Eagerly Imoshen darted back to the bed to collect Ashmyr. Barefoot, her hair loose, dressed in nothing but her nightgown, she hurried to the door. With Reothe down on the wharf intent on the General, she could risk breaking his lock.
Experimentally she ran the fingers of her free hand over the door. There was nothing, no tingle, no pain waiting to cripple her mind.
Amazed, she concentrated on the mechanism within the lock chamber, felt it shift and the door swung open.
There was no T’En lock keeping her in, only her belief that it existed. Hot shame flooded Imoshen. Reothe had fooled her. He must have remained outside the room ready to rebuff her first attempt on the lock, blocking it so firmly that she would not dare try again. She had played right into his hands.
Furious with herself, Imoshen ran down the dark corridor with Ashmyr in her arms. Nothing was going to stop her.
But the tower rooms were almost deserted. She had no trouble finding her way out and into the township.
T
ULKHAN SHIFTED AS
mist flowed around his boots. It drifted up to creep across the wharf around him and into the streets. He had heard there were times when the buildings of Northpoint were shrouded in fog and only the citadel tower rose above a sea of fog.
He could hear the gentle slap of water hitting the approaching boat’s prow, mingled with the creak of the oars. Tulkhan watched the evidence of the boat’s passage as it approached. The mist swirled around it so that at times the heads of the men looked like disembodied shapes. A rope sailed up towards them and was made fast.
His captors stepped up onto the wharf.
Kinraid! Bitterness closed Tulkhan’s throat.
The Vaygharian made a mock bow. He turned to Reothe. ‘Three boatloads of mercenaries are ready to disembark, and you’ll get the rest when the Ghebite traitor stands on the mainland. I’ll take him off your hands now.’
A surge of despair gripped Tulkhan.
No! This was not his emotion. Reothe was manipulating him.
Like the sun breaking through clouds, the pall that had been crushing him lifted. He heard Reothe gasp and the Vaygharian curse.
The rebels stepped back, muttering uneasily amongst themselves. Tulkhan turned to see what had startled them.
Imoshen! Fog curled its insubstantial tendrils around her. She was illuminated by an eerie inner radiance. With her silver hair loose and her white gown floating around her, she seemed to be carried on a sea of glowing mist.
The Vaygharian and his companions made the sign to ward off evil, calling on their gods to protect them. Even the rebels backed away, mouthing something in High T’En.
Tulkhan’s teeth ached and his tongue registered the metallic taste of power. For an instant he thought he read fear, quickly masked, in Reothe’s features.
‘Imoshen.’ The T’En male stepped forward, his hand extended in welcome, but when she made no move to accept it he let it drop. ‘The General was just leaving. The events of this last summer have been set to rights. Soon Fair Isle will belong to the T’En.’
Tulkhan could not bear to look on Imoshen. Her choice was clear – she had renounced him for her own kind.
Though he felt the intensity of her gaze, he shut himself away from her, too proud to let her discover the blow she had dealt him.
This accursed isle had stolen everyone he had ever loved, but it would not take his self-respect. He would return to Gheeaba and restore his honour by killing his half-brother.
Imoshen shivered. Tulkhan would not meet her eyes. Reothe must have told the General she had given herself to him willingly. No wonder Tulkhan despised her.
Desperately she reached out to him but he jerked away, as though he found her touch was repellent.
His revulsion ate into her flesh like acid. The pain of it made her gasp and stagger. Reothe supported her, taking the baby as a wave of dizziness swamped her vision.
All along she had known the General found her Otherness unnerving, but she had believed they could overcome that. Now she knew he did not merely hate her, he was disgusted by her.
‘Take him away,’ Reothe gestured to the boat.
She watched in stunned despair as Tulkhan stepped willingly into the boat. When he sat down the mist closed around him, shrouding all but the crown of his head from sight.
Imoshen could not believe he had rejected her. But he had.
The Vaygharian went to leave.
Reothe stopped Kinraid. ‘You will stay until the last mercenary stands on this shore. I know how the Vayghar fulfil their bargains.’
Kinraid hesitated, resentment colouring his features. ‘So be it. Push off.’
The rebels uncoiled the rope and tossed it to the boat.
‘Here. Take the traitor’s brat with you!’ Kinraid tore the baby from Reothe’s arms and threw him into the mist.
Imoshen gasped. The white cloth of Ashmyr’s gown fluttered like useless wings as he sailed out and down into the fog-shrouded sea.
She screamed, calling on Tulkhan with every shred of her being to catch their son.
A small splash filled the void left by her cry.
Shouts came from the boat. Several large splashes followed. It sounded as if the boat had over-turned.
Imoshen spun to face Kinraid. Rage engulfed her.
Drawing his sword, the Vaygharian stood ready to fight. Behind him the bonfire roared and leapt like a rampaging beast eager to consume. Imoshen recalled her vision of his death.
‘You will die by your own hand in flames of agony,’ she told him, hardly able to speak for the fury which closed her throat.
Terror engulfed his features. Against his will, he turned to the bonfire. As though fighting every step, Kinraid dropped his sword and ran clumsily, leaping into the flames. His screams rose on the night, piercing and utterly abandoned.
The confrontation had taken no time at all.
Imoshen ran for the edge of the wharf. White noise rushed in her head.
Reothe caught her, absorbing the impact.
‘Ashmyr’s dead, Imoshen. I felt his life flicker out!’
No. She could not believe it. Frantically she twisted in Reothe’s arms, but he knew the T’En breaks and holds as well as she. At last he caught her body to his, using his superior strength to pin her arms.
‘He’s dead, Imoshen. Believe me!’
She stiffened in refusal.
‘Imoshen?’ He cupped her face in his hands. She felt him probe. It was too much. Instinctively she snapped back, retaliating against his intrusion. The strength of her gift was unleashed by desperation and he gasped, staggering. Even as he crumpled to the wooden planks she leapt over him.
In her mind’s eye she still saw Ashmyr falling with his gown flapping uselessly, still heard that terrible small splash echo over and over.
He could not be dead.
Where was he? Where should she dive?
She couldn’t see the boat for the thick mist, but she could hear the splashing, the shouts from the men in the water.
‘Tulkhan!’ she cried, probing for him.
‘Here!’
Two hands surged from the mist, holding a small, still form. In the same heartbeat they sank down, hidden by the thick fog.
‘Help! I can’t swim!’ Tulkhan called, panic edging his voice.
She recognised his fear. Her body reacted, heart pounding furiously.
Dropping to her knees, she searched the swirling mists, identifying the occasional dark shape which might have been any of the Vaygharian’s men struggling to stay afloat.
‘Accept me, Tulkhan. I can swim.’
She closed her eyes and probed for his mind. There it was, familiar for all that it was filled with cold terror. She slipped into him, felt the baby clutched to his shoulder, their shoulder. The pair of them went under.
As cold dark water closed over his head, panic roiled through him. She fought him for control. At last he understood and relaxed enough for her to kick, driving his strong limbs in a thrust that would bring him and Ashmyr to the surface.
She forced his free hand to form a scoop and drove his arm in an arc which carried him forward, kicking at the same time.
Now that he could feel the results, he let himself go with her, trusting her to save them. She could feel his great heart raging, powered by his determination to live.
With another stroke, his hand hit the barnacle-encrusted pole of the wharf. Desperately he clutched it, trying to keep his head above water. The still baby was wedged safely in the crook of his neck.
Imoshen detached herself from Tulkhan’s perception and stretched full length so that she hung over the edge of the wharf. Her hands plunged into the mist and encountered Tulkhan’s head. ‘Give Ashmyr to me.’
Silently, Tulkhan passed the baby’s limp form to her. She hugged the little body to her chest and rolled away from the edge, huddling in a crouch.
In the growing dawn light she saw that the life had left Ashmyr. She probed, but not a flicker remained.
It could not be.
She would not let it be.
In desperation she tore the neckline of her gown and raked the scars of the Ancients. Fiery tendrils of pain raced down her chest, but it was nothing compared to the pain of her loss.
With all her will she called on the Ancients. Ashmyr was theirs already. She could not begin to understand their purpose, but surely they would not let him die!
Tulkhan heaved his cold, wet body onto the wharf.
Imoshen’s tragic figure riveted his gaze. She knelt, her breasts bared. Parallel rivulets of blood stained her white skin. With her arms extended she held the limp form of their son before her.
He did not need to be in touch with her mind to share her agony. It was written clearly on her face and it mirrored his own.
Tulkhan would have gone to her then but Reothe hissed a warning.
Startled, he glanced at the rebel leader and his skin went cold. Blood trickled from the Dhamfeer’s nostrils and ears. Even his eyes wept tears of blood. He lay sprawled on the wharf, barely able to lift his head. The rebels had deserted them. Reothe lifted a trembling hand. ‘Help me.’
Tulkhan found nothing incongruous in this plea. His only son was dead. Nothing mattered.
He scrambled across the wharf. Sliding an arm under Reothe’s back, Tulkhan lifted the T’En warrior against his chest. Reothe’s hands clutched him in a spasm of pain. A raw groan escaped him.
Then Reothe went very still.
Tulkhan followed his fixed gaze and stiffened as he recognised the same childlike being he’d seen when he had inadvertently spilled blood at an ancient site.
‘The Ancients answer her summons,’ Reothe whispered.
Tulkhan studied the apparition which hovered in the mist above the sea. He could not bear to meet its fathomless eyes as it glided through the fog towards Imoshen.
‘I don’t –’
‘Imoshen called on the Ancients to save Ashmyr,’ Reothe explained. ‘That much is clear even to me.’
Tulkhan shuddered at Reothe’s tone, equal parts fear and scorn.
An inner light suffused the Ancient, making Tulkhan squint and his eyes water.
As the strange being’s hands closed on his son’s body he felt a surge of panic. He fought it. The boy was dead, nothing could hurt him now.
Imoshen’s arms dropped to her sides. Except for the rapid rise and fall of her breasts she was utterly still. Her eyes were fixed on the Ancient, her face naked with desperation.
Hope rose in Tulkhan’s chest. He forced it down. Death could not be denied. Could it?
‘Can they save him?’ Tulkhan asked, unable to tear his eyes from the eerie tableau.
‘For a price.’
The Ancient extended its free hand and touched Imoshen’s closed eyelids. She shuddered visibly, took a deep breath, then gave a slight but firm nod.
Taking the baby in both hands the Ancient lifted Ashmyr’s head and breathed into him. The little body jerked in a painful spasm. A grunt of sympathetic pain escaped Tulkhan, but his heart raced as hope surged, closely followed by revulsion. This was not right. No one returned to life from beyond death’s shadow.
It was too much for Tulkhan to grasp. He strained to see through the radiant glare that consumed Imoshen, the Ancient and his son.
Was it possible? Would the baby’s life be returned? If it did, surely he must be tainted?
Tulkhan wanted to ask Reothe for reassurance. Only by an effort of will did he hold his tongue, straining for the slightest sound.
A piercing cry broke from the baby. Imoshen gasped, her hands lifting, pleading.
The Ancient held the baby in one arm and floated closer to Imoshen. It leant towards her until its forehead touched hers. They might have kissed. For an instant they stayed thus then the Ancient transferred Ashmyr to Imoshen’s hands and retreated.
She swayed, steadying herself with difficulty, the baby pressed to her body.
‘What did it do?’ Tulkhan whispered.
‘I can’t tell, I am as blind as you.’
‘Reothe?’ He studied what he could see of the T’En’s face. His eyes were not blank like a blindman’s. Did he did mean his T’En gifts had been destroyed? ‘What happened to you?’
Reothe grimaced, raw pain and despair passing across his features. ‘Look!’
Imoshen now held the baby, a living breathing child. As Tulkhan watched, the glow which had illuminated both her and the Ancient faded and with it the apparition, until only Imoshen and Ashmyr remained.
She sank to her knees. Oblivious to them, she stripped the wet gown from the baby and lifted him to her breast.
A sliver of silver dawn light illuminated the horizon behind the township, bringing the first hint of natural colour to their surroundings. Tulkhan shifted Reothe a little to ease his tense muscles. He felt the other give an involuntary shudder of pain.
Behind him he could hear voices, and guessed the rebels had drifted beck and would soon find them. Quick as the thought, he slipped the knife from Reothe’s waist and held it to the rebel leader’s throat.
A painful laugh escaped Reothe. It scraped across Tulkhan’s raw senses like salt on an open wound. But he would not falter. The T’En warrior was his bargaining tool. Tulkhan had the rebel leader where he had always wanted him – helpless. Why then did he feel no rush of victory?