Dark Dreams (21 page)

With a nod of his head the old man indicated the direction from which he had come. ‘T’Imoshen is with the Lady Cariah.’

Tulkhan managed a smile. He told himself it was a good sign that the old servant felt secure enough in his presence to reprimand him for not addressing Imoshen with sufficient reverence.

K
EEPING A TIGHT
rein on her anger, Imoshen had slipped from the crowded room at the first opportunity, intent on confronting Cariah, who had already left. Rounding a corner she saw the other woman. ‘Cariah, wait.’

From the way Cariah turned and met her eyes, Imoshen knew she had anticipated a confrontation.

A servant approached with a fresh tray of food. Imoshen nodded to an open door and the two women stepped into the darkened room.

The only light came from the building across the courtyard. It spilled through the room’s floor-length windows onto the polished floor and illuminated a graceful stringed instrument. As if drawn to this, Cariah glided over to stroke the sensual curve of the wood. Imoshen followed.

‘You alone could have defended me against Jacolm’s charge, Cariah. You chose not to.’ She tried not to sound as hurt and betrayed as she felt.

Cariah did not turn to face her, but looked out through the window, her voice the merest whisper. ‘What would you have me do?’

‘Confirm that I was not using my gifts to cheat at a foolish game of cards.’

‘You would have me reveal myself and risk ostracism, for what?’ Cariah demanded raggedly. Her tear-filled eyes reflected the light, beseeching Imoshen’s understanding. ‘Why should they believe me, if they will not believe you?’

Imoshen’s heart sank. She wanted to rail at Cariah, to complain at the unfairness of it all, but... ‘You are right.’

Cariah’s shoulders slumped.

Imoshen stepped closer, placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry. I will not betray your secret.’

Cariah shook her head. She pushed Imoshen away and sank onto the seat next to the instrument. ‘You make it hard for me not to love you.’

Imoshen gasped. ‘All I ask is that you be my friend.’

A short, bitter laugh escaped Cariah. She brushed the tears from her face, then her hands travelled over the instrument’s vertical strings, absently plucking them, drawing sweet notes into the air.

Imoshen watched Cariah’s graceful fingers, the elegant line of her throat. ‘How can you hide your power so well?’

‘Years of practice.’

A tense silence hung between them.

Then Cariah sighed. ‘My powers are negligible, so it was easy. I vowed when my mother died never to reveal the depths of my T’En inheritance. Can you imagine what it was like living in my own stronghold, constantly watched by Father and the servants, aware that one unconscious slip would see me a prisoner, locked away as my mother had been?’

‘I am sorry.’

‘So am I.’ Cariah caressed the strings. ‘I have only one acceptable power and I use it sparingly.’

Imoshen touched her fingers. ‘Play for me, Cariah. First as you would play for them, then for me alone.’ Cariah met her eyes, then nodded.

T
ULKHAN STRODE DOWN
the dimly lit hall. The palace was so complex that if he did not find Imoshen soon he would not find her until she was ready to be found.

He froze as subtle T’En music drifted from the darkened room. Silently he slipped through the half-closed door. The room’s occupants were too absorbed to notice him. Curious, he stepped into deep shadow.

Imoshen was a tall silhouette outlined against the window. Cariah played an elegant stringed instrument. Fingers poised she paused, then ended the piece with a flourish. Tulkhan had learnt enough by now to know that the pauses were as important as the notes.

‘This time I play for you alone,’ Cariah whispered. She stroked the strings with her fingers to create rippling waves of sound so sweet they flowed like water over Tulkhan’s skin, bringing tears to his eyes. He felt as if she were plucking the strings of his soul.

Cariah’s fingers grew still and silence followed. At last Imoshen let out her breath in a long sigh. ‘How can you hold it back?’

Silently Cariah looked up at Imoshen. Tulkhan could not see her face, only the back of her head.

‘Something so beautiful cannot be bad,’ Imoshen whispered.

Cariah stood. When she spoke her voice was cool, dispassionate. ‘I have chosen my path.’

‘But is it right to make yourself out to be less than you are so that you can be accepted?’

Cariah’s laughter sounded as sharp as breaking glass. ‘You can talk!’

Tulkhan saw Imoshen’s shoulders stiffen. The two women confronted each other. He did not understand the point of their argument.

‘I am out of my depth.’ Imoshen lifted her hands imploringly. ‘All I ask is your friendship and counsel.’

‘Is that all?’ Cariah shook her head slowly. The same hand which had drawn that hauntingly beautiful music from the strings lifted to tenderly caress Imoshen’s cheek.

The intimacy of the touch made Tulkhan flinch. When he had suspected Imoshen of taking lovers, he had never thought to be cuckolded by a woman.

‘Do you wonder that I must refuse?’ the redhead whispered.

‘Cariah,’ Imoshen pleaded.

‘No. You ask for more than I can give.’ Abruptly, she turned and strode towards the door, her eyes blinded by tears. Once Tulkhan had resented her, now he felt sorry for her.

The sound of her soft footfalls faded and Tulkhan returned his attention to Imoshen. She straightened, visibly gathering her composure, before walking towards him. As she stepped into the dim shaft of light Tulkhan moved, slamming the door closed. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, Imoshen’s had been turned to the light, but the sudden closing of the door caused her to dart sideways.

As suddenly as he had moved, she was gone.

While he strained to see her, he registered that familiar metallic sensation. Fear closed a cold hand around his heart. ‘Imoshen?’

‘Tulkhan?’

He identified her tall dark shape amid the shadows where a moment before he could not see her. His skin prickled unpleasantly.

Silence hung between them. He felt vulnerable, exposed by the beauty of the music and the intimacy of the scene he had witnessed. When he made no move to speak she took a step closer.

‘Why are you here, General?’

He closed the distance between them and lifted his hand to cup her cheek as he had seen Cariah do. He wanted to claim her with a kiss of slow, lingering intensity, to taste her lips and savour her response.

Her hand closed over his, and she used gentle pressure to break the contact. ‘Don’t. I cannot think when you touch me.’

The admission made his blood race. ‘Nor I.’

The rawness of his tone surprised him. He heard Imoshen’s quick intake of breath. He wanted to pursue that breath, to feel her gasp at his touch. Driven, he sought her lips. Just one kiss, he told himself.

But he knew it would never be enough when she opened at his touch, sweetly giving. She was the elixir of life, intoxicating and vital.

With a little moan, Imoshen broke contact. ‘Why did you follow me, General?’

He knew he should warn her about Jacolm, but he didn’t want to destroy the intimacy of this moment. Yet questions begged to be answered. ‘What is there between you and the Lady Cariah?’

She turned her face from him.

‘Imoshen?’

She sighed. ‘Nothing that I can share with you.’

‘But you share something with her? What unnatural creatures you are!’

She gave a snort of disbelief. ‘And the love your men share as sword-brothers is somehow more natural?’

When he gave no answer she went to walk past him. He caught her arm, fighting the urge to pull her to him and bend her will with the force of his need for her. ‘What do you plot with Cariah? Answer me.’

Her eyes were dark pools in her pale face. She gave no answer, no denial.

He tightened his hold on her. ‘Imoshen, you tell me to trust you. How can I?’

Sadly she mimicked his earlier action, cupping his jaw in her hand. Her lids lowered as she leant close enough to brush her lips across his. ‘Trust must be given.’ Her breath dusted his face.

He returned the kiss. ‘Earned, not given. I will not have secrets between us.’

She pulled back. ‘So you say. But it is not my secret to share with you. Let me go, General.’

It was on his lips to deny her. As if sensing this she twisted her arm, breaking his hold.

‘We of the T’En value our word,’ she told him.

‘You speak in riddles. You cannot expect me to trust blindly. I was ready to support you against my own man tonight.’

‘That Jacolm is trouble. My honour is my own to –’

‘Anything you do or say reflects on me,’ he told her.

‘I could say the same. How would you feel if I fought your battles for you?’

He tensed. ‘You do. You did not even consult me before interviewing those interpreters.’

Her startled look amused him.

For a moment she said nothing. Then she lifted her chin as if facing something unpleasant. ‘I see. If I have offended you, I am sorry, General Tulkhan. But I am used to making decisions and acting on them. What I did, I did for your own good.’

‘I could say the same. You do not know what honour means to a Ghebite man.’

‘And it means nothing to a Ghebite woman, to any woman?’

He lifted his hands helplessly.

Imoshen moved to the door. As she opened it the candlelight cloaked her with its golden glow. When she looked back he wanted to kiss the furrow from her brow.

‘The day after tomorrow we will take our vows, General. Bonding is no dry legal transaction. It is not an exchange of property where a man acquires a wife to act as brood mare.’ Emotion choked her voice. He could see tears glittering in her dark eyes. ‘Bonding is a joining of the souls. I only pray we will not live to regret this.’

With that, she was gone.

He wanted to confront her, insist that what he felt for her had nothing to do with political necessity. But how could he reassure her when he had already promised himself to take his pleasure from her body yet keep his inner self private, shielded from her powers?

A Ghebite soldier reserved his closest friendship for his equal, his sword-brother. They faced death together on the battlefield. He trusted his sword-brother with his life. A Ghebite soldier shared something less with the wife he hardly saw. After all, she was only a woman.

Tulkhan’s head reeled. Imoshen expected him to regard her as his equal. But could he share his soul with her? Would she settle for less?

Chapter Nine

I
MOSHEN HID HER
surprise as Tulkhan linked his arm through hers and drew her away from the others.

‘In Gheeaba it is customary for the husband to give his wife a gift the day before their wedding,’ he said.

It was on the tip of Imoshen’s tongue to correct him – she would never be his wife – but she did not want to destroy such a rare moment of accord.

She was aware of the disapproving stares of Woodvine and Athlyn as Tulkhan led her out of the salon. According to the old customs, bond-partners fasted and purified themselves, abstaining from all contact from dawn the day before their bonding. But even before the Ghebite invasion, only old-fashioned people like Imoshen’s family and the Keld had adhered to such customs. In the high court this observance had been reduced to fasting from midnight the night before the bonding, and this was what Imoshen planned to do.

Tulkhan opened the door to the map-room and strode to the table which, for once, was not littered with maps. Four mysterious objects were laid out there.

‘First’ – he picked up Reothe the Builder’s tome – ‘I wanted to thank you for supplying a translation of the passages on T’Diemn’s defences. What a mind, and to think he lived four hundred years ago!’

Imoshen couldn’t help smiling.

Tulkhan put the book aside and unrolled a rich velvet cloak to reveal the longest sword she had ever seen. ‘I wanted you to see this. I know you think my people barbarians because we don’t have written records dating back hundreds of years. But we are not ignorant. This is my grandfather’s sword, which was gifted to me. As you see, the scabbard is not decorated for display, but the hilt is another matter.’ He unwrapped the hand grip. It was decorated in niello with a surprisingly graceful design of a stylised rearing horse. ‘This is my size, a hand-and-a-half grip. I take after my grandfather, Seerkhan the Giant, or Great. In our language,
giant
and
great
are the same word. In my grandfather’s time a man’s life depended on his sword and his horse. I was taught never to unsheathe this sword without drawing blood. The great Akha Khan demands his tribute. Come closer. I want you to see this.’

Drawn despite herself, Imoshen stepped towards him. He took her into the circle of his arms, her back to his chest. His deep voice enveloped her. She felt warm to the core.

‘This sword should not be unsheathed in direct sunlight.’ Silently he withdrew it from the fur-lined scabbard and held it before them so that Imoshen looked along the blade. ‘Breathe on the blade and see Akha Khan’s Serpent come to life.’

Imoshen took a deep breath and exhaled. As her breath moved up the blade, a pattern like the variations of a serpent’s skin travelled up the blade and back. She gasped in wonder and reached out to touch it.

‘No,’ Tulkhan warned. ‘It is dedicated to Akha Khan.’

Imoshen’s fingers itched to stroke the gleaming blade to see if she could identify the power which animated it. ‘How?’

‘This weapon is a work of art. Its blade was made in three parts, entwined cold, forged, then twisted and reforged. Then it was filed and burnished with infinite care. This is not the work of an unsophisticated people.’

He released her to step away. His eyes met hers. She watched as he ran his finger down the blade’s edge, leaving a smear of blood.

Holding Tulkhan’s eyes Imoshen placed the tip of her sixth finger above the blade’s edge. She knew she could seal a wound with her healing gift. Exerting herself, she concentrated on creating a wound. A drop of blood pooled on the pad of her finger, fell then trickled down the gleaming metal.