.

Imoshen straightened, her thigh muscles flexing with the added weight of the baby. Leaning against the wall she stared into the empty vault. Her mind went blank and her vision blurred.

Candlelight danced on the walls. Someone stood with his back to her, rolling a heavy jar into position. He knelt to pick it up, turning towards her.

Reothe!

The vision faded.

Imoshen blinked, startled and dismayed. She had not meant to use her gift. Never before had she called up the image of a past event. But then she had never tried.

Reothe had stolen the T’Elegos!

Anger stirred in Imoshen. Had he removed the jar with the Beatific’s approval or by subterfuge? She knew he was capable of slipping in here even more easily than she had done.

Why had no one at the Basilica discovered the loss? Imoshen had received the distinct impression from the Archivist that this document was too dangerous to read, yet too precious to destroy. For generations it had been hidden, keeping Imoshen the First’s insights into the T’En mysteries safe from prying eyes.

Reothe must have given her the T’Endomaz knowing she could not unlock the secrets without the T’Elegos. As furious as she was with him, she found it hard to believe evil of Reothe. Perhaps the T’Elegos contained information which could be used against the pure T’En.

There was no doubt that there were True-people who hated the pure T’En. Murgon of the Tractarians was their most virulent opponent. Imoshen shuddered, feeling vulnerable.

Backing out of the secret vault, she closed the panel. Before she knew what she was doing, Imoshen brushed the carved woodwork, erasing all memory of her touch.

Now no one with the T’En gift would be able to tell she had been here.

That made her stop. How had she known how to cover her tracks?

Simple logic had told her. If these steps did one thing, then by reversing them she removed the traces. Strange, before this her mind had not worked along such paths and she had struggled to focus her meagre powers.

Had she betrayed her presence? The Tractarians were only half T’En. Though they were trained to sense the use of the gifts, as far as she knew there was only one person who had the skill to trace her actions.

Imoshen made her way to the grand staircase. A forewarning of danger travelled over her skin. Sick dread filled her as she took in the cluster of mulberry-robed priests at the entrance. And there, wandering casually through the throng, was Murgon.

Somehow these part T’En traitors had sensed her presence. Murgon turned and looked directly at the staircase. Imoshen froze, willing herself to appear ordinary. Then she realised the very act itself would attract Murgon. Terror killed all thought. Three intercession priests chose that moment to pass her, arguing loudly over a case.

Imoshen moved up the steps with them. From the balcony she looked down to see Murgon call two priests over and confer with them before heading towards the stairs.

She fled.

The Basilica was a sprawling rabbit warren and she had only a rough idea of its layout. She had to find the nearest safe exit. Opening her T’En senses, she risked a quick search. The maze of passages and informal rooms assumed a three-dimensional shape in her mind as she sought an escape route not guarded by the Tractarians.

She felt them questing for her. They were weak but they outnumbered her. Scattered like ants on a rubbish heap they picked their way through the dross, looking for the source of power which drew them like honey. She might crush one or two but she could not stand against all of them.

Nausea rolled over her. She had endangered herself and Ashmyr for nothing. These Tractarians would find her and she had no excuse for entering the Basilica today. How the Beatific would crow!

Her T’En power rose to the surface. She was aware of tension thrumming through her body, as well as the vast well of emotions emanating from the True-men and women in the rooms around her. Instinct told her to use her gifts to escape.

But that instinct would get her captured.

Slipping into a deserted storeroom, she reeled in her T’En senses, even though it left her feeling exposed. Without her gifts she could not tell where the Tractarians were, could not tell if they were closing in. Like a trapped animal she could smell her own fear.

Ashmyr stirred, whimpering in his sleep.

Leaning against the cold stone wall of the cluttered room, Imoshen slowed her breathing.

With a trembling hand, she wiped the sweat from her top lip and listened intently. Far away she could hear the clatter of the great kitchen and smell the food being prepared.

The kitchen!

It was the perfect avenue of escape. The kitchen of any great establishment was always full of bustle, people coming and going, deliveries, flirting scullery maids and cheeky stable hands trying to steal freshly baked pies.

Hardly daring to think what she planned, Imoshen left the sanctuary of the storeroom. She followed the heady scent of spices, baking meat, pickles and preserves to the kitchen. At any moment she could be discovered by a servant loyal to the Beatific, and turned over to the Tractarians...

What was she thinking? She had not been declared rogue.

No one but the Tractarians knew she was in the Basilica illegally. As long as one of them was not standing by each kitchen door she had a chance of escape.

Stepping into the shadow of a deep doorway she watched the flow of human traffic across the cavernous kitchen. With over a thousand people to be fed, the kitchen staff formed an efficient army. Some were busy peeling vegetables, their heads down and hands flying over long preparation tables. Others dragged loaves out of deep ovens, swinging around to slide them onto cooling trays. The scent of the fresh bread almost made Imoshen gag.

A mulberry-robed priest stood by the far door. The workers averted their eyes when they passed her. So they disliked this priest. Did they dislike all Tractarians or just this one?

Heart pounding, Imoshen slipped away before the priest could sense her. Her hair, her eyes, her sixth finger all marked her for what she was. A surge of hatred for her pursuers overtook her.