The Iron Palace (38 page)

When Honus had asked Rose where her twin was, her face briefly lost some of its prettiness. “She’s off sleeping naked with bears,” she replied.

“But I saw her just this morning.”

“Then you know more of her whereabouts than I. I thought she had disappeared till spring.” Rose lifted her hands in a graceful gesture of despair. “She’s such a wild little thing, I can’t keep track of her.”

Honus had made no more inquiries, and had spent the remainder of the evening attempting to be a cordial guest at a typical clan hall dinner, which included more than two dozen diners. It was a role he hadn’t played for ages, and he had felt uncomfortable in it. He had been a failure as a conversationalist, for there was little about his recent history that he cared to remember, much less relate. As for his life before Yim’s departure, it seemed to him the tale of a different man, one who had become a stranger. Cara had sensed Honus’s unease and shushed young Cronin’s and Torald’s pleas for tales of battle. Nevertheless, Honus couldn’t politely evade Havren’s inquiries, and he had given a terse account of his one-man siege of Bahl’s stronghold and the pursuit of Yim’s captors that led to her rescue. Otherwise, he had eaten in silence, and departed as soon as courtesy allowed.

Honus’s late rising meant that the hall’s daily activity was well under way by the time he left his room. He went down to the chamber off the kitchen where the house hold ate their morning porridge. Due to his tardiness, he expected the porridge to be cold, and it was. Honus also expected the room to be empty. Instead, Cara was waiting for him.

“Good morn, Honus,” she said cheerily. “I trust your bed was softer than the frozen ground, and the room warmer than a snowbank.”

“Yes, it exceeded all expectations,” replied Honus. “It
was even strewn with flowers in shades appropriate to the season.”

“The room was last used by newlyweds,” replied Cara. “Hence the flowers.”

“If it’s a love nest, then I’m out of place.”

“ ’Twas na you I was thinking about,” replied Cara with a twinkle in her eye. “Who knows? Perhaps Yim will turn up. One can always hope.”

“Only yesterday, you seemed to caution against hope.”

“Perhaps I’ve been encouraged by this morning’s miracle, for it seems you’ve grown a new tongue. You were quite the lump at last night’s dinner.”

“I’ve grown unused to dining with others. So, it seems, has your other daughter. I missed her last night.”

“You mean Violet?”

“Yes. I wished to speak to her about Yim.”

“Well, there’s little point in waiting for her at meals. She seldom shows up. Better to go to her tower. She stays in a burrow beneath the tree. If she chooses to speak with you, she’ll pop out of it. Otherwise, she’ll na appear. If so, let her be. ’Tis unwise to trifle with her.”

“She’s but a girl.”

“Do na be fooled by appearances. Provoke her, and you provoke the Old Ones. And they make fell enemies.”

“All I want to do is talk. I doubt that will offend her.”

“Well, there’s a log that runs from the outer wall to an opening high in the tower’s side. ’Tis the only entrance and treacherous footing in icy weather. After all your journeying, ’twould na do for you to slip and break your neck, so take care. Oh … and have na iron upon your person. That’s all the advice I can give, except to counsel talking more at dinner. You were na so shy with me yesterday, thank Karm for that!”

“That’s because we’re old friends.”

“Oh, we’re na old. At least, I’m na. Neither are you, just weather-beaten. You’ve left yourself outdoors too long. It
has na served you well, but never mind. A rest will mend you. Well, I must be off. A clan mother heads a large family indeed, and they save their squabbles for the wintry moons. Today, it’s over oat fields and roving sheep. Serious business, Honus. Trust me,
very serious
. May Karm give me strength!”

Cara hurried off, leaving Honus to eat his cold porridge. When he finished, he returned to his room. There he checked his pockets for anything made of iron, then donned his cloak and headed for Thistle’s tower. The log that Cara mentioned bridged a three-pace gap between the tower and the clan hall’s surrounding wall. It was no thicker that a man’s thigh, so it functioned as an obstacle as well as a bridge. The snow on its surface was undisturbed, a thin line of white contrasting with the tower’s dark stone. Honus stepped onto it and made a hasty crossing to the low opening on the far side. He had to duck to enter it.

Once inside the tower, it seemed as if he were standing in a brown meadow surrounded by a circular wall that shut out the view of everything except the sky. A winding path had been trampled through the waist-high plants, and it led to the tree in the center of the enclosure. The oak grew atop a small mound and its gnarled roots surrounded the opening to the burrow that Cara had mentioned. Honus strode up to the hole and called down the dark opening. “Greetings, Thistle. Will you speak with me?”

Honus waited, but he heard no reply or sound of any sort.

“Thistle?”

Again, there was no sound. After standing in the snow awhile, Honus concluded that he should return to the hall. He was about to cross the log again when he heard a voice call, “Karmamatus!” Honus turned and saw Thistle sitting cross-legged on the snow in front of her burrow. She possessed such a presence that Honus bowed before walking back and squatting before her.

Thistle wore the same cloak that Freenla had given her. Close up, it appeared woven out of grass and vines, a rough garment that didn’t look warm. Thistle had tucked the rear of the cloak beneath her to avoid sitting directly on the snow. It was her only concession to the cold; beneath the cloak she wore only her skirt of leaves, and her pale skin had taken on a bluish cast. It made Honus pity her suffering.

As if she had read his thoughts, Thistle smiled and said. “I’m merely one with the season, though at times I miss my bear. Despite what Little Sister said, I only sleep with one.”

“So you don’t mind the cold?”

“Does the snow mind it? But you did na come to ask me that. Speak what’s on your mind.”

“When you met me, you spoke of one you called Mother.”

“You know of whom I speak.”

“Yim?”

Thistle smiled. “Mother.”

“You told Freenla that she’s coming. Is she coming soon?”

“Mother gathers coins as she walks. It slows her pace. But I’ll be winter hued when she and I speak.” Thistle smiled as if Honus had said something funny. “ ’Tis na so strange to come to me for answers. I’m older than my sister, and wiser, too.” With that last remark, it seemed to Honus that the girl’s tranquil expression turned sad. But it was only a passing change, and Thistle was placid when she spoke again. “Karmamatus, we two are alike—’tis our lot to wait and help as best we can. Build your strength, and your inner strength most of all. Ere long, ’twill be tested.”

Once again, Honus felt that he should bow. He did, and when he raised his head, the only sign of Thistle was a slight impression in the snow. He rose, crossed the slender bridge, and made his way back into the warmth of the hall. All the while, he kept thinking of Thistle. It seemed to him
that her lot was particularly hard, for Rose showed what her life would have been had the faeries not taken her.
Did the Old Ones bless or curse Thistle?
Honus couldn’t decide which, any more than he could decide if his love for Yim was a blessing or a curse. Either way, he felt bound by it.

Although Honus’s interview with Thistle wasn’t entirely satisfactory, it gave him hope that he would be reunited with Yim before the winter was out. Since his role was to wait, he resolved to become good at it. He became more sociable. He trained during the day or participated in the frequent hunts. He devoted his evenings to Cara’s children, relating his adventures with their late uncle whom they had never known. He visited Thistle’s tower several more times, but she never came out when he called. Since she made no appearances in the hall, Honus believed that she had returned to the faerie dell until Freenla told him otherwise.

“Doesn’t she eat?” Honus asked. “No one takes food to her tower.”

“The mice do that,” replied Freenla.

Honus thought that she was jesting until he remembered that owls had brought food to Lila. Afterward, Honus noted tiny trails in the snow leading to a narrow crack in the tower’s base. Once, he even spied a rodent convoy, traveling single file and unmolested by the cat that watched it. It made him think of Thistle, high in her tower and yet underground. He empathized with her loneliness, for he had lived apart from others also. However, he had frequented the Dark Path, while Thistle seemed to travel in different realms. Honus had no idea what they might be. Neither could he fathom how she lived, nor what things—if any—brought her joy. Yet he knew what she was doing. Like him, she was waiting. He wondered if she foresaw what would happen when the wait was over. He certainly didn’t.

T
HE COMMON
room was perfectly silent except for Frodoric’s frenzied strumming. Yim prepared to rise, knowing that the ballad was about to end. Then the bard accompanied his harp playing by singing in a high falsetto:

Frodoric played the final chord, and as its echoes died, he bowed. While his audience clapped and shouted, Yim rose to whisk the bard’s floppy, feathered cap from his head and gracefully move about the room. As she held out the sacklike hat to receive donations, she looked like a woman enraptured by song. There was nothing beggarly about her demeanor; yet each time a man threw a coin into the cap, she smiled so warmly at him that he often tossed in a second one and sometimes even a third. Yim seemed to pay no mind whether the coin was copper or the far rarer silver, but she kept track nonetheless.

After making her rounds, Yim deftly whisked the coins into the large pocket at the front of her woolen skirt, holding back a few to pay for Frodoric’s ale. She obtained a large mug and brought it over to the bard, who was surrounded by rustic admirers. Frodoric smiled when she handed him the ale. “Thank you, Mirien. Singing’s thirsty work.” He
took a deep swallow. “What did you think of tonight’s rendition?”

“Oh, Frodoric, it was your best yet! I don’t know how you did it, but this night you surpassed your performance for the emperor. When the faeries demanded Cara’s arm and you sang ‘This hand will ne’er my firstborn hold,’ I—I—” Yim began to sob. Frodoric seemed forced to reach out and pat her hand before she could continue. “I—I was just so moved. I love that ballad and never tire of it.”

Frodoric smiled. “I know.” He turned to his audience. “Mirien was betrothed to a count, but my art ensnared her, and she forsook him to lead our vagabond life. I oft feel guilty over it.”

“Pray don’t, my sweet,” said Yim. “What are jewels and manor houses compared to truth and beauty?” Then she grabbed Frodoric’s mug and took a long swig from it before settling into a chair and assuming a blissful expression. It was a convincing performance, and none in the room—not even Frodoric—guessed how thoroughly sick Yim was of “The Ballad of Cara One Arm.” She knew every word by heart, and having lived through the events that they purportedly recounted, she was irritated by their falsehood. As far as Yim was concerned, all the ballad got right was Rodric’s betrayal and a reasonable approximation of Cara’s fortitude and bravery. The rest was goat dung in her estimation, and she was heartily glad that there was no mention of her in the song whatsoever.

Frodoric knew that Yim was tired of the ballad, but he knew nothing about her role in its actual events. That was because Yim had taken care to remain a mystery. She was still Mirien to Frodoric—witty, useful, and aloof. In large part, she was as contented with their arrangement as he was. Traveling with Frodoric provided a modicum of safety, not only because a man accompanied her but also because bards were valued entertainers. Moreover, Frodoric knew the roads, and they usually slept indoors.

The price for those advantages was traveling slowly. The bard never passed any village that held the slightest promise, and the farther south they went, the shorter were the distances between settlements. Although Frodoric hadn’t mentioned it, Yim knew that they were approaching Averen. It had taken them nearly two moons to get that far, and the closer they got to her goal, the slower they went. Yim was convinced that was intentional on Frodoric’s part.

While the bard was enjoying his ale and adulation, Yim saw the innkeeper and gave him three extra coppers so that their room would be a private one. Then she took a rush candle and retired to it.

The chamber was small, and contained only one bed. That was also small, but at least it had a cover. Augmented by her cloak, it would make for warm sleeping. Yim spread her cloak over the tattered cover, took off her boots, and slipped into bed, otherwise fully clothed. She wasn’t tired, for they had traveled only part of the morning, but it was warmer to wait in bed until Frodoric finished drinking.

It was late when the bard entered the room, humming softly to himself. “When the innkeeper told me about the change of rooms,” he said, “I had hoped to find you naked.”

“Then the power of your optimism is exceeded only by your imagination,” replied Yim.

“A man can dream, can’t he?”

“Dreaming’s permissible, but only that.”

Frodoric shucked his boots, removed his multicolored jerkin, and then pulled off his striped trousers, so that he was dressed only in his hole-riddled socks and a long linen blouse. “Move over, Mirien.”

“What?” replied Yim. “I, a count’s betrothed, share a bed? Fie! Haven’t I already abandoned my jewels and manor houses?”

Frodoric laughed. “That was a nice touch, as was ‘my sweet.’ Now move over.”

Yim shifted toward the wall. As Frodoric climbed
beneath the covers, he frowned. “Must you wear all your clothes to bed?”

“Yes, as a prevention for temptation. Besides, I’m always cold.”

“Mayhap, but your clothes are getting ripe.”