The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  “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.”

  FIVE

  FROAN 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.

  Rosie’s struggling hampered Froan’s efforts, and he began to think that she would sink before he could secure her. The idea was infuriating. As always when rage gripped him, it was sudden, intense, and irrational. Within an instant, Froan went from attempting to save Rosie to wanting to kill her. Moreover, he acted on his impulse. He stopped groping for the rope and withdrew his right arm and hand from the wet, black rot so he could push the doe’s muzzle into it and suffocate her.

  Froan’s hand was on the back of Rosie’s head before he tried to stifle his fury. For a moment, he teetered between saving and destroying her. His entire arm trembled from the intensity of the inner conflict. Then his hand suddenly plunged into the stinking muck, grabbed the rope’s end, and pulled it up. With blackened fingers, Froan quickly tied the rope to form a loop about the doe. Then he slithered to where the ground was firm. Rising to his feet, Froan tugged the rope.

  The muck resisted Froan’s efforts, then gave way to his wiry strength. Gradually, the doe moved forward and upward. All the while, Froan encouraged her. “Come to me, sweetheart. That’s a girl, Rosie.” There was nothing in his cajoling tone that betrayed his former rage. It had dissipated as quickly as it had arisen, but Froan still felt its aftereffects. In addition to guilt, he had the queasy feeling that something foul had possessed him. As a child, Froan had called his rage his “shadow,” and he still thought of it as such—a dark thing that was apart from him yet constantly at his side.

  At last, Rosie’s forelegs were free. With the help of Froan’s tugging, she managed to extract herself, leaving a hole filled with dark water. Even as the goat staggered to safety, the edges of the hole closed like a rapidly healing wound. By the time Rosie reached Froan, the hole was gone and the ground where it had been looked solid and firm.

  Feeling guilty over his fit of temper, Froan sought to make amends. He stroked Rosie and rewarded her with a treat of faerie arrow. Rosie munched it contentedly, unaware of how close she had come to dying. Other goats had not fared as well when Froan’s shadow had possessed him. Their bodies rotted in the bog, which was an ideal place for concealing misdeeds. While Froan regretted each instance, he also recalled them vividly. Compared to those moments of rage, the rest of his life seemed humdrum.

  After Rosie had devoured her treat, Froan used the rope to lead her toward Far Hite. The way was complicated, for there was little stable ground about the outcropping. The hite got its name from its isolation, which was not due to its distance from the other hites but to the treacherousness of the surrounding bog. The fensfolk reckoned distance differently than people who lived on solid ground; the length of the safe route between two spots determined whether they were near or far. By that measure, Far Hite was aptly named. The only way to reach it was long and convoluted. A wrong turn could prove fatal, and after a wet spell, the way was mostly submerged.

  When Froan’s mother had moved to Far Hite, the place had been long abandoned. The bog had swallowed its former occupants, and most of the fensfolk expected the same to happen to the stranger and her child. After Froan was old enough to learn the complicated route, he was amazed that his mother had found it on her own. Others had tried and failed before her. Some had never returned.

  Although no one visited Far Hite, many envied it as a residence, for it was large enough to support a goat herd. Moreover, trees grew on its gentle southern slope and its northern side featured several natural caves. One was sufficiently large and deep to be ideal for storing milk and making cheese. Froan and his mother lived on the hite’s southern side in a cavity excavated by former residents. It was small and rude, but it met their basic needs.

  Partway home, Froan led Rosie away from the path and tied her to the stump of a drowned tree. Then he reached into his bag and scattered several faerie arrow roots on the ground before her. As the doe began to eat, he patted her. “Good girl,” Froan said. “Now you can stay lost awhile longer.” With that, he headed toward Tararc Hite. Without his help, milking would occupy his mother long enough for him to visit Telk. Froan hated the tedium of the twice-daily milking sessions and sought any opportunity to avoid them.

  A short while later, Froan reached Tararc Hite and found Telk working on his reed boat. “Telk!” he called. “Still fussing with that boat?”

  “What are ya doing here?” asked Telk. “ ’Tis milking time.”

  “A doe strayed, and Mam asked me to fetch her,” said Froan. “She’ll think I’m still looking.”

  The boat, which was constructed of bundled reeds, was essentially an elongated raft with built-up sides. It tapered to a point at its bow and stern, and the reeds curved up and inward at either end. Telk was working on the stern’s curve. Froan watched him briefly, then asked, “What are you doing now?”

  “Improving its lines.”

  “What for? You’re only going to pole it through a bog. Lay off that, and let’s go to the island.”

  “I’m nearly done.”

  “I didn’t come all the way here to watch you prettify your boat,” said Froan. “I came so we could prepare for our future. Now, come on.”

  Froan saw Telk’s reluctance to leave off his work, but that didn’t faze him. He was accustomed to sway
ing others to get his way. The talent came to him so naturally that he noticed it only when it didn’t work, as in the case of his mother. As Froan expected, his friend’s sole resistance was to sigh as he set down his tools. Then he pushed the boat into the water. The craft’s unfinished stern looked like a frayed brush, but it didn’t affect its handling. After Froan waded out and climbed aboard, Telk began to pole the boat down the channel.

  The pair had visited the island countless times, but Froan still didn’t know the way to it. The narrow and tangled waterways flanked by tall reeds had a sameness that quickly confused him. However, Telk was like his father and always seemed to know where he was, despite the fact that the fens were changeable, varying with the season and the fluctuating water level. Froan quickly tired of gazing at reeds and turned to his friend. “One day, you’ll guide a proper wooden boat up and down the Turgen.”

  Telk said nothing as he continued poling.

  “Don’t smile,” said Froan. “And don’t say you didn’t. Mark my words. When I’m master of a ship, you’ll be my helmsman. That’s why we need to practice.”

  “Sword fighting?”

  “Yes, sword fighting. You’ve heard Dobah’s tales. The river’s a rough place.”

  “Aye, if ya believe Dobah.”

  “I can tell if a man speaks true,” said Froan. “Dobah’s adventures were not as grand as he pretends, but the fighting was real enough. There are pirates on the river.”

  “Then we’d best avoid it.”

  “And avoid our chance for adventure and renown? Telk, we’re not meant to milk goats and gut fish all our lives. We’re destined for greater things.”

  “And must we seek that destiny on tha river?” asked Telk, as if the decision were all Froan’s.

  “Of course,” replied Froan in a breezy tone. “And to prepare for that, we must learn to use a sword.”

  “But our swords aren’t real.”

  “Someday, they will be,” said Froan. “Meanwhile, we’ll master our strokes and thrusts with wooden ones.” He gazed up at his friend and easily read what he was thinking. Telk believes he’ll spend his life trapping fish, just like his father. Without knowing why, Froan had always sensed his fate was to live elsewhere. Though the fens were all he knew, they never felt like home. That was partly because his mother was an outsider. Despite speaking like her, Froan had overcome that disadvantage. His compelling manner had caused the fensfolk to accept him. Nevertheless, he yearned to roam the wider world.

  Froan was imagining his future adventures when the island came into view. The high reeds had hidden it until the last moment, so almost as soon as Froan spotted it, he and Telk were clambering up its limestone side. The place was a huge, low boulder about ten paces in diameter. Barely rising above the tops of the reeds, its most prominent feature was a small pine growing from a crack. Moss and short scruffy plants covered some of the boulder’s surface, and the rest was bare rock. The wooden swords were hidden among the pine’s branches. Froan retrieved them and gave one to Telk.

  Neither young man had ever viewed a sword fight. The only sword they had ever seen was Dobah’s, and they saw it only once. Their wooden weapons imitated his, but their swordplay was pure invention. By worldly standards, it was unskilled hacking. In the fens, blades were seldom used for fighting. Even daggers were rare. None of that dampened Froan’s enthusiasm. He sparred ardently, and his aggressive tactics more than made up for Telk’s greater reach.

  The two practiced until dusk. By then, both were sweating and covered with red marks from each other’s blows. “Can we go?” asked Telk. “My dam will be looking for me.”

  Froan felt irritated, but he acted as if stopping were his idea. “That’s enough for today,” he said. “I should take the stray home before Mam gets fits. That doe’s her favorite.” He hid the swords while Telk untied the boat and brought it alongside the island’s steep rock side. After Froan climbed aboard, Telk poled the boat into the narrow channel. He was silent awhile before he spoke. “Ya hit me pretty hard back there.”

  “But with wood, not steel.”

  “It still hurt.”

  “It was supposed to. You must learn to avoid the blows.”

  “Aye, but—”

  “Be a man about it, Telk.”

  “I will,” replied Telk in a subdued voice.

  “I know I sound hard,” said Froan, “but you never know when our chance will come. When it does, we must be ready.”

  When the boat reached Tararc Hite, Froan splashed ashore before it even touched the bank, for he was belatedly aware that he had overstayed on the island. He called back to Telk as he hurried off. “We’ll practice again soon.”

  The failing light made traveling in the fens especially dangerous, but Froan sped through the bog confidently. He had inherited his mother’s uncanny sense of where the safe ground lay, a sense some ascribed to sorcery. When he was younger, Froan had half believed the rumors and fervently hoped his mother could perform magic. But she had disappointed him. As he grew older, Froan had come to see her as ordinary. Though she was different from the fensfolk, she seemed equally as dull.

  Turning a bend, Froan nearly collided with her. She was hurrying also and bearing a large empty sack. “Mam! What are you doing here?”

  “Going to see Rappali. She has meat for us.”

  “I haven’t yet found Rosie, but I—”

  “Look by the old stump,” said Yim. “She seems to have found a rope and tied herself there.” Without another word, she continued on her way.

  Froan briefly glared at his departing mother, then continued onward to retrieve the doe.

  SIX

  RAPPALI EXPECTED Yim to arrive at dusk and was waiting outside her door when her friend came up the path. The goat’s carcass hung from a nearby tree, minus a hind quarter, and Rappali held its rolled-up hide. Since her husband was home, she preferred to talk with Yim outside.

  As Rappali watched Yim approach, she saw why Roarc called her a girl. For one thing, she dressed more like a maiden than a matron. Yim’s sleeveless goatskin tunic ended above her knees, and she went about unshod except in winter. Her face was as youthful as her attire. Though Rappali knew her friend was well past thirty winters, Yim’s face barely had a line on it. There was no gray among the dark walnut tresses that trailed down her back. Unmindful of her appearance, Yim kept her hair tied back with a strip of goatskin. Yet if Yim seemed oblivious of her beauty, others weren’t. Men barely past Telk’s age couldn’t keep their eyes off her. One had even presented her with a marriage gift, which Yim refused, as she had all the other proposals.

  As always, Yim greeted Rappali with a hug, “Thank you for your help,” she said. “I’m sure Roarc grumbled over it.”

  “Oh, my husband likes ta grumble, and it does him good,” replied Rappali with a smile. “Besides, he likes yar cheese, as do I.”

  “Well, Froan tires of it. He’ll be glad for some meat.”

  “Did he visit my son today? Telk came home this eve covered with red marks and spouting some tale ’bout falling from a tree.”

  “Most like, our sons were together,” said Yim, “for I met Froan on the way here. He seemed to be coming from your hite.”

  “What do ya think they were doing?”

  Yim’s face darkened. “Playing war, I fear.”

  “They’re nearly men. They should be seeking wives, not playing.”

  “Men often never forsake that game, though their play becomes more deadly.” Yim shook her head sadly. “I’d hoped it’d be different here.”

  “ ’Tis different, Yim. True, some men go off, but not ta fight.”

  “So few return—who knows what they do?”

  Rappali saw concern in her friend’s eyes that bordered on fear, and she sought to reassure her. “Froan will grow up and leave off his foolishness.”

  Yim flashed an unconvincing smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “ ’Tis getting dark,” Rappali said. “Mayhap ya’d like ta
bide with us till dawn.”

  “Thank you, but I can find my way by moonlight.”

  “Then we’ll talk till moonrise. ’Twill be a treat for me, for Roarc’s in a sulk.” Rappali sat down on the low stone wall about the terraced garden, and Yim joined her. “I heard ya birthed Dori’s child. Do ya think her husband was tha da?”

  “I’d say the babe favored his mother,” said Yim.

  “But I heard his eyes …”

  “The boy will be himself, no matter who the father,” said Yim. “I don’t see why folk prattle so.”

  “Because blood will always show,” replied Rappali. “If Dori lay with that fisherman from Turgen Hite, then tha boy’s going ta grow up mean.”

  “I’d think Dori would have some say in that.”

  “Pah!” said Rappali. “Look at my Telk and your Froan. They’ll go their own ways no matter what we do.”

  “I hope not.”

  Rappali sighed. “ ’Tis the nature of men not ta mind their mothers.”

  Yim changed the subject and chatted with her friend until the moon rose high enough to light her way through the bog. Then she slipped her sack over the hanging carcass and cut it down to carry along with the goatskin. It was a heavy load, but she was used to hard work. After bidding Rappali farewell, Yim shouldered her burden and headed home.

  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.