The Iron Palace (5 page)

As Yim walked alone, she brooded. Rappali was her closest friend—in truth her only one—but Yim didn’t dare reveal her secret even to her. Thus she couldn’t speak about what increasingly troubled her thoughts. It seemed ironic that Rappali had unknowingly spoken about it when she’d said “blood will always show.” That was Yim’s deepest fear, for Froan’s father was a monster.

Tales of Lord Bahl’s bloody rampages were known even in the Grey Fens, where folk assumed such terrors were distant. Yet their source wasn’t distant at all. Bahl’s cruelty and power arose from the Devourer, the malign entity that had possessed him. When Yim had bedded Bahl, that entity had passed through her to Froan. Yim was well aware of its malevolence, for having served briefly as a vessel for evil, a bit of it still lingered in her. Yim likened herself to a goblet that had held poison and was forever tainted.

That was the real reason Yim didn’t slaughter her goats. The Devourer craved bloodshed because death fed its power. Since the sight of blood awoke that craving, Yim prevented Froan from seeing it. The only meat he ever ate was smoked until it was thoroughly dried. Whenever Yim prepared it, even she had to summon her willpower not
to lick her bloody knife.
If I’m tempted, what hope has Froan?

However, craving blood was merely an outward sign of the Devourer’s need for carnage. Lord Bahl’s name had been linked with war for generation after generation, as each son became like his father and took up the sword. As the Chosen, Yim had broken the cycle by seducing Bahl and fleeing with his unborn son. Afterward, peace had ensued.
But for how long?

As of late, that question was constantly on Yim’s mind. She feared that the Devourer would overwhelm her son and claim him as its own. She hadn’t always felt that way. Froan had been an adorable child, and life with him on Far Hite—though hard—had been peaceful and often idyllic. As a toddler, Froan had been subject to rages, but Yim worked to help him tame them. For many winters, it seemed that she had succeeded. Yim loved Froan, set an example, taught him self-discipline, and hoped for the best. Nevertheless, she hid the knives.

With the onset of Froan’s adolescence, Yim had become increasingly uneasy. It seemed that the dark thing inside him had been merely biding its time. Yim began to feel lonely as her son grew ever more distant. He started lying to her. Somehow he learned how to thwart her gaze so that she could no longer perceive what he was thinking. Yim soon found it necessary to veil her thoughts, for the power of Froan’s eyes had strengthened. Like his father, he began to sway others to his will. His skill at this was rudimentary compared to Lord Bahl’s, but Yim viewed Froan’s growing abilities with distress.

What can I do?
Yim asked herself. The question had long bedeviled her.
Love is my greatest strength, but can it overcome evil?
Lately, she had come to doubt it.
I gave up so much. Was it worth it?
Yim counted what she had gained.
I obeyed the goddess and fulfilled my destiny. I thwarted Lord Bahl and brought peace. Because of me, Honus lived
. As always,
thoughts of Honus evoked longing. Memories of their moments of love—they seemed only moments—were both solace and torment in her exile. Yim still wondered where Honus was and what he was doing. With all her heart, she hoped that he had found happiness.

Yim was weary when she reached Far Hite, but she didn’t head for home. Instead, she went to the hite’s northern side to cut up the goat and smoke it while Froan slept. When Yim had first arrived at the hite, she made one of the smaller caves into a place for smoking and storing meat by constructing a door to seal its entrance. In anticipation of the night’s work, she had already erected the smoking racks and gathered wood for the fire. Yim would do the butchering on a wide, flat stone outside the cave’s entrance. Upon reaching her destination, she lay her burden down and went to light a reed torch so she could work in the dark.

As Yim approached the torch, something white caught her eye. She froze and her heart began pounding. There was a shape just beyond a nearby tree. Though it was vaporous and indistinct, it seemed to be taking the form of a woman robed in white. Yim called out in a voice quavering with emotion, “Karm?”

Then a breeze blew, and the shape dissipated. Yim realized that she had been peering at some mist caught in a beam of moonlight. She glanced about, saw more rising vapor, and knew that hope and a trick of the light had caused her to see what she most desired. “That wasn’t the goddess,” she said to the night, as if it needed convincing. “I haven’t had a vision since I conceived Froan.”

Yim was certain that she knew why: part of the enemy remained within her.
Karm can’t speak to me without speaking to the Devourer
. Nevertheless, that understanding didn’t lessen her sense of abandonment. The goddess’s absence was yet another burden she had to bear. “Small wonder my eyes play tricks on me.” Yim sighed heavily, then lit the torch.

Before Yim butchered the carcass, she took care of the hide. First she spread it out, hair side down, and liberally covered it with salt. Salt was a trade item in the Grey Fens, and precious, but there was no other way to cure a hide. Then she folded the skin, placing salted side to salted side, folded it again, put it in a loosely woven reed basket, and hung it in the cave. Afterward, she whetted her knife and began to cut the meat into thin strips. It took a long time to reduce an entire goat to ribbons of flesh and arrange them on the racks for smoking. Afterward, Yim lit a fire and disposed of the goat’s bones while the fire burned to embers. Then she retrieved wood that she had soaked in the bog, covered the embers with the wet boughs, and set the racks of meat over them to smoke. By then, she was totally exhausted, and the sky was lightening with the promise of dawn.

There was one last thing Yim had to do before she could sleep: she needed to clean the blood from the butchering stone. With the day’s first light, she could see it more clearly. Thick clots of dark maroon covered the smooth gray rock. Yim stared at the butchering stone wearily, feeling too tired to fetch the water to wash it. That was when the compulsion seized her to lick the stone clean instead. Before she knew it, she was running her tongue over its surface. While alarmed by what she was doing, Yim couldn’t stop. She savored the salty, metallic taste that encompassed life and death at once, and it was a long while before she found the strength to break away.

Then Yim stood shuddering in the dawn, distraught over her weakness and the power of the evil thing inside her. She knew that it was nothing compared to the force of what lay within her son. Staring at the stone in the light of daybreak, she saw that it was mostly clean. As Yim went to get water to wash the remnant of blood away, she despaired for Froan.

A
VAGRANT’S
life had made Honus a light sleeper, and he woke as soon as dawn’s light streamed through Daven’s open door. The hermit lay close by, apparently asleep. Honus quietly rose into a cross-legged sitting position, closed his eyes, and commenced the meditations to trance, but instead of visiting the Dark Path, he felt Daven’s stick across his back. “Thief!” shouted the old man. “I won’t have it!”

Honus opened his eyes and saw that Daven had retreated out of reach. “Why name me that? I’ve stolen nothing.”

“I, too, can trance,” replied Daven. “So I know what you were taking—the memories of others.”

“Memories the dead have discarded.”

“Those who snatched offerings from the temple claimed the gifts were discarded, too. Your offense is no less great.”

“Theodus never objected.”

“Never?”

“Well, seldom.”

“You mean he indulged your vice,” said Daven. “That was a mistake. And see how it has ended. Yesterday you spoke of your feelings for Yim. If you’re to help her, you must stop trancing.”

“It’s not so easy,” replied Honus.

“It’s oft easier to die than live. Is that what you choose? To forsake your love?”

“She forsook me.”

Daven sighed dramatically. “We’ve been through this
before. She felt she had no choice. Will you hold it against her?”

Honus said nothing.

“Then abandon Yim for the memories of others, for happiness that isn’t yours. But if you do, I’ll tell you this: You’ll soon visit the Dark Path and find you can’t return. Already, it’s entered your heart. Don’t you feel an unnatural coldness? You must break free of it.”

“How?”

“Eat. Rebuild your strength. Submit to my discipline.”

“And who made you my master?”

“Didn’t you say you’ve been apart from Yim for seventeen winters?”

“Yes. So?”

“Seventeen’s a fateful number, for it clarifies what’s tattooed upon your back. The Seer who made those marks foretold my role, and Karm inspired the Seer. You may have renounced the goddess, but she never renounced you. Won’t you return her love?”

Honus sat silently as Daven waited for a reply. It was a long while before the old man shook his head and looked away.

The Most Holy Gorm’s divining chamber was atop the highest tower in the Iron Palace, but sunlight never entered it. Only a single oil lamp broke the darkness of the windowless room. The smoky flame gave the air a pungent odor but didn’t ease its otherworldly coldness. The lamp’s pale light illuminated an iron door and walls of black basalt, a circle of blood painted on the stone floor, the corpse of the young boy sacrificed to provide it, and the Devourer’s high priest. Gorm sat within the circle’s protection and cast a set of ancient human bones upon the floor. They were yellow with age and inscribed with runes. As the bones clattered upon the cold stone, they appeared to move as if stirred by an unfelt wind, and it took some time for them to settle.

After the bones grew still, Gorm stared at them and noted their positions, where their shadows fell, and what runes were exposed. On three successive days, he had performed the ritual. Each time the revelation was the same. “Seventeen,” he uttered to the chilly darkness. “Seventeen today.”

The room slowly warmed as Gorm waited patiently within the circle of blood until it was safe to leave it. Even he wasn’t immune to his master’s malice, and the blood served as both offering and barrier. When the Most Holy One deemed it safe, he left the tower room and descended the long spiral stairway to the palace rooms below. Passing through them to the great hall, it was impossible to ignore their neglect. Gorm had been present when the foundation of the Iron Palace was laid, and had lived through the reigns of all its lords. The structure reflected the wax and wane of the lineage. Its iron exterior was oiled and black when Lord Bahl was in the fullness of his power, and rusty when that power passed to an infant heir. But never had the cycle reached such a low. Gorm walked past empty rooms shrouded in dust and gazed out dirty windows to view towers and crenellated walls encrusted with a thick reddish cancer.

Few servants remained, and even the garrison of the Iron Guard had many empty bunks. That was partly due to economy, for no plunder poured into the coffers, but it also reduced the number of potential wagging tongues. Gorm knew it was rumored that the heir was absent. He had done his utmost to suppress the talk, but it was hard to hide what was so plainly evident: The lord of the Iron Palace was but a husk with his seed missing. The most Gorm could hope for was an uneasy silence until the heir was found.

Gorm entered the great hall, his footsteps echoing in the empty, cobwebbed space. He passed the huge, cold fireplace and the unused banquet tables with their vacant chairs, all pale with long-gathered dust, to reach the raised platform at the room’s end. There were two seats upon it, a large ornate one at the forefront, and Gorm’s seat, slightly to the rear.
The latter was modest in appearance, and few realized it was where Bahland’s true ruler sat. The ornate chair was occupied. Gorm bowed to the man sitting there out of habit, but there was no deference in his manner. “My lord, your son was born this day, seventeen winters past.”

The man on the throne replied in a dull voice. “That long ago? How do you know?”

“The bones told me.” Gorm gazed at Lord Bahl with thinly disguised contempt.
He was almost a god
, he thought. Gorm assumed that the Devourer had once so filled the man that little remained after it had departed. The pale, thin figure upon the throne resembled a squeezed rind, a withered and juiceless castoff. His eyes, which formerly had been so daunting, possessed the weary and haunted look of someone who hesitates to sleep for fear of dreams.

“Why tell me this?” asked Bahl. “It’s useless information.”

“Oh, it’s far from useless. The time’s auspicious.”

“Auspicious for what?”

“To reach out to your son and persuade him to come home.”

“How? Your precious magic bones have failed to divine his whereabouts. I can’t speak to someone who can’t be found.”

“I’ve a means for you to do just that.”

Bahl’s expression grew uneasy. “Through sorcery?”

“Yes. It’s the only way.”

“Why now?”

“As I said, the time’s auspicious.”

“Then do it yourself. Magic’s your province.”

“Only a father may accomplish the feat. You sound fearful. Why?”

“Because I am. Your sorcery has cost me dearly.”

“You failed our master, not I!” said Gorm, his voice echoing through the dark hall. “You would have been the world’s sovereign—immortal and omnipotent—if you hadn’t tupped
that girl. Do you imagine the Devourer was pleased by your deed? Do you suppose that you’re forgiven? Don’t fear my sorcery. Fear our master’s retribution.” Then Gorm softened his tone. “This ritual is your chance for redemption. Your only chance, I might add.”

Though it seemed impossible, Bahl’s bloodless face grew even paler. “What must I do?”

“Join me atop the high tower at dusk.”

After the Most Holy One had departed, Lord Bahl rang for a servant to bring him wine. An elderly man appeared from a side door to receive the request and departed the same way to fulfill it. Bahl seldom began drinking so early, but he needed to drown his apprehensions. Gorm terrified him, and he dreaded the idea of visiting the high tower. Nonetheless, he saw no alternative. After his downfall, he had learned who possessed the real power in the Iron Palace. It wasn’t him. Bahl had come to believe that it had always been so. Even when he recalled the height of his power—when he commanded conquering armies and subdued men with a single glance—it seemed that true mastery lay elsewhere.
I was only power’s vessel
, thought Bahl,
once full, now empty. But the power was never mine. I merely thought it was
. Such thinking made Lord Bahl bitter, but not rebellious. There was no rebelling against the Devourer.