“How did you meet him?”
“The Seers that chose me for the temple studied all us children. In time, they foretold our destinies. When I was five, I was informed I would become a Sarf. I commenced my training and also began to receive my tattoos.”
“The ones on your back or on your face?”
“My face tattoos had to be earned through mastery of the martial arts. Those on my back were divined by the Seers. Only when a child’s back is fully tattooed may he or she be paired with a Bearer. The fates of a Sarf and a Bearer are intertwined and the tattoos guide the matching. Theodus chose me when I was seven, though I didn’t begin to serve him for nine more years.”
“What did he see that made him choose you?”
“Something in my runes. I know not what. Sarfs aren’t taught to read, for the portents on their backs are supposed to be mysteries to them.”
“I think that would drive me crazy. Aren’t you tempted to peek?”
“If I could tell your future right now, would you ask me to do so? Would you really want to dread every adversity before it came to pass and never have a joyous surprise? I think not.”
“So you’ve never seen them?”
“I’ve glimpsed their reflection a few times, but as I said, I was never taught to read. They’re just scribbles to me. Though, when I was young, I was more curious about them. Theodus assured me they must be meditated upon—sometimes for years—before they make sense. He said it was life that gave them meaning.”
“Does that mean you could change their meaning by changing your life?”
“I don’t know,” Honus said. “I’ve never considered that. Perhaps Theodus did. Before we met, he had meditated for a dozen years.”
“So he was much older than you?”
“Yes,” replied Honus. “When he chose me, I thought Karm had given me a new father.”
“You must have been very fond of him.”
Honus’s eyes welled with tears, and he strode ahead to hide them. Yim hurried to catch up with him. “You honor Theodus with your feelings. There’s no shame in showing them.”
Honus let out a sob that seemed to explode from deep within. “Thirteen years I served him! Oh, the tales I could tell! He was wise, but funny, too. People liked him. With him beside me, I was never lonely. Even now, I expect to hear his laugh. My back still feels his hands upon my runes. He consulted them often and said they were his scriptures. I was useful. Now…” He gave a hopeless shrug.
Yim was unsurprised when Honus withdrew into silence, and she didn’t question him further. But when they paused to rest, she brought up Theodus again. “You said your Bearer was a funny man,” she said. “You must have many tales of his jests.”
A wan smile crept onto Honus’s face. “Yes,” he said. “One of my favorites is of the night we stayed with a miser. When a Bearer and his Sarf travel, they rely on charity for their needs. Even if Theodus were given a cart full of provisions, he would have still asked for his supper, for he loved meeting people. He was a good guest, full of tales, but he was also a good listener. He learned a lot that way, and much of his knowledge was useful to his hosts. Once, after helping a man cure his sick cow, he was given a large bag of grain, enough to feed us for days. Nevertheless, he asked for charity the next night at the house of a notorious miser.
“Now, many people fed and housed us solely to honor Karm, but others had different reasons. Some thought it brought them prestige, while others hoped to gain the goddess’s favor. The miser who took us in that night was most likely thinking of the latter. It was a well-appointed dwelling, yet the man claimed he was impoverished. He set a pot on the fire and went into his storeroom. When he returned, he brought a small cup of grain to make porridge. It was hardly enough to feed one person, let alone three. ‘This is all I have, Karmamatus,’ he said, ‘but I’m honored to share it.’
“Theodus nodded solemnly and told the man that Karm would repay his generosity. After the man emptied the cup into the pot, Theodus took me aside and told me to secretly refill it with our own grain. This I did when Theodus distracted the man. When the miser discovered the cup was full, he believed at first that he had neglected to pour his grain into the pot. After he discovered that this was not so, Theodus told him that Karm had repaid his generosity. The man declared it was a miracle and added the extra grain to the pot, since it cost him nothing. Theodus slyly signaled me to fill the cup again, which I did at the first opportunity. The miser was delighted to find the cup brimming with grain once more and quickly added it to the pot.
“Although Theodus acted as if it were perfectly natural for the cup to refill itself, the miser became jubilant. He paced gaily about the room, praising Karm. Then a thought came to him, and he rushed to his storeroom. He returned with a bounty of food and drink. There was good red wine, cheese, bread, sausages, pickled vegetables, candied fruit, and more. Everything he brought out was in some kind of container, whether it needed to be or not. We had a merry feast, and the miser was merry with us. Yet I couldn’t help noticing that throughout the meal he kept eyeing the containers, waiting for them to be miraculously refilled.”
Yim laughed at the tale. “Did Theodus ever tell the man he had been fooled?”
“That wasn’t his way,” replied Honus. “Besides, he said the miser had fooled himself, so only he could decide what lesson was learned that night.”
“It must have been good to travel with such a man,” said Yim.
“It was,” said Honus wistfully. “Yet it was also trying, especially in the last few years. Theodus was a holy man and a serious one, too. When he became concerned by the worship of the Devourer, he journeyed far to understand it. No hardship daunted him. We came to know Luvein well, and other equally fell places. It was a hard road he traveled, and it came to a hard end.”
“What happened to him, Master?”
“I can’t bear to speak of it. It’s difficult to imagine why Karm would permit such an end to so good a man. Perhaps Theodus could have explained it. I can’t.”
“It’s a great loss,” said Yim. “I’m a poor substitute for one so good and wise.”
“Yet you’re here because of him,” replied Honus.
After finishing his frantic packing, Curdac had procured more ale to drown his terror. The result was a hangover that delayed his exodus from Durkin. It was late morning when he departed, fuzzy-headed but fearful, from his mother’s home. He emerged into one of the town’s narrow and neglected alleyways. Garbage and worse littered the sodden ground between the tightly packed dwellings. His mother followed him, moist-eyed and reluctant. She gazed back at her poor abode longingly, as if she had half a mind to remain there. Nevertheless, she continued onward.
Curdac bore a sack stuffed to the point of bursting. His mother, who possessed but one good arm, had a smaller sack. Curdac had tied it to her back, for she was incapable of carrying it. Thus burdened, the two emerged from the alley onto one of Durkin’s unpaved lanes. As usual, people selling goods lined it, their purloined wares set before them on the dirt. That day, there were fewer sellers than normal and no buyers at all. Without the sounds of hawking and haggling, the lane was ominously quiet.
The two hurried as best they could toward the town’s entrance, skirting the drunkards that lay in their path and at least one corpse. Curdac quickened his pace upon seeing the gate. It was open and unguarded. He turned and saw that his mother was struggling to keep up. “Come on, Ma. Soon we’ll be safe.”
“Safe? Homeless in the wild? Most like, wolves will get us.” Despite her words, the old woman moved faster. Soon, mother and son were outside the town’s dilapidated walls, and the road north stretched before them. It passed between neglected fields before vanishing over the top of a rise. Curdac was just beginning to breathe easy when a dark line appeared on the crest of the rise. He halted and squinted at it.
“Why’d ye stop, Son?”
“There are folk on the road.”
As Curdac spoke, the dark
line changed shape and flowed down the decline like porridge boiling over the lip of a pot. Within the dark mass, he saw blades flash in the sunlight. Then the edge of the advancing mass seemed to break apart, and he could make out individual men. They were running—running toward the town and him. Curdac grabbed his mother, whose failing eyes had yet to see the danger, and began to pull her from the road. That was when he saw there were men in the fields also. He looked left and right. Death was advancing from all sides.
Curdac tugged his mother toward the gate. “Back to town, Ma!”
“Make up yer mind! Ye said ’twasn’t safe.”
“Oh Karm preserve us! We left too late.”
The woman cackled, still unaware of her peril. “Karm? Since when did ye ever call to the goddess?”
“They’re coming!” Curdac jerked his mother’s arm, too alarmed to answer fully. Yet the terror in his voice spoke for him, and the old woman finally understood her danger. The pair retreated into Durkin. Curdac threw down his sack and looked about for someone to help him close the gate, but everyone had fled. Then he tried to shut it by himself. Rusty hinges groaned when he pushed the massive timbers, which barely moved.
Curdac glanced down the road. The men were closer. The approaching horde scarcely looked like soldiers. Though some waved swords, others bore hoes or scythes. They advanced with the disorder of a mob, but they did so silently, as men bent on a grim purpose. Beyond this blood-chilling spectacle was something that drew Curdac’s attention. At the crest of the rise, there was a figure upon a huge black horse. Wherever the rider advanced, the men reacted like ants goaded from their nest. They grew frenzied and hurried more quickly to attack. There was something about the rider that inspired dread even from a distance. Curdac felt it and was unnerved. He abandoned his effort to close the gate, grabbed his mother, and dragged her deeper into town.
The streets were no longer quiet. News of imminent attack was spreading, and with it came chaos. The town that had thrived on lawlessness seemed intent on expiring the same way. There was no organized defense. Everyone looked out for him or herself. People poured into the streets, some overburdened with possessions while others ran about nearly naked. They jostled one another in their haste and confusion. Some dashed toward the town’s only gate. They quickly returned and joined the others fleeing in the opposite direction. Whichever way folk ran within the walled town, there was no exit.
The enemy’s entrance was announced by screams and followed by smoke. As time passed, the cries sounded ever closer and the smoke grew thicker. By then, Curdac was wedged in a crowd that tightly packed a lane ending at the town’s far wall. There was no place to retreat farther. Those who climbed the wall called down that soldiers were waiting below to slay anyone who jumped. Some men, realizing they were penned like sheep, spurred their courage, drew weapons, and went to meet the attackers.
Curdac joined them. He left his wailing mother and trailed behind a group of burly men who gripped swords. Curdac had only a knife, but he shattered a chair abandoned in the street and took a leg as a club. By then, most of the town was burning, and dense, choking smoke filled the air. Curdac first saw the attackers through this screen. They appeared as pale as wraiths. Only when they came closer did they seem solid. Some were soldiers, but most were ragged men. Though many were ill armed and some were grievously wounded, they all moved with single-minded determination. Each face bore the same expression of fanatical hatred.
A swordsman from the town met the foremost attacker, who was armed only with a club, and stabbed him in the gut. The wounded man rushed toward his assailant, although doing so forced the blade entirely through his body. This allowed him to grab the sword’s crosspiece. He held it fast as his fellows assailed the swordsman who, being unable to withdraw his blade, was defenseless and went down quickly. The enemy trampled over his body as well as their slain comrade’s to continue the assault. The other swords-men fell, one hacked to pieces with a hoe.
At the sight of that, Curdac took off and ran until he merged again with the huddled crowd. He gazed about with eyes that stung from smoke, trying to spot his mother. He had abandoned any hope of saving himself or her. His only desire was that they be together when death found them.
It was past noon when Yim and Honus halted by a stream. By then, hunger and the desolate road had taken their toll, and even Honus was weary. Ferns grew nearby, so Yim gathered fiddleheads. These comprised their midday meal, which dulled the rumbling in their stomachs without satisfying it. After they had eaten, they rested a bit. Yim cooled her tired feet in the running water. Honus sat on a rock nearby and gazed at her in a way that awakened her uneasiness. Last night, he touched my breast, she thought, repenting her weakness. Will he touch me again tonight? The more Yim wondered about it, the more agitated she became.
Honus seemed to notice her change of mood. “What’s bothering you?”
“Nothing, Master.”
“Speak your mind. I won’t have you moping.”
Yim summoned her courage. “I was recalling last night and…and how you touched me.”
“Does the memory disturb you?”
“You took advantage of my frailty.”
“You’re my slave. Most men would say I did nothing improper.”
“Would Theodus?”
Honus didn’t answer. Instead, he moved into the shade, sat cross-legged on the ground, and shut his eyes. When his body and face grew rigid, Yim guessed that he was once again searching the Dark Path for pleasant memories. It seemed to her an odd and pathetic habit, and she wondered what would cause a man to seek the joys of the dead. While cool water rippled over her feet, Yim studied Honus’s face for some sign of what he found.
SEVENTEEN
AT LAST, Honus ended his trance. “Take up the pack,” he said. “We’ll walk until the hares come out to feed. Then you can rest while I hunt.”
When they encountered a farm, near sunset, two hares hung from the pack. The farm’s field was rank with last year’s weeds and looked little different from the surrounding wasteland. Only a fresh grave disturbed the ground. Honus halted before it. Beyond the field and near the edge of the forest was a small, rude dwelling made of sod. A wisp of smoke rose from a hole in its top. Honus left the road and approached the hovel.
Yim followed. “We have food, Master. Why stop at this poor place?”
Honus didn’t answer, but continued walking until he reached the hovel. It looked more like a mound of dirt than a house. Honus peered down the hole that served as the entrance. A solitary figure cowered inside. He bowed and said, “We’re servants of Karm, Mother.”
A tremulous voice came from the darkness. “Karm? The goddess?”
“Yes, Mother,” said Honus. “Would you share your fire in respect for her?”
“Ah ’ave na food,” said the voice.
“We have plenty,” replied Honus, “and would gladly share it with you.”
“Food? Ya ’ave food?”
“Didn’t I say we’re servants of Karm? She saw your need.” Honus turned to Yim. “Gather wood while I skin the hares.”
Yim went to collect wood, knowing that all that could be easily obtained would have been gathered long ago. It was dark when she brought a heavy armload of branches into the hovel. Its floor had been dug into the earth, so the interior was not quite as cramped as it appeared from the outside. Still, the ceiling was too low to stand. Yim sat down quickly, for the air was less smoky close to the dirt floor. A ragged, frail-looking woman squatted near a tiny fire, regarding Honus apprehensively. He turned to her and said, “This is Yim. She serves Karm also.”
Yim bowed her head. “Good evening, Mother.” Then, reading the woman’s fearful expression, she added, “My master has a fearsome face, but a kind heart. You’re safe with him.”
The woman’s tenseness eased a bit. “Ya ken call me Tabsha,” she said.
Yim looked at the emaciated woman. She was dirty, barefoot, and dressed in a filthy shift that was tattered a
nd much mended. Yim tried to guess Tabsha’s age. She still had her teeth and her hair was dark, hinting she might be young. Yet her haggard face looked old. Yim gazed into Tabsha’s dull eyes and saw a lifetime of hardship.
As if responding to Yim’s perusal, Tabsha said, “Ah ’ave na been well since mah ’usband died.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Yim.
Tabsha merely gazed despondently into the fire.
Yim peered about the tiny room, which made Gan and his mother’s dwelling seem grand. There were only two metal tools evident—a worn knife and a mattock. A clay cooking pot, some baskets, a worn deerskin, two wooden buckets, a man’s tattered shirt, and an empty cradle seemed to be Tabsha’s principal possessions.
“Do you like porridge, Tabsha?” asked Honus.
“Ya ’ave grain?” she asked, showing a spark of animation.
“Yes,” replied Honus. “Yim and I don’t care for it. Though, if you’d like, we’ll gladly make you some.”
“Aye. Tha’ would be fine.”
“Good,” said Honus. “We never eat it. I don’t know why we brought it along. Perhaps we could leave it here and save the effort of carrying it.”
Yim was about to protest when Honus cut her short with a stern, cautionary glance.
“Oh yes, I loathe porridge,” said Yim.
“Yim, take out the grain,” said Honus.
Tabsha’s eyes lit up at the sight of the mostly empty grain sack. “Oh, thank ya, sire.”
“You should thank Karm, not me,” said Honus.
Yim roasted the hares for the three of them and cooked some porridge for Tabsha, who devoured it with particular relish. Lacking utensils, she ate it using her dirty fingers. Yim watched her eat with mixed feelings. It made her glad to see the contentment the porridge brought Tabsha, but she was also aware of the privation Honus’s generosity would cause her. She found his actions inexplicable, for they had passed other, equally poor, dwellings without stopping. She knew better than to ask Honus to explain, so she turned her inquiries toward Tabsha.
[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Page 11
