As Hendric waited dutifully—if sullenly—for his meager meal, someone tapped his shoulder and spoke. “Hey there. Ye one of them Falsten lads?”
Hendric turned and beheld a ragged man who appeared to be a peasant, despite his well-worn leather armor and battered metal helm. The man was smiling in a manic way that matched the unsettling look in his eyes. “Aye,” replied Hendric tersely, hoping to keep the conversation short.
“Ye have that green look ta ye. So I says ta meself, Slasher’—that’s what I call meself now—Slasher. Slasher,’ I says, ‘ye need ta show that lad the way of things, him being green and all.’” Slasher bowed. “So at yer service.”
“I don’t need yer service.”
“I know ye think so. I hail from Lurwic and was same as ye. Took ye from yer people did they?”
“Aye.”
“Well, they killed all mine, but said they’d spare those that would soldier. So I joined. I wasn’t happy ‘bout it. I wasn’t Slasher then. I was like ye.”
“I want to stay like me.”
“Ye mean miserable and low? Mayhap ‘tis so, but ye’ll have no choice when you meet our lord.”
“Ye mean Lord Bahl?’
Slasher flashed a wide grin. “Aye, and lordly he is. He’ll make ye glad ye’re here. ‘twill feel good ta slay.”
“Never.”
“Oh ho! Sure, ye say that now. I did meself afore my first battle. And what a battle ‘twas!” The gleam in Slasher’s eyes became more pronounced, and his face began to twitch. “Oh, what we did there! Aye, ‘twas a piece of work! Ye wait. Just wait. Bahl will stir yer blood, and that stirring feels wondrous good. Then ye’ll care not what ye do. ‘tis so so well, ye’ll see fer yerself soon enough.”
“Mayhap.”
“Oh, there’s no mayhap ‘bout it. But ye see What’s yer name?”
“Hendric.”
“But ye see, Hendric, after a bit, that feeling—‘tis a good feeling, mind ye—that feeling stays with ye, and ye ferget things. Some things, they be good ta ferget. No use pining, I say. But ye may ferget ta take care of yerself. So be like me and get a helm and armor from some dead bloke who don’t need it. Do it while ye still have the sense ta do it.”
“I thank ye for yer advice,” replied Hendric, hoping the man would shut up.
“And beware of those with the look.”
“The look?”
“‘tis hard ta miss. A gleam in the eye, like the fighting wasn’t ended. Stay clear of them that have it. They’ll slay ye quick just fer nothing.”
“Well, thanks again for that.” Hendric faced the other way, but Slasher just tapped his shoulder again.
“A Falsten lad, huh? Yer count’s a piece of work. What’s his name?”
“Count Yaun.”
“Well, he sure likes the lasses. That was some beauty he had last night.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Well, I was near his tent. Does he always make them scream like that? ‘Tweren’t from pleasure. That’s fer certain!”
“I’ve heard tales in camp,” replied Hendric, his face darkening. “The count be more pig than man, and a cruel one at that.”
Slasher grinned in his disturbing way. “By and by, all shall die.”
Hendric regarded his unwanted companion and envied his carefree madness. He wondered if Slasher was right about Lord Bahl and hoped that he was. His life had become something he’d gladly forget.
The dim light was reminiscent of dusk on a foggy evening. In its pale illumination, Honus was hard to see. He stood alone and motionless on a barren, rocky hillside that overlooked a dry streambed. He was naked, and Yim realized it was not the man she saw, but his spirit. Though cold mist filled the air, the stony landscape was as dry as ancient bones. Yim cried out. “Honus!” He didn’t reply, but turned to gaze at her. Even though he was distant, Yim could feel his longing as if it were hers. Then the mist thickened, and Honus’s form grew ever fainter until it vanished altogether.
Yim woke with a start to find Honus asleep beside her. She touched his hand. It was warm. Thus reassured, she tried to go back to sleep. The hard ground and a vague sense of dread made it difficult. When the night sky turned the deep blue of predawn, Yim still lay open-eyed beneath the cloak she shared with Honus. She nestled against him, for the rhythm of his breathing was calming.
The world slowly came alive. Birds began to call, and when the sun’s first rays turned the treetops golden, Honus stirred. “I’m sorry I overslept,” he said. He rose to light the fire.
Yim rose also. “You needed rest,” she replied. “Your wound kept you up most the night.”
“Did I disturb you?”
“No, other things did.”
“Thoughts of the man you slew?”
“More than that. I shouldn’t be your Bearer. I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“To bear’ means to carry burdens,” said Honus. “Uncertainty is one of them. Theodus taught me that.”
“But Theodus trained for years at the temple. What right have I to guide anyone?”
“Training doesn’t make a Bearer,” replied Honus. “Bearers are chosen by the Seers. You were chosen by Karm herself.”
“Not to be a Bearer.”
“A Bearer is simply a holy person.”
“I feel adrift, not holy.”
“On the night we returned from the temple, you said you wanted to assume Theodus’s quest.”
“I did,” said Yim. “Only now I’m not so sure. I’m not sure of anything.”
“Do you imagine Theodus always had a sense of purpose?” asked Honus. “Sometimes we wandered aimlessly for moons. I don’t need to be guided. My role is to obey. If you choose to go fishing, I’ll gather worms.”
“Will you also bait my hook?”
“At your command, I’ll skewer legions of worms. Only please don’t ask me to cook your catch.”
“One needs no visions to see the folly in that,” said Yim.
“It’s good to see you smile.”
Yim’s smile disappeared. “That doesn’t solve my problem.”
“When Theodus sought guidance,” said Honus, “he studied my runes.”
That idea had never occurred to Yim. She recalled that Honus had said his runes told portents that only his Bearer should read. If I’m truly his Bearer, then they’re meant for me. In her current state of mind, Yim was hesitant to find out if that was true. “Perhaps I’ll look at them,” she said. “But not now.”
Instead, Yim cooked some porridge. After breakfast she resumed their journey to Averen. Yet the runes remained on her mind. She had seen them only twice: on her first night with Honus and when he was under the dark man’s spell. On both occasions, she had merely glimpsed the markings, and she wondered what a careful examination would reveal. By midmorning, Yim surrendered to her curiosity. She spoke to Honus, who was walking in front of her, which was the customary position for a Sarf. “Find a quiet place away from the road. I wish to study your runes.”
For the past day and a half, the road they followed had hugged the banks of the Yorvern River. Away from the winding river, the land was hilly. Peasants tilled the low areas, but the high places were forested. Honus veered toward a thickly wooded slope and began to climb it. Yim followed. Soon all she could see were tree trunks rising into foliage that dimmed the sunlight and tinted it green. Honus halted by a massive, moss-covered oak that stood near the hill’s summit. “Karmamatus, is this spot suitable?”
It seemed a fitting place to delve into secrets, and Yim said so. Honus removed his shirt and sat cross-legged on the ground. Yim knelt behind him with an air of gravity, for it felt like a momentous occasion. The long-hidden runes seemed mysterious, and Yim was aware that Honus believed the tattoos on his back transcribed his fate. And Theodus’s fate , thought Yim. Perhaps mine also .
The skin of Honus’s back was far paler than that of his neck and forearms, for he always kept it covered. The small blue letters had been needled th
ere during his childhood, and they had stretched and smeared as he grew. About his broad shoulders they were as blurred as watercolors left in the rain. Three scars slashed the inscriptions, one making a long, jagged trail near his spine.
The runes were oddly formed, but similar to the letters Yim knew. The words they spelled were a different matter. The language was so archaic as to seem foreign. A few words were familiar, and Yim could pick out a phrase or two, but nothing made enough sense to provide guidance. She thought that “Ha sendt Daijen” might mean “He sends Daijen.” But what’s a “Daijen”? The question was unanswerable. Once again, Yim felt inadequate.
“Honus, the runes say ”
“Don’t speak of them!” cried Honus. “I mustn’t know what’s written there.”
Yim hushed and continued to stare at the marks. Recalling that Honus had said Theodus used to touch his runes, she did the same, although it felt like playacting. As Yim brushed her fingers over the cryptic words, she noted a few names. She found “Theodus” among the misty runes near Honus’s shoulders. Strangely, it was written only once. As on her first night with Honus, she spied her own name toward the middle of his back. She also found it written several other places. In the last instance, it marked the base of his spine. It unsettled Yim to realize that her name had been tattooed there before she was born and the Seer who had done it had most likely been slain in the temple massacre.
Though the runes offered no guidance, they spoke to Yim nonetheless. They seemed proof that her life wasn’t truly hers. She recalled Honus’s words. “How can I be free if Karm wrote my fate upon my back?” Yim sensed that her life’s course had been preordained likewise and then inscribed in words she couldn’t decipher. All they seemed to foretell was that much lay in store for her. Yim brushed her fingers over Honus’s tattoos a while longer to give the impression that she was studying them. Then she pronounced, “The runes are vague about our course.”
SIX
DAIJEN FOUND the inn at dusk. It was a humble place in a poor section of the city. He entered it and found the dingy common room packed with customers. They were a loud bunch, for the ale was cheap. He scanned the dimly lit room and spotted the Sarf exactly where his informant had said he would be. The Sarf sat alone, nursing a mug of tea. Despite the crowd, everyone kept their distance from him.
Daijen caught the innkeeper’s elbow as he bustled by with some empty mugs. “My good man,” he said amiably, “I wish to order a feast.”
The innkeeper regarded Daijen as if he were drunk. “A feast? You’ve come to the wrong place.”
Daijen held his closed hand near the man’s face and briefly lifted his fingers to reveal a gold coin in his palm. Having gained the innkeeper’s attention, he said, “Send out for it if you must, just be quick about it. I want roast lamb with all the trimmings and a jug of good red wine, something from the slopes of South Vinden. Buy enough for two. Will this coin cover the cost?”
The innkeeper grinned. “It’ll do.”
“I want the meal taken to the Sarf.”
“The Sarf?”
“Yes,” replied Daijen. “I’ll be dining with him.”
“You know him?”
“Not yet.”
“Then take my advice and remain a stranger. There are women here who’d fancy a good meal and know how to show their appreciation.”
Daijen assumed an indignant expression. “I’ve no interest in whores!”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I warn you, that Sarf’s touchy. Most likely dangerous, too. A Sarf killed a squad of soldiers when he entered the city.” The man gave Daijen a knowing look. “Some say it was him who did it.”
Daijen shot the innkeeper an impatient look. “Do you want this coin or not?”
“Aye,” said the man as he took it. “I’ll send my boy up the street for what you want.”
“Tell him to hurry.”
Daijen moved to a dark corner of the room and waited for the food to arrive. When the boy returned, the innkeeper took the meat, wine, and other dishes to the Sarf. After he left, the Sarf suspiciously scanned the room. When his eyes met Daijen’s, Daijen bowed deeply and then approached. When he stood before the Sarf, he bowed again. “Karmamatus, please allow me to honor Karm with this meal.”
“Karm sees your generosity,” said the Sarf, “and I’m grateful for the food. However, I don’t touch wine.”
“Still, it needn’t go to waste,” said Daijen. He took up the jug, and in a loud voice, addressed the crowded room. “I have good South Vinden wine here! Who will join me in a toast to the goddess? Come friends, lift a cup with me to Karm in hopes that the Balance will be restored.”
Daijen’s proposal was met by uneasy silence. A few men seemed inclined to drink until they glanced about the room. In the end, there were no comers. Daijen sighed and set the jug down on the table. The Sarf looked up at him and said in a low voice, “That wasn’t a wise move. You should watch your back tonight.”
“Is there no faith left in Bremven?” asked Daijen. “Have all its citizens turned cowardly?”
“I fear both are true,” said the Sarf. “Come, stranger, your generosity exceeds my appetite. Would you care to join me?”
“I ordered enough for your Bearer, too,” replied Daijen. “I wouldn’t presume to eat his share.”
“I have no Bearer,” said the Sarf in a cold voice.
“Then I’d be honored to dine with a righteous man.”
Daijen sat down and appraised the blue-clad stranger across the table. He was muscular and tall, with the dark coloring typical of the region. The Sarf looked young, perhaps not yet twenty, but he had an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance. The Seer who had tattooed his face must have foreseen that trait, for the lines he needled there gave the impression of inflexible sternness. Daijen briefly peered into the Sarf’s dark eyes and was relieved to note they possessed only ordinary perception. Daijen smiled as he made his eyes friendly and reverent. “My name is Rangar, Karmamatus. As you can see, I’m a visitor to Bremven.”
“I’m Gatt,” said the Sarf.
Gatt was clearly glad for a hearty meal, and Daijen let him eat without interruption. Daijen only nibbled at his dinner as he concentrated on reading the man before him. Like Gatt, he didn’t touch the wine, for he needed all his wits. The Sarf was undoubtedly aware that some possessed the power to see other’s thoughts and sway them, so Daijen took care to hide his ability. He perceived that Gatt was an angry man who was quick to judge and judged harshly. Recruiting him would be a dangerous game where a misstep would result in a deadly foe. Thus Daijen bided his time, and when Gatt’s eating slowed, he politely asked, “Was your Bearer slain at the temple?”
Gatt’s voice took on a contemptuous tone. “He was no martyr.”
“Some illness or an accident perhaps?”
“The coward who was my Bearer still lives,” said Gatt, “though only because I couldn’t swim to catch him. He turned his back on Karm and fled.”
“Fled what?”
“We traveled among people who had turned from the goddess. He had no stomach for persecution.”
“What could he fear with you by his side?”
Gatt stared at Daijen menacingly. “Are you questioning my ability?”
“No,” replied Daijen quickly, “just marveling at the depths of your Bearer’s cowardice. Yet should he die for it?”
“Why not?” asked Gatt. “He called himself holy. I would have laid down my life for him without a moment’s hesitation. He betrayed Karm and me and all he stood for. If he would not follow a righteous path, how can we ask common folk to do so?”
“I see your point,” said Daijen. “When so many have died for their faith, why should one live for abandoning it?”
The Sarf gazed at Daijen, seeming pleased by his vindication. “Bremven has become a nest of vipers,” he said. “It’s no place for me.”
Daijen kept his eyes locked on Gatt’s as he spoke. “You’re a man of action
,” he said in a quiet voice.
Upon hearing those words, Gatt grew restless and agitated. “Yes!” he said. “By the goddess, I am!”
“Of course you are. It’s your role in life, the one for which you’ve trained over many years.”
“But I’m a Sarf. Without a Bearer, how can I serve Karm?”
“I’ve no doubt the goddess will send you some holy task. She’s too wise to waste one such as you.”
“I pray you’re right.”
Daijen rose and bowed. “This has been the first pleasant meal I’ve eaten in Bremven, Karmamatus. You’ve restored my hope for the future.”
Gatt rose also. “Let me walk you to your inn. I suspect your piety has riled a cur or two, and they grow braver in the dark.”
“You honor me,” replied Daijen, and he bowed again.
The two men walked through the shadowy streets, pausing only when Daijen gave the untouched wine to a poor woman. When they reached the modest inn where Daijen was staying, Daijen bowed once more. “Karmamatus, it would be an honor if you dined with me tomorrow. I know of an inn that’s famous for its spiced duck.”
Gatt returned Daijen’s bow, though he didn’t bend as low. “It’d be good to sup with a virtuous man.”
“Then shall we meet in the Golden Drake at, say, one bell before sundown? It’s in the Averen quarter on the Street of Feathers.”
“I’ll see you there,” said Gatt, who then strode away and vanished into the darkness.
Daijen visited the Golden Drake the following morning to arrange his dinner with Gatt. While taking care not to appear overly lavish, Daijen ordered ample portions, for he suspected the Sarf had not eaten much of late. Extending hospitality to Karm’s servants was no longer fashionable in Bremven. It could even be dangerous. Daijen looked forward to the day when it would be a capital offense.
At the appointed time, Daijen was seated at a corner table in the inn’s common room. He rose and bowed when Gatt entered. The other diners grew quiet as the Sarf strode across the room, but after he was seated, the talk resumed. While the two men exchanged courtesies, a waiter brought out a large whole duck. It had been slowly roasted until its spiced skin was brown and crunchy. Gatt breathed in its aroma and smiled, causing his host to smile also. While the Sarf sated his hunger, Daijen conversed sparingly about trivial matters. Only when the fowl was reduced to bones did he speak to his true purpose. “Karmamatus,” he said, “would you make me your Bearer?”
[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm Page 4
