Dark Dreams (4 page)

In fact, he had moved so swiftly he had announced their betrothal the first night in the capital. She might be the last T’En Princess, but her twenty guards and a single chest of belongings were all that was truly hers in this great palace.

Despite this, she had to act as if she considered herself the Empress. It would impress the town dignitaries and church officials if their invitations were delivered by the leader of her personal guard.

‘Where is Crawen?’

The young man flushed, lifting T’En eyes to Imoshen’s. They shared a common ancestry, though only Imoshen carried all the traits of the pure T’En – six fingers, glittering silver hair and piercing garnet eyes. In the six hundred years since her people had settled Fair Isle, they had interbred with the locals until the pure T’En had all but died out. Her birth had been an unwelcome surprise for her family, both a curse and a blessing.

‘Crawen is practising T’Enchu in the ball-court.’

‘Thank you.’ Imoshen turned to Tulkhan. ‘I trained under Crawen from the age of ten. As leader of my stronghold guard, she is master of the sword as well as T’Enchu. Come see my people’s skill at unarmed combat, then tell me I cannot defend myself.’

She led the way, but they did not reach the ball-court. Raised voices greeted them before they entered the connecting passage.

‘...she should be made to know her place!’ The Ghebite Harholfe’s words became clear to Imoshen.

‘Her place?’ Crawen repeated softly. ‘You insult –’

‘She insults our general. In Gheeaba a woman would not dare touch a weapon,’ Jacolm said. ‘In Gheeaba she dare not raise her eyes to a man who is not her husband or blood relative.’

Imoshen would have rounded the corner to confront them but, Tulkhan caught her arm, his expression urging her to listen.

‘You Ghebite barb –’

‘Quiet,’ Crawen ordered her companion, her tone sharp but level. ‘This is not Gheeaba, Commander Jacolm. T’Imoshen is second cousin to the Empress and skilled enough to teach the art of T’Enchu. Once True-men and women did not raise their eyes to the T’En, but we have come a long way since then. One day, Gheeaba may do the same.’

‘You call yourself a leader? Yet you fetch and carry these fairground disguises!’ Harholfe kicked an arm guard which bounced off the wall and skittered around the corner to land at Imoshen’s feet. She picked it up automatically.

Again Crawen’s companion would have protested, but she cut him short, saying, ‘In Fair Isle, the higher we rise the more we serve. I belong to an ancient, honourable fellowship of elite warriors.’

‘What kind of guard accepts women into its ranks?’ Jacolm sneered.

A charged silence followed.

‘Your men are deliberately baiting my people, General,’ Imoshen mouthed.

‘What do you expect?’ He held her eyes. ‘You bait me, they are only –’

Furious, Imoshen turned the corner to find Jacolm and Harholfe and three of Tulkhan’s elite guard facing three of her stronghold guard. Crawen and her two companions stood with their backs to a decorative arched niche. Behind them was a scene from the Age of Tribulation rendered with lifelike accuracy. The first two hundred years of T’En rule in Fair Isle had been spent containing bloody uprisings. As Crawen had said, Fair Isle had come a long way.

Imoshen faltered. Was the shedding of blood the only way to resolve ideological conflict? It seemed threat and might were the only things the Ghebites respected.

‘Crawen,’ Imoshen greeted them. ‘Jacolm, Harholfe. The General and I wish to stage a tourney.’ She caught Tulkhan’s eye as he joined her.

He cloaked his surprise and, with a gleam of annoyed amusement, folded his arms and leant against the wall.

She realised he had abandoned her to sink or swim. She plunged on. ‘When the Age of Tribulation ended, our people kept their martial skills alive with competition and display. I propose the stronghold guard stage a martial display of T’Enchu and T’En swordsmanship on the spring fairground east of town.’ Imoshen turned to Tulkhan. ‘Would your men like to stage a display of their own?’

He straightened. ‘When?’

Imoshen glanced from the belligerent Ghebites to her beleaguered guard. ‘Would this afternoon be too soon?’

Chapter Two

A
S THE TWO
columns of Ghebite horsemen circled the field, Imoshen marvelled at their precision, born of discipline and relentless training.

Spellbound, the silent crowd watched the Ghebites’ horses pound over the ground, kicking clods of snow and dirt high in the air. Taking up position opposite the painted-hide target, the two columns paused, one to Imoshen’s right, the other to her left.

On the far side of the field, parents hurriedly herded children to safety, and there was a moment of hushed expectation. Uttering the eerie Ghebite battle cry, the first archer urged his horse to a gallop, charging diagonally at the target.

Before he had even let his arrow fly, the opposite rider surged forward. Standing in their stirrups, both archers approached the target. One mistake and the riders would collide, going down beneath sharp hooves.

First one, then the other, let his arrows fly, alternating like a rug-maker’s threads, weaving a craft of whistling death. The bolts flew true, striking the centre of the target. No wonder the Ghebites had swept all opposition before them.

Their display finished, the Ghebite cavalry made a triumphant circuit of the field. As the people of Fair Isle cheered their conquerors, Imoshen repressed a bitter smile. Even though she had been the one to suggest the tourney, the crowd’s response rankled.

The mounted men wheeled and saluted the far side of the field as their general appeared on his black destrier. Imoshen caught her breath.

Tulkhan wore no armour, nothing but boots and breeches. His long black hair hung free around his broad shoulders and he rode as one with his horse. To Imoshen he was the physical embodiment of his ancient Ghebite heritage, of those fiercely loyal tribesmen of the harsh plains who counted their wealth in horses.

A buzz of speculation spread through the crowd. Tulkhan circled the field at full gallop, then stood in the stirrups. Without warning he leapt to the ground, running beside the flashing hooves of his horse, hands on the saddle pommel. The crowd gasped. Imoshen glanced to the cavalry, who watched their general proudly, and she understood he was repeating the deeds of his ancestors, men who rode bareback as boys, men who worshipped bravery and skill. With a leap, Tulkhan regained his seat, rising to stand on the horse’s back. Arms extended, knees flexed, he balanced above his galloping mount.

When Tulkhan finally dropped into the saddle, Imoshen let out her breath. He pulled his mount short, walking it backwards. With a flourish he urged the horse to rear. It danced on its hind legs to everyone’s applause. Tulkhan’s teeth flashed white against his coppery skin, triggering a need deep inside her.

Imoshen smiled. The General claimed to hate pomp and ceremony, but the barbarian in him clearly loved this kind of display.

A servant ran onto the field to present Tulkhan with his round shield and sword. The cavalry had discarded their bows, taking up swords and shields.

Tulkhan signalled the bout was to begin and Imoshen tensed as the men charged, striking right and left. Horses wheeled and went down screaming. At first she thought the Ghebites had gone mad. Their swords were wicked-looking weapons half as tall as a man. Then she realised the men were turning the flat of the blades on each other. Even so, some would pay with broken bones.

One by one the Ghebites conceded defeat, leaving the field, dazed and bleeding. At last only one horse and rider remained. General Tulkhan.

The crowd roared.

Tulkhan stood in the stirrups, black eyes flashing. Damp hair clinging to his broad shoulders, he took a victory lap – the model Ghebite warrior, fearless and terrifying.

On the battlefield Tulkhan was renowned as a brilliant tactician, able to make intuitive decisions which led his men to victory even against great odds. But it was his personal bravery that had earned him his men’s devotion. They would die for him.

Imoshen studied Tulkhan. Could he hold Fair Isle? The skills of a general were not the skills of a great statesman.

By claiming her, he had consolidated his position, and by agreeing to honour the laws of the church, he had earned the support of this powerful body. The Beatific sat in the row behind Imoshen, flanked by her priests, lending the church’s sanction to today’s display. But Tulkhan no longer had the backing of the Ghebite Empire, and he held Fair Isle with only his loyal commanders and army. They were a formidable force, yet spread over the population of Fair Isle they were like pebbles on a sandy beach.

Then there was Reothe, the late Empress’s adopted son turned rebel leader. The whole island knew he bided his time in the impenetrable Keldon Highlands with his ragtag army, awaiting the moment to strike.

To retain Fair Isle, Tulkhan had to win the support of its conquered people. Imoshen knew her people. If only Tulkhan would trust her enough to heed her advice. Irony warmed her. Since when did a Ghebite listen to a woman? She was not even a True-woman, but T’En, cursed Dhamfeer in their language. And when they called her by that name, they made it an insult.

Her hands shook with anger as she poured wine into the victory goblet and raised it high, to the applause of the crowd.

This martial display had not only given her stronghold guard an opportunity to display their skills to the Ghebites without bloodshed, but it had reassured T’Diemn’s townsfolk.

As word about the tourney spread across the capital, shopkeepers had locked up and harnessed their horses, piling children, blankets and food in carts. Quick-thinking bakers had thrown hot buns into calico sacks, and by noon everyone had marched out to the field where the annual spring fair was held.

Determined to remind Tulkhan that she was not one of his slavish Ghebite women, Imoshen had taken her place in the T’Enchu display. She was wearing the traditional loose-fitting trousers, and her pure white tunic proclaimed her skill equal to that of a teacher. T’Enchu was more than a form of unarmed combat, it was a moving meditation; and it had come from the T’En homeland beyond the seas. The artform had been maintained and polished since then, and it was said a T’Enchu master could defeat an armed opponent. T’Enchu also placed males and females on an equal footing, because it relied on speed and used the opponents’ strength against them.

Imoshen had delighted in the precision needed to pull her attacks so that she left no mark. Blows that could have broken bones merely brushed her sparring partner’s tunic. Because this was a display match and she fought a partner of equal ranking, they wore no protectors.

But when it had come to the T’En swordsmanship bout, she had bowed out after the first round, having only just begun her training last year.

Heart racing from the exertion, she had returned to the hastily erected dais to take her seat beside the General. As the display bout continued, Imoshen had not been able to resist leaning closer to Tulkhan to say, ‘See what a skilled sword player can do with a knitting needle and a toothpick!’

He’d had the grace to grin.

Having disarmed the last opponent, Crawen had approached the dais to accept the victory cup. She’d dropped a little wine on the ground before draining her goblet, an old custom that acknowledged the Ancients and revealed her peasant roots. The Beatific frowned. Worship of the Ancients was regarded as primitive.

When the stronghold guard’s piper had saluted the victor, Imoshen had felt tears of pride prick her eyes. Her people had given a good account of themselves. Perhaps now Tulkhan’s men would not be so quick to cast aspersions. But having seen the Ghebite cavalry, she had to admit they were impressive.

Now, as Tulkhan rode towards her, his men chanted a paean to the great Akha Khan. It was said that in times of danger the greatest of their gods took on a physical form. In some tales he appeared as a great black bear, or a stallion. In others he was a hybrid creature, half man, half beast and, on rare occasions, he took the form of a man, a giant in stature with brilliant black eyes. It was not surprising that Tulkhan’s men regarded him as the embodiment of their god.

Triumphant, Tulkhan remained astride his destrier to accept the victory goblet from Imoshen. When he tipped a little of the wine onto the ground his gaze held Imoshen’s, as if to say,
See, I honour your customs even if I don’t believe in them
.

As formidable as the General’s physical presence was, it was not his most dangerous attribute. She must never underestimate his intelligence.

‘A most impressive display of skill, General, but how many of your men nurse broken bones?’ Imoshen made her voice rich and mocking. Her stronghold guard had suffered nothing worse than bruises.

Tulkhan’s eyes narrowed. A frisson of danger made Imoshen’s breath catch.

The General drained the goblet then tossed it to his bone-setter, Wharrd. He offered Imoshen his hand. ‘Trust me?’

‘In matters of warcraft? Yes.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Then take my hand and I’ll show you real skill.’

Imoshen stepped onto his boot and astride his thighs. The horse surged forward and she felt the solid wall of Tulkhan’s chest at her back. When he turned the destrier she faced the ranks of his men dressed in their purple and red cloaks.

‘Bring me three short spears and a target,’ Tulkhan ordered.

Two men raced forward with them.

Tulkhan took the spears and handed Imoshen the target. ‘You don’t ask what I do?’

‘You seek an opportunity to strut like the barbarian warrior you are!’

He laughed, then urged his horse towards the edge of the field where canny shopkeepers had set up spits. The scent of roasting cinnamon apples hung on the air, making Imoshen’s stomach rumble.

He halted the horse beside a waist-high tree stump. ‘Stand here.’

Imoshen slid off his thighs to stand on the stump.

He showed her how to thread her arm through the target’s support and warned, ‘Now brace yourself, and when this is over mock me no more.’