The Iron Palace (44 page)

Froan advanced closer. When he was near enough to clearly view the man’s deeply tanned face, he had two contradictory impressions: The man looked youthful, seemingly Froan’s elder by just a dozen winters. At the same time, his gray eyes appeared ancient. The man bowed. “Your lordship, I am the Most Holy Gorm, highest in the order that serves your cause. Long have I awaited this meeting.”

Froan gazed into Gorm’s eyes and discovered that he was unable to penetrate beneath their surface. He discerned only what any keen observer might see: that Gorm was unafraid of him and that he exuded an air of triumph.

F
ROAN CLIMBED
the short flight of stairs leading to the platform. He was still in his armor, which was stained with the blood of the thirteen he had executed. Gorm grinned at the sight of him. “Every bit a lord,” he said. “It is as if you had grown up within these walls.” He paused to appraise
him. “You possess your father’s gaze but your mother’s coloring.”

“You knew her?” asked Froan.

“Of course. I was there when she betrayed your father. Where did she hide you all this time?”

“The Grey Fens.”

“That dismal bog?” said Gorm. “Your arrival is proof of your greatness. A lesser man would have never escaped.”

“You said she betrayed my father. Did she slay him?”

“She cut out his heart,” said the Most Holy One, shaking his head. “Such a traitorous way to repay his devotion.”

Froan gazed into Gorm’s eyes again, but they remained impervious to his scrutiny. “Why?”

“I believe that she thought she could work magic with it. She had another lover—”

“I know,” said Froan. “Honus. She claimed he was my father and said he was a goatherd. That was also a lie. My father’s spirit revealed that Honus was a Sarf.”

Gorm’s eyes widened, as if he were surprised. “You were visited by your father’s ghost?”

“Yes. He hinted at my heritage, but only that.”

“Then what happened? Did your mother release you?”

“No,” said Froan. “We fought.”

“I’m hardly surprised.”

“And I killed her.”

Gorm raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I cut her throat.”

“The memory seems to pain you.”

“Somewhat. It was an accident. She was grabbing for my dagger and fell onto my blade.”

“Well, don’t blame yourself. There’s such a thing as fate, and your mother’s treachery sealed hers. Before you mourn her, think upon this: your father’s death was no accident.”

“Still,” said Froan, “she was the only parent I knew.”

“Your father had a premonition of his end and charged me with your care.” Gorm bowed his head in a gesture of
humility. “A charge I failed. Your mother outwitted me by fleeing before you were born. But by your grace, I’ll redeem myself and teach you all you need to know.”

“I’d appreciate that,” said Froan. “This life is new to me.”

Gorm bowed again. “I thank you for your trust, my lord. I believe you’ll master your role quicker than you suppose. After all, you were born to rule.”

“That’s what my father said.”

Gorm smiled. “Never doubt his wisdom.”

Froan and Gorm continued talking for quite a while, but their conversation shifted to a mundane discussion of palace life. Froan had the distinct impression that Gorm had learned all he wanted to know at the very onset and that he had been able to discern things left unsaid. What ever the Most Holy One discovered apparently pleased him, for he seemed to be struggling to hide his satisfaction under a guise of formality. Eventually, the palace chamberlain appeared and Gorm left Froan in the servant’s care.

When Froan arrived at his private apartments, he had the eerie sensation that he had been there before. Everything looked vaguely familiar, although he had never seen anything like the elegant rooms in his life. Their walls and high ceilings were paneled in a wood so dark that it was nearly black. The ceilings were elaborately carved, while tapestries depicting battle scenes hung on the walls. One showed soldiers climbing a mound of corpses to surmount a battlement. The figures in the foreground stood knee-deep in blood. It hung in the oversized room where servants stripped off Froan’s armor and dressed him in dark red velvet.

In a private dining room, other servants brought out wine and meat. After they piled a table with more than five could eat or drink, Froan sent them away. He grabbed a brimming wine goblet and a haunch of rare meat and then wandered about. He was both exuberant and uneasy.
Everything about his situation felt perfectly right and disturbingly wrong. The latter feeling wasn’t as strong as the former, but it was persistent, and he couldn’t dismiss it. He felt like someone who would be at perfect ease if it weren’t for a grain of sand beneath an eyelid. He had achieved his destiny and become a great lord. He possessed powers beyond the dreams of ordinary men. Nevertheless, it was spoiled by one small thing—the remnants of a conscience that he couldn’t banish.

Rage boiled up within him.
This is Mam’s fault!
he thought.
She’s ruining this for me!
He was certain that his weaknesses arose from her, and the idea infuriated him.
But what can I do? I’ve already cut her throat
. Ironically, it seemed that his only obstacle to contentment was himself. With mounting fury, he rang for a servant and a man hurried in. “What do you wish, my lord?”

Froan held out the haunch of meat. “Come and look at this!” When the man rushed over, Froan said, “It’s overdone. I want it like this.” He plunged his dagger into the servant’s bowels. “Bloody.”

The servant screamed in agony as Froan twisted the blade, feeling a rush of excitement that overwhelmed his ambivalence. After the man fell writhing to the floor and expired, Froan felt both graced by the Devourer and as one with all the lords who had preceded him. That mood persisted throughout the rest of his meal, which he ate in the presence of the servant’s corpse. Afterward, he retired to his bedchamber, where a huge window overlooked the bay and the sea beyond. Froan had never seen the ocean before, and he gazed at it for a long while. The setting sun was disappearing into the water, coloring it bloodred. It was a shade that perfectly fit his mood.

Stregg followed the Most Holy Gorm up the winding stairs of the divining tower in a state of anticipation. When
he entered the holy chamber, he was surprised by its simplicity. It was a cubic room built of black stone with an iron door engraved with runes. A very young boy, gagged and bound hand and foot, lay shivering on the floor. He regarded Stregg and the Most Holy One with terrified eyes. A single oil lamp illuminated the room. It sat on a massive stone block that served as a table and was the room’s sole furnishing. There were a number of items on the table, but Stregg’s gaze was immediately drawn to the gleaming silver chain—the emblem of the More Holy One.

“Give me your pendant,” said Gorm.

Stregg removed the leather cord that suspended the iron circle that symbolized the Devourer. The rusty pendant was a family heirloom, and precious to him. Gorm took it and smiled. “I remember presenting this same pendant to your great-grandfather when he was younger than you are now.” He took a bronze dagger from his robe and cut the cord away. Then walking over to the table, he attached the pendant to the silver chain using an iron clasp. “Kneel.”

Stregg knelt, and the Most Holy One slipped the chain over his head. Stregg admired the emblem of his new office. The chain resembled Gorm’s except in its material, featuring tiny skulls and interlocking links modeled after bones.

“Rise,” said Gorm. “That chain is but a symbol. It confers no power or gifts. Only our master does that, and it does this through the ritual of bone, hair, blood, and flesh.” Gorm returned to the table and picked up a yellowed finger bone. “Your pre de ces sor provides the bone. The More Holy Daijen failed our master. Learn from his example.” Gorm dropped the bone into a small iron bowl, took up an iron pestle, and ground the bone to powder.

“What happened to him?” asked Stregg.

“He died of old age,” replied Gorm, flashing an ironic smile. “It wasn’t as gentle a death as you might suppose. Now you must provide the hair, blood, and flesh. By this means, our master will know you.” Gorm grabbed a handful
of Stregg’s long, greasy hair and cut off a lock with his dagger. After he added the lock to the bowl, he said, “Now bare your arm so I might open a vein.”

Stregg obeyed. Gorm punctured a vein in the priest’s wrist and held it over the bowl, releasing the arm only when the bowl was nearly full of blood. “Before you bandage that,” said Gorm, “I’ll take the flesh.” Gorm pinched the skin of Stregg’s lower arm just below the elbow and passed his blade between his fingers and the arm to slice away a piece of skin the size of a large coin. Stregg clenched his teeth in pain, but said nothing. “There’s cloth to wrap your wounds,” said Gorm as he added the flesh to the bowl.

As Stregg bandaged himself, Gorm continued talking. “Now, we must contact our master. After you become the More Holy One, I’ll instruct you on how to do this. The sole thing you need know tonight is that you can do this only from inside the protection of a circle of blood and the blood must come from a male.”

“A male child?” asked Stregg.

“Any male will do,” replied Gorm. “I use children because they’re convenient. The important thing is that there must be no gap in the circle and you cannot leave its confines while our master is present. Break either of these rules and you’ll be fortunate to be only maimed. I knew one man who was reduced to a living cinder. Now cut that boy’s throat.”

Stregg did as he was told. He also painted the circle under Gorm’s watchful eye. Afterward, he knelt inside it with the Most Holy One, who silently performed the necessary meditations. The Devourer’s presence was signaled by a sudden drop in temperature, a dimming of the lamp’s flame, and an oppressive atmosphere of malice. Then the contents of the bowl, which Gorm had set on the floor outside the circle, began to boil. The boiling produced thick black smoke that had a harsh, putrescent stench. It was all Stregg could do to keep from gagging.

After a while, the bowl stopped smoking. Still, Gorm cautioned Stregg to stay within the circle until the room warmed and the atmosphere of malice dissipated. At last, Gorm stepped from the circle and handed Stregg the bowl. It was still warm, and its contents were reduced to tarry goo. Gorm handed him a spoon. “Eat what’s in the bowl and you’ll become the More Holy One. Afterward, we’ll celebrate with wine. It will help wash the taste away.”

Gorm’s apartments were at the very top of the palace, adjoining the entrance to the divining tower. The rusty iron door leading to them looked strictly utilitarian. It opened to a short hallway sealed by another equally plain iron door. Consequently, the gold-paneled room behind it seemed all the more dazzling. Huge bas-reliefs depicting historic scenes caught and reflected the light from dozens of candles. Stregg was momentarily stunned by the grandeur of the chamber. When he recovered, he walked over to the nearest relief to examine it more closely. “Does this portray the destruction of Karm’s temple?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Gorm. “It’s my most recent acquisition. The artist actually participated in the slaughter.” He pointed to another relief. “That’s the battle of Karvakken Pass.” He gestured to a wall covered with flat sheets of gold. “And that’s where the Rising will go.”

Stregg grinned. “An event that will happen in my lifetime, now that I’m the More Holy One.”

“That would be so even if you hadn’t become immortal.” Gorm clapped his hand, and a girl of perhaps fifteen winters entered the room. She was dressed in a short black tunic so sheer that Stregg could faintly view her nakedness. She was beautiful, but it was her white hair, pink eyes, and pale, almost transparent skin that made her striking. “Bring wine,” Gorm commanded.

As the girl hurried to obey, Stregg turned to his host. “She’s stunning. What’s her name?”

“I don’t give them names,” said Gorm. “But this one’s unusual. I ordered her from Larresh, sight unseen. They had to ship her in a bag, for the sun blisters her.”

“So ye think the Rising—” Stregg stopped talking when the girl returned with wine and goblets.

“You can speak freely around her,” said Gorm. “I remove the tongues of all my girls.”

“A wise precaution,” said Stregg, “and a cure for prattling as well.”

“Yes,” said Gorm. “All they can do is moan.”

“So ye think this Lord Bahl may be the final one?”

“I’m sure of it. The boy’s shown remarkable abilities for one still incomplete.”

“Incomplete?”

“He has yet to drink his mother’s blood to realize his true potential. Currently, the Devourer is divided between them.”

“But his mother’s dead,” said Stregg. “Bahl told me so.”

Gorm smiled. “I know he believes that, which will make everything much easier. Usually Lord Bahl never sees his mother until the suckling. At the ceremony, she’s just some stranger to him. Only afterward do I reveal her identity.” Gorm paused, seemingly puzzled. “You’d think it wouldn’t bother them, but it always does. And then afterward, the knowledge hardens them. This time, I expect my revelation to have an especially strong effect.”

“Don’t ye worry about him lashing out?”

“Ha! Lord Bahl is only the Devourer’s vessel, and I’m the Most Holy One. This is my palace, in truth. That’s why I live in golden rooms while Bahl dwells in wooden ones.”

Gorm’s slave gave him his wine in a golden goblet and then gave Stregg a silver one. “To the Rising!” said Gorm.

Stregg clinked his goblet against his host’s. “To the Rising!” He drank deeply in an effort to cleanse the foul taste from his mouth. “Ye said it will be soon.”

“When Lord Bahl’s complete, his army will pour into
Averen. All those he doesn’t slay, he’ll inflame to swell his forces for Vinden’s destruction. When the slaughter is sufficient, the Devourer will burst forth from his fleshy prison to stride the world and reign forever. And we’ll be his immortal servants, as exalted and feared as the god we serve.”

“And when will Bahl be complete?”