The Iron Palace (3 page)

“Just ’cause she refused yar brother—”

“And every other fensman who asked her. A lad needs a man ta guide him. Then he’d know how ta slaughter a goat.”

“Ya know full well why he doesn’t know,” said Rappali, “and ’tisn’t ’cause Yim lacks a husband.”

“A lad
should
see blood. He’s being raised unnatural. Why, I’m part minded ta send tha goat back.”

“Fine. Then ya can send back tha cheese that she brought for our trouble. She promised us a hind quarter as well.”

“ ’Tis only an old milked-out doe.”

“ ’Tis dear ta her, poor thing.”

“Why take her side?” asked Roarc. “She’s an outsider. Mayhap a bogspit.”

“Pah on that! Tha Mother guided her here.”

“Tha healwife thinks different.”

“That’s ’cause Yim knows more ’bout birthing babes than she.” Then Rappali put on her most conciliatory face. “Please, husband, enjoy Yim’s cheese and kill tha goat for her. She’s coming back this eve.”

Roarc thought of Yim’s cheese, which was renowned for its delicate flavor, and relented. Nevertheless, he made a show of deliberating and frowned when he spoke. “I’ll slaughter and butcher tha goat after morn’s rest,” he said. He set down the basket of fish and the damaged traps. “Tend ta these afore I rise.” Then he entered his home to sleep awhile.

Rappali grabbed the basket of fish and walked down to the bog to clean them. There she could also cut the reeds to mend the traps. She would have done both without being told and regarded her husband’s insistence that she accomplish the chores before he rose as face-saving bluster. Roarc disliked slaughtering Yim’s goats. The task didn’t bother him; it was for whom he did it. Roarc wasn’t fond of Yim, and his wife’s friendship with her annoyed him.

Rappali assumed that her husband disliked Yim because she was an outsider. Fensfolk had little contact with the outside world and distrusted it. Sons who joined the ships that plied the Turgen almost never returned, and the few that did always seemed changed beyond recognition. Yim’s sudden appearance had been the subject of gossip for many winters. There were folk who actually believed she was a bogspit, a being born from the muck in the bog. Such creatures were supposed to have bog water in their veins and were burned by real blood. That was said to be the reason why Yim wouldn’t slaughter her animals.

Rappali knew Yim’s blood was as red as anyone’s, for she had found Yim just after she had given birth. Unconscious and covered in muck, Yim had looked dead. Yet she recovered, and Rappali admired how Yim had made a life for herself. Settling on isolated Far Hite with her newborn
son and three goats loaned by Rappali’s mother, she had raised a dairy herd and carved a life for herself and her child. Yim’s cheese was the best in the Grey Fens, relished even by those who claimed witchcraft was used in its making.

Rappali believed Yim’s story that war had driven her to the fens, where she could honor her oath to her dying husband that their child would never witness bloodshed. Rappali thought that Yim went too far in fulfilling that oath, but she never doubted her sincerity. Yim had experienced war, and her tales of its atrocities were chilling.
After what she’s seen
, thought Rappali,
I don’t blame her not wishing ta kill even a goat
.

Upon reaching the water’s edge, Rappali began cleaning her husband’s catch. Most of the fish were hand sized, so without their heads and tails they were little more than morsels to dry for later use. As the fenswoman scaled and gutted the fish, she thought of the other source of contention with her husband—Yim’s son. Roarc was fond of the lad, but Froan unsettled Rappali.

Her reaction put Rappali in the minority, for most folk thought well of Froan. Telk, Rappali’s only son, hung on Froan’s every word, although Telk was older and larger than his friend. He wasn’t alone in this; Froan had a knack for getting his way. Rappali found the ease with which he bent folk to his favor an unnatural trait. She believed it had something to do with his eyes. She had noticed them on the day he was born. The pale tan irises made the pupils seem all the more piercing. To her, they likened to twin holes into which one might fall and get trapped. She never spoke of this notion, for it seemed silly to fear a boy’s gaze. Yet that fear had grown stronger over time. She sometimes thought that Yim felt it also.

H
ONUS WOKE
slowly, drifting into consciousness as one emerges from a fog. When he opened his eyes, he took in little of what he saw. He had become accustomed to waking in strange places, and even the fact that he was clean and freshly clothed made little impression on him. His belly was empty, but he was oblivious of that. The emptiness that gnawed at him was of a deeper nature and one that the living world couldn’t ease. Honus slowly pulled himself into a sitting position, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes so he might trance and find some happy memory on the Dark Path.

That endeavor was foiled by a sudden sharp pain on his upper thigh. Honus tried to disregard it, but he felt a second pain and then a third. He opened his eyes and noticed for the first time that another man was in the room. He sat close by. The man had a full white beard and a matching tangle of hair. He wore a shabby robe and held a stick. Certain that the man had hit him with the stick, Honus tried to grab it. His hand grasped only air.

The stranger grinned. “Pretty slow for a Sarf.”

Though it was obvious, it only then dawned on Honus that his disguise was gone. “I’m no Sarf.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“My tattoos don’t mark service to the goddess,” replied Honus, his voice low and cold. “They display my hate for her.”

“Your runes tell a different tale.”

“A Sarf’s runes may not be seen!”

The stranger smiled. “But, as you said, you’re no Sarf. Besides, I needed diversion while I scrubbed your back.”

Honus stared into the man’s eyes, trying to discern the truth behind what he said. But as with his other skills, his powers of perception had diminished. He discerned only what was readily apparent; that the man was old, poor, and had a kindly face.

“I’ve heard of your affliction,” said the man, “but so few can trance, I’ve never encountered it before. Yet I’m certain your chill comes not from this world.”

“You speak nonsense.”

“You know I don’t,” asserted the man. “You crave the dead’s memories like a drunkard craves ale. It’s made you squander your life on the Dark Path.”

“So? It’s
my
life.”

“Your life’s Karm’s gift and therefore precious.”

“It’s a false gift that suits only the giver’s ends,” replied Honus. “Don’t speak of my tormentor.”

“Karm loves you.”

“Ha! A lie to beguile the naive. You don’t know my life.”

“I do in part,” replied the man. “It’s inscribed in your runes.”

“So my suffering was foreordained,” said Honus, his voice heavy with bitterness. “I’m not surprised. But who are you to meddle? If you’ve the skill to read my runes, then you must know it’s sacrilege.”

Daven met the Sarf’s aggressive stare with a mild look. The man on his sleeping mat was nearly dead; yet Daven was wary. He knew all too well how dangerous such men could be. Thus he replied honestly to the Sarf’s remark. “It’s not the first sacrilege I’ve committed and certainly not the gravest. Like you, I turned my back on Karm.”

“Then you’re wiser than I thought,” replied the Sarf. “Now let me be.”

Daven knew it would be the prudent thing to do, but he felt charged to take a different course. Judging from the Sarf’s conversation, he seemed to have retained his wits even if he had turned away from the living world.
If I’m to guide him back to it
, he thought,
I must do so carefully
.

“Someone dumped you on my doorstep,” said Daven. “If they hadn’t, you’d no longer need to trance to roam the Dark Path.”

The man’s only reply was a grunt.

“When I unwrapped your face, I recalled your tattoos, though not you. Yet if memory serves, you were Theodus’s Sarf. What became of him?”

“Slain.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a wise and virtuous man. It’s said the Bearer is the measure of the Sarf.” Daven bowed. “I’m honored by your presence.”

“Don’t be. I failed Theodus and …” The Sarf’s face darkened, and he grew silent.

Daven took a gamble and divulged a little of what he had learned from reading the Sarf’s runes. “You didn’t fail Yim.”

As soon as Daven spoke those words, he felt like a man who had pulled a stone from a wall and caused it to crumble. The Sarf’s aloof facade fell, spilling anguish over his features. Daven saw the depths of the man’s despair and knew that Yim was the key to understanding it. “Who was Yim?”

“She was my Bearer, and …” The Sarf paused as he struggled to control his voice. “…  and she was more than that.”

“She? Your Bearer was a woman?”

“Yes.”

“Women Bearers are rare. I thought I knew all of them.”

“Yim became my Bearer after the temple fell. Karm, herself, united us. Later, she strengthened that bond with love.” The Sarf’s eyes welled with tears. “Such love!” he said in a wistful tone. Then his voice hardened. “But it was only
Karm’s ploy to use us, and when we fulfilled her need, she tore us apart forever!”

“And you still long for Yim?”

“For seventeen winters! Now the only joy I feel comes from the memories of the dead.”

“Yet those memories aren’t yours,” said Daven, “and the heart isn’t eased by shadows.”

“They seem real enough for a moment, and during that moment I forget.”

The Sarf’s revelations gave meaning to some of the inscriptions on his back, causing Daven to consider which of his conclusions to reveal.
Clearly, I must tell him something
. The former Bearer chose his words carefully. “The goddess tore you asunder, but not forever.” He watched the Sarf’s face. A spark of animation briefly lit his forlorn eyes, but it quickly died. “I believe it’s my fate to prepare you for what lies ahead. Yim needs you.”

“My runes told you that?”

“They did.”

The Sarf was silent for a long while, and Daven had the impression that he was struggling with his feelings. At last, the tattooed man sighed and spoke. “I’m no use to her. I don’t know where she is, and I can’t even fend off an old man’s stick.”

“Don’t you want to help her?”

“Why ask pointless questions? What I want is unimportant.”

“So you’ll abandon her.”

The Sarf flushed. “Yim abandoned me!”

“Not willingly. Not without regret.”

“How could you know?”

“The runes.”

The Sarf grew so agitated that Daven feared for his life. “Oh, the callousness of Karm! And of you for abetting her!”

“Karm wants to help you, and my role is to assist her.”

The Sarf’s only response was to stare at Daven with
disbelief. The pain and sorrow in the man’s tear-rimmed eyes deeply moved Daven, and he waited awhile before he spoke again. When he did, his voice was quiet and humble. “It would help if I knew your name.”

“Honus” was the whispered reply.

“I’m Daven. As you’ve probably guessed, I was once a Bearer.”

“Daven?” The name seemed to have some meaning for Honus, for he appeared to mull over it awhile. When he spoke at last, he seemed puzzled. “Was your Sarf named Gatt?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I met him long ago. He said you had fallen.”

“He spoke truly in a manner. When folk turned against the goddess, I fled their wrath and became a hermit. But where did you meet Gatt?”

“He tried to kill Yim.” Then Honus cast Daven an unsettling smile. “Instead, he killed me.” He seemed amused by Daven’s puzzlement. “Didn’t my runes tell you?”

Recalling an inscription that spoke of Honus as “twice-lived,” Daven thought he finally understood its meaning. “They hint at a resurrection.”

“That was Yim’s doing. She was no common Bearer.”

Daven did his best to conceal the excitement evoked by Honus’s words. As a young man training in the temple, he had heard whispered rumors of a prophecy known fully only to a few Seers. It foretold the coming of a holy woman with extraordinary powers—someone called “the Chosen.”
Could this Yim be her?
Daven was hesitant to ask. Instead, he thought of another enigmatic inscription and wondered what light Honus could shed on it. “The runes speak of three intertwined fates—yours, Yim’s, and that of someone named Froan.”

“This Froan’s a stranger to me.”

“Not for long, I think.”

F
ROAN MOVED
cautiously toward the mired goat, testing the ground with his bare feet. The space between him and the doe seemed like a moist meadow, but he knew better. When the ground flexed ever so slightly, he assumed a prone position to spread his weight more evenly. Then Froan began to slither toward the panicked animal. Tall, lean, and strong, he was more man than boy. His features and walnut-colored hair made him favor his mother in looks, except for his piercing eyes. He was clad in only a goatskin breechclout, and the vegetation rasped his skin as he slid over the wet and reedy ground. Froan ignored the scrapes, intent solely on reaching the stranded doe.

“Silly Rosie,” he said in a gentle voice, “the bog’s no place for you. Now you’re wet, and I know you hate that.”

The frantic animal calmed a little after Froan spoke, but when she sank deeper into the boggy ground, she renewed her struggling. That only made her situation worse, for her churning legs further loosened the mat of floating vegetation. Froan sped up his advance, afraid that the struggling goat might break through the mat entirely and sink into the water beneath it.

“Easy, girl, I’m coming.”

Froan reached the goat. He was keenly aware that he lay upon treacherous ground. It rippled beneath his prone form and water welled wherever he pressed. Froan dragged the end of a rope in his left hand. To pull the doe out, he would need to tie the rope about her chest just behind the
forelegs. He plunged his left hand deep into the floating mat of muck and rotting vegetation to guide the rope under the goat’s body. The deeper his hand went, the looser and wetter the mat became. When Froan’s arm was submerged to the shoulder, his hand had passed under the goat’s chest. He plunged his right arm into the muck on the other side of the doe in order to grasp the end of the rope and pull it around the animal.