“If Froan was with ya, why did ya come alone?” asked Rappali.
“I passed out. Froan must have thought he killed me. Most like, he fled.”
“And ran off with our lad,” said Rappali. She glared at her husband. “And ya thought so well of Froan!”
Roarc responded by frowning at Yim. “If ya had raised him proper, this wouldn’t have happened.”
In her heart, Yim agreed with Roarc. Moreover, she thought Rappali was right about Telk. If so, Yim was certain that Froan had lured him to a fate far worse than her friend could possibly imagine. It made her weep, which spurred Rappali to rush over and embrace her. “ ’Tisn’t yar fault, Yim.”
“I feel it is,” replied Yim between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
Rappali began weeping also, leaving Roarc to gaze in consternation at the sobbing pair.
Eventually, Rappali calmed enough to set about making dawnmeal for the three of them. By then, Roarc had risen and dressed. He spoke to Yim. “What makes ya think yar lad’s gone off?”
“When I came to, Froan’s clothes were gone, along with things needed for a journey. So he’s left Far Hite. And the fens also, I suppose.”
“Telk’s boat’s gone,” said Roarc in a dispirited voice. “So, ’tis most like our lad’s with yars and we’ll not see him for a while.”
“We’ll not see him ever!” said Rappali. She began to cry again.
* * *
Dawnmeal was silent and awkward. Yim was so overwrought that she lacked an appetite and had to force herself to eat. To her thinking, she had loosed evil on the world, and its first victim was her only friend. She was convinced that Rappali saw through her story about an accident, even if her husband believed it. Rappali had always seemed aware of the dark thing that lurked within Froan, even though she didn’t understand its nature. Thus Yim feared that her friend had more than an inkling of what really had happened. That made her dread being alone with Rappali while Roarc went to fetch the healwife.
Fortunately, when the meal was over, Rappali urged Yim to rest and then went outside. Roarc departed on his errand, leaving Yim alone. She was both weak and tired, but rest was impossible. The hope that she had felt earlier was dampened by the prospect of the task before her. Nonetheless, Yim’s resolve had been heightened. She felt responsible for what had happened and obligated to make amends. As such, Yim considered what to do.
It seems that Froan has fled with Telk by boat, Yim thought. Most likely, he’s on the Turgen and already far away. Yim had neither access to a boat nor the skills to use one. She would have to pursue her son by land. I may not know where he is, but I know where he’s headed—the Iron Palace. Yim could think of no more daunting destination. The horrors she had seen and experienced in the stronghold near Tor’s Gate paled compared to the tales of Lord Bahl’s ancestral residence. It was a nightmare place by all accounts, the very seat of horror where atrocities had been perfected through generations of practice.
In the light of day, Honus’s promise that he would help her and they would be together seemed more like a dream. Yim struggled to believe, but it was hard. Even if what Honus said comes to pass, he didn’t say how he’d help me or when. Yim felt it was more likely that she would make her journey alone. At least, it seemed wise to proceed on that assumption.
I should leave as soon as I have the strength, Yim concluded. She began to think about what she should take. A flint and iron … a water skin … my goatskin boots, though the soles won’t last long on hard ground … my summer cloak. The winter one made of hair-covered pelts was too heavy. It’s wiser to carry that weight in food. Already, Yim’s calculations made it apparent how chancy her journey would be. If winter caught her, she’d sorely miss the heavy cloak, but food was scarce in the Grey Fens and it was easy to get lost in its tangled ways. What ever she didn’t take, she’d give to Rappali along with her goats.
The morning passed. Rappali remained outside, and Yim eventually drifted off to sleep. She slumbered until she felt fingers groping her neck. Yim opened her eyes to gaze upon the healwife. The old woman ceased examining Yim’s wound and smiled smugly. “Well, I’ve performed a wonder,” she said. “Ya live, due ta my skill.”
“Yes,” said Yim. “And I thank you, Mother.”
“So tha fee thief now calls me ‘Mother.’ Finally, some respect! I suppose ya’d like those stitches out.”
“I’d be grateful,” replied Yim.
“I’m not surprised, for gratitude is cheap. But I must be paid. Roarc paid for tha stitching, but not for tha brew that cured ya. And unstitching costs, too.”
“I have cheeses, a hide, and some salt.”
“Pah on those,” said the healwife.
“We can pay you with dried fish, like afore,” said Rappali.
“Keep out of this,” said the healwife. “Tha matter’s ’tween her and me.”
“Then what do you want?” asked Yim.
“Yar oath that ya’ll never tend another birth.”
“Are you sure that’s what you want?”
“Ever since ya came here.”
“Then I swear by Karm, who fensfolk call the Mother, that I’ll never tend another fenswoman again.” Yim made the Sign of the Balance. “Does that satisfy you?”
“Aye.” The healwife grinned. “ ’Twas easier than I thought ’twould be. Now lie down, and I’ll pluck those stitches.”
Yim reclined on her makeshift bed while the healwife reached into a pouch to produce a flake of glassy black stone, a pair of bone tweezers, and a handful of dried leaves. Giving the leaves to Rappali, the healwife said, “Put these in a clean pot with a little water, bring them ta boil, and let them steep.” Then she set to work on Yim. First, she cut the stitches with the keen-edged flake, then used the tweezers to pull out the severed strands of gut. Yim felt each tug as a small, sharp pain. Soon she could feel, but not see, blood trickling down her neck. When the healwife cleaned the stitches with a scrap of cloth wetted in the hot herbal brew, the cloth came away deep pink. She turned to Rappali. “Wash her neck six times afore sunset and six times tomorrow. Then kill a frog—one with no spots—and wrap the cloth ’bout it and sink it in the bog.”
Yim bowed her head to the healwife. “Thank you for your aid, Mother. May we talk awhile before you go?”
“ ’Bout what?”
“Since I’ll no longer tend births, there are some skills I’d like to teach you.”
“Ya’ve made that offer afore, and my answer’s still tha same. Nay.”
“But now women can turn only to you. Surely there’s no reason to—”
“My mam learned me all I need ta know. Tha old ways are tha true ways.”
“Please!” said Yim. “What harm can learning do?”
“Nay!” shouted the healwife. She turned to Roarc. “I’m done here. Take me home.” As she followed Roarc out the door, she called back, “Mind ya, Rappali, no spots on tha frog or tha stitches may fester.”
Rappali turned to Yim and sighed. “Where will I find a frog without spots?”
“You won’t,” said Yim. “So the healwife can blame you if her cure goes awry. But don’t worry; it’s the leaves that do the healing. The business with the frog is nonsense.”
“Still, she healed ya.”
“She had a hand in it, as did you. The healwife has skills, but not as many as she supposes. Without fresh learning, wisdom dwindles through the generations.”
“Then why did ya swear not ta tend at births?”
“I’m leaving the fens, so the oath was an easy one.”
“Leaving? Why? Ya’ll not stop Froan, nor bring home my Telk. They’re gone.”
“I must stop Froan from becoming his father.”
“I don’t understand,” said Rappali. “You said Froan’s da was slain and that he was a goatherd.”
“That tale’s not true. Froan’s father was a cruel and violent man. That’s why I fled him.”
“Then all that talk ’bout fleeing war was …”
“T
ruth. Froan’s father was a soldier. I didn’t want Froan to become one, too.”
“But now that he’s run off, he can do as he pleases.”
“No! I can’t allow it!”
“Come now, Yim. If tha da was fond of war, his son will have his nature. Blood will always show. Ya can’t stop that.”
“I must.”
“How? What will ya do?”
Yim recalled her vision outside Bremven’s gates. Karm was covered in blood. She said it was mine! Then Yim also recalled the goddess’s instruction. “I’ll do whatever’s necessary.”
TWENTY-ONE
FROAN PULLED on his oar alongside Toad, sweating in the afternoon sun. They had been on the river awhile, and the crew had fallen silent as they labored to propel their craft upriver. Froan had grown more accustomed to rowing, and his muscles strained less than on previous trips. In fact, he had come to appreciate the drudgery as a time to think. There was much to think about. Since he had left the fens, his life had grown complicated far more quickly than he possibly could have imagined.
For a while, his thoughts dwelt on Moli, for the tenderness and passion she evoked were new to him. He tried to ignore the more cynical explanations for why she had chosen him and concentrate on the simple fact that she had. Her seasoned lovemaking had made his first time with a woman marvelous. Froan found himself growing excited just thinking about it. Moreover, he felt inaugurated into the ranks of manhood by his deed. He couldn’t brag to his fellow pirates that he had tupped a woman, for that would betray his inexperience. However, bragging proved unnecessary, for in subtle ways, Moli had let everyone know that she had become his woman.
The other women in the camp knew it first, since they were affected whenever one of their number slept with one man exclusively. When Moli trailed behind Froan as he walked from the woods, he was oblivious to the signal she was giving. The women were not. Bloodbeard’s women noticed first, and they quickly whispered to the others. At dawnmeal, Moli waited on Froan with obvious attentiveness, and also made a point of taking special care of all his friends. Froan mostly noticed how Moli gazed at him adoringly, making him feel that he was the center of her world. His heightened powers of perception found no deception in her gaze. For what ever reason, she had staked her life on him.
Moli’s commitment pleased but disquieted Froan. He wished that his feelings toward her could be totally separate from his dark impulses. He had fought his rages and violent urges all his life only to become dependent on them for survival. Necessary or not, Froan felt tainted by his deeds and wanted to shelter Moli from that side of him. Circumstances prevented that. He realized that to claim a woman might require him to defend that claim. Thus among the pirate band, even love could lead to violence. Is that what I feel for Moli? he wondered. Love? Froan was unsure what he felt, only that he could hardly wait to see her again.
The Way of the Sarf had seventy-seven trials, and Honus was struggling with the first one. He had last performed the Stone Circle Trial after his sixteenth winter, when he had earned his face tattoos. The Trials of the Way had lasted many days. For his first trial, Honus had caused two stones the size of large melons to travel in a circle through the air by tossing them from hand to hand. He had kept it up for half a summer afternoon. On the first afternoon of his rehabilitation, Honus juggled stones the size of apples. Quickly exhausted by the exertion, he became clumsy.
Daven watched, but said nothing when Honus dropped the stones again. Honus had lost track of how many times he had stooped to recover them, but it seemed he’d been doing so all afternoon. As Honus reached for the stones to begin yet another trial, he felt as he had as a child within the temple, striving for the masters. Only now I’m old and tired, not young and eager. When Daven’s stick hit the back of his hand, Honus bowed his head. “Thank you, Master.” Then he retrieved one of the fallen stones.
Honus reached for the second stone and felt a second blow. According to tradition, it was harder than the first. “Thank you, Master,” said Honus in a calm voice. Calmness demonstrated the focused mind, and Honus knew that Daven was looking for flinching or any sign of emotion. Grasping the two stones in hands reddened by many blows, Honus began tossing them to make the stone circle. This time, the stones nearly made two dozen circuits before he fumbled. Steeling himself for a blow, Honus reached for one of the stones.
Daven’s stick whistled through the air, missing Honus’s hand altogether. “Were you thinking of the stick or the stone?” asked Daven.
“The stick, Master.”
“And you call yourself a Sarf! Tell me: Is the true path wide?”
“No.”
“Is it straight?”
“No.”
“What lies on either side?”
“The abyss,” replied Honus. His face reddened, but he bowed his head. “Master, I’m not an unmarked boy. I can recite the Scroll of Karm.”
“So? Reciting is one thing. Understanding is another. Do you think the abyss is an unpleasant place? It’s merely dark. A good place to hide. Or trance and stumble upon some happy memory. Then you could forget your clumsiness with stones.”
“I told you, I renounced trancing.”
“You weren’t tired then. Your hands didn’t hurt. The memory of your beloved was still fresh. Temptation bides its time and waits for weakness.”
“I won’t be weak.”
“Temptation also favors pride. You are weak. Be humble and never forget it. You have no idea what you face.”
Honus bowed his head low. “Do you, Master?”
“The guidance of runes is seldom clear, and yours are particularly difficult to understand. But know this: A hard path lies before you, narrow and crooked as the Scroll says. And I must prepare you for it. I hope you’re up to the task, as I hope I am.”
Honus bowed his head again. “I’m honored by your patience.” He reached for the second stone, striving to be oblivious of the descending blow.
As dusk approached, the pirates had yet to board a single boat. They had spied a swift three-master and given chase, but the vessel had eluded them. Still, the captain didn’t order the tillerman to steer for their island encampment, but commanded that the craft make a sweep closer to the northern shore. There, the pirates saw a long rowboat with a pair of men pulling the oars. As they headed in its direction, Toad told Froan that the boat was a fishing craft towing a net.
When the pirate vessel approached within fifty paces of the fishermen, Bloodbeard ordered his crew to pull in the oars. Then he called for Catfish and Froan to come astern.
When they stood before him, the captain grinned in a way Froan found unsettling. “Shadow, ye’re a bloody sort, but yonder vessel’s a different kind of prize. So Ah’ll thank ye fer yer sword and dagger.”
Froan hesitated, certain that what ever was afoot boded ill for him.
Bloodbeard’s face hardened. “ ’Twasn’t a request, Shadow. ’Twas an order.”
Froan looked around. With the exception of Toad, all his allies within the crew were boxed in on the rowing benches by men loyal to the captain. Froan, doubting it was happenstance, smiled at Bloodbeard. “That will keep them dry and rust free, Captain, so I thank you for your thoughtfulness.” Seeing no other option, Froan surrendered his weapons.
When Bloodbeard took them, his grin broadened. “We oft take a portion o’ the fisherfolk’s catch. Catfish knows what ye need to do and will instruct ye as the pair o’ ye row out. Mind ye, no killin’ tonight. The fisherfolk catch the fish, and we take our share. That way, we can come back again and again. Understand?”
“Sounds wise to me,” said Froan. “If you fancy eggs, why slay the hen?”
“Good lad,” said the captain. “Now off.”
Catfish grabbed two large empty baskets and tossed them into the rowboat in tow before boarding the small craft and taking up the oars. “In with ye, Shadow,” he said. “Let’s get this done.”
After Froan climbed aboard, Catfish began to row and talk. “See how
they’ve pulled in their oars? They know what’s comin’.”
Froan glanced toward the other boat. The two men within it were no longer rowing but sitting still and watching him. As Catfish rowed him ever closer, Froan could sense tension in the men’s work-hardened bodies and anger in their gazes. He glanced at his companion to see if he was armed and discovered that he wasn’t.
Catfish looked amused. “So, young Shadow, now that ye’re a bold and cruel pirate, ’tis yer job to fill these baskets with those men’s fish.”
Froan gazed again at the other boat. One of the fishermen held a gaff in his huge and calloused hands. Its stout oak shaft was tipped with a large iron hook. The way the man gripped it announced that he had no intention of meekly surrendering his catch. Black rage boiled within Froan as he saw Bloodbeard’s ploy. He’s set me for a fall! Humiliation seemed the most hopeful outcome; it was more likely that Catfish would row back alone.
Knowing this, Froan stood up to face the fishermen. He had no weapon, only rage. He let it overwhelm him until the world seemed to fade and wrath dominated his very being. Having given free rein to the darkness within, it didn’t fail him. Malice flowed from Froan and preceded him as heat does before a conflagration.
It withered the two men. Defiance fled their faces, which grew bloodless. They stared slack-mouthed in horror as if the incarnation of everything terrible was descending upon them. Then Froan sensed that that was what he had become—a wellspring of terror and madness. He didn’t entirely understand what was happening as the power he unleashed focused on the two hapless men. He felt as if he were standing apart and observing his body as another used it.
When Froan was about ten paces from the fishing boat, the man who held the gaff dropped the makeshift weapon, and with a whimper, jumped into the river. He broke the surface only once, struggling in his heavy boots and waterlogged clothes. Then the Turgen claimed him, and he sank from view. Then the other fisherman plunged overboard and disappeared immediately. A few bubbles and an expanding ring of ripples briefly marked the spot. As they dissipated, Froan became aware that Catfish had stopped rowing. Froan remained standing as the rowboat continued gliding forward to gently bump the empty fishing boat.
The Iron Palace Page 13
