Gatt’s face immediately reddened beneath his tattoos. “Such talk is blasphemous!”
Daijen shrank back. “You mistake my meaning, Karmamatus.”
“Then what is it?”
“I asked the question because today I heard of a Sarf who named his own Bearer.”
“Impossible!”
“Do you know of a Sarf named Honus?”
“He’s Theodus’s Sarf,” said Gatt. “We’re not acquainted, but I’ve seen him at the temple. It was years ago. What about him?”
“I’ve just dealt with a cloth merchant—Dommus is his name—who sheltered Honus when he came to Bremven recently. Honus’s Bearer had been slain, but he brought a slave with him, a woman named Yim.”
“Sarfs don’t own slaves,” said Gatt.
“Honus did.” Daijen gave his companion a knowing look. “Dommus said she was quite a beauty.”
“Are you implying that Honus kept her for pleasure?”
“If he did, it wouldn’t make so strange a tale,” replied Daijen. “Comely women have their wiles, and men—even pious ones—are their natural prey. What’s unnatural is that Honus made Yim his Bearer.”
“No Sarf has that authority!”
“Honus acted like he did,” replied Daijen. “The whole household witnessed it.” “How could he dare?”
“Dommus was convinced that Yim had bewitched him,” said Daijen. “Some people have that power. They do it with their eyes.”
“Only weaklings fall for such tricks,” said Gatt. “Honus is renown for his strength.”
“A man can be mighty in some ways and weak in others. Perhaps Yim didn’t use enchantments. She might have merely seduced Honus to lead him astray.”
“But why would he name her his Bearer?” asked Gatt.
“Because she made him do it. That’s what Dommus said.”
Gatt looked perplexed. “Why?”
“What better way for her to seal her conquest?” said Daijen, gazing into the Sarf’s eyes. “Some women are leeches. They slither up a man’s pants and suck his goodness away.”
Gatt’s face flushed beneath its tattoos. “So Honus now calls his slut holy?” He slammed his fist on the table. “That profanes Karm!”
“Yes,” said Daijen. “Even as we speak, the bawd parades about the countryside ” His voice became mesmerizing. “ demanding charity and respect in the name of our goddess. Yet people aren’t fools. Honus may cow them into calling Yim Karmamatus,’ but they know a whore when they see one.”
Gatt shook his head. “I used to admire Honus.”
“Doubtlessly because he was an admirable man,” said Daijen. “This Yim has poisoned him. She would have been kinder to cut his throat.”
“He’d be better off dead.”
“But would that be justice?” asked Daijen. “After all, he’s bewitched.”
“It’s Yim’s throat that needs cutting.”
“That would be a worthy deed!” exclaimed Daijen, as if surprised by the notion. “It would surely honor Karm.”
“Yet the whore’s left Bremven,” said Gatt. “She could be anywhere.”
“Yim might not be so hard to find,” said Daijen. “She told Dommus that they were going to Averen to visit Lord Bahl. There’s only one road they could take.”
“Bahl? This slut’s more sinister than you think.”
“What do you mean?” asked Daijen.
“Can’t you see? She’s delivering Honus to his enemies. How could he be so blind?”
“Then perhaps Dommus was right when he said Yim worked a spell.”
“Such a spell would be no trick of the eyes,” stated Gatt, “but some fouler sorcery. This sounds like the work of the enemy.”
“Do you think Yim worships the Devourer?”
“It would explain a lot. Honus was a righteous man. His ruin would please the dark priests’ god.”
“I see your point,” said Daijen. “That makes his disgrace all the more tragic.”
“So many have fallen,” mused Gatt. “But to fall with such dishonor ”
“Yet Honus might rise again, if he were free from Yim’s sorcery.” Daijen fixed his eyes on Gatt’s and spoke in a quiet, compelling tone. “His salvation could be your holy task.”
Gatt grew excited. “Yes! I’m sure of it!”
“It’ll be no easy undertaking,” said Daijen. “If Honus is under a spell, you’ll only release him by destroying Yim. He’ll try to protect her.”
“I’m undaunted,” said Gatt. “Karm feeds my strength. I cannot fail.”
“You may have to kill Honus in order to slay Yim.”
“His death would free his soul,” said Gatt, “and it’s his soul that matters.”
“I’m in the presence of a brave and just man.” Daijen bowed his head. “I’m honored to know you, Karmamatus. Though I lack the courage and prowess for such a crusade, I possess two things that will aid your quest—a horse, so you may overtake Yim, and this.” He took a small glass vial from his shirt.
Gatt picked up the vial. “What’s this?”
“Paint this potion on your blade to assure success.”
“Only a coward poisons his sword.”
“This is no coward’s quick-acting venom. It won’t save your life in combat. Yet with this, you need only wound the witch to assure her destruction.” Daijen gazed at Gatt and used his full powers to bend him to his will. “You’re fighting against sorcery, so you’ll need a potent weapon. Don’t let a warrior’s pride interfere with your duty to the goddess. A holy end sanctions all means.”
Gatt wavered but a moment before he took the vial. “You’re right, my friend. I must be humble and perform Karm’s will.”
SEVEN
YIM HAD set a hasty pace upon departing Bremven, and she and Honus had been on the road only four days when they reached the Bridge Inn. Built on the Vinden side of the span to Luvein, the inn sat at a once busy crossroads. Even after Luvein’s devastation, it remained a major stop on the road to Averen, the last accommodation before entering rugged territory. Recalling her previous reception at the inn, Yim had chosen not to seek hospitality there. Instead, she and Honus camped in the woods, as they had every night since fleeing Bremven.
Over the past three days of travel, the villages along the route had given way to scattered peasant holdings. The farther westward Yim and Honus journeyed, the wilder the surrounding countryside became. Traffic dwindled, and the imperial highway began to show signs of neglect. Its paving stones were often crumbled or heaved by frosts to trip the unwary traveler. It seemed proof of the emperor’s waning authority.
Yim’s pace was spurred by the sense of menace that had driven her from the city and dogged her on the road. It made her wary, and she avoided people whenever possible. She didn’t explain her fears to Honus, for she couldn’t explain them to herself. All she knew was that whatever troubled her thoughts seemed as threatening as the hostility she met upon the road. Yim worried that the malevolence she encountered in the ruined temple was still seeking to destroy her. She felt it was watching her, filled with deadly rage. She suspected that Honus was aware of her apprehension, although he didn’t presume to speak of it.
As Yim trudged along, bent beneath the heavy pack, she gazed at Honus striding in front of her and felt somewhat reassured. His movements reminded her of a cat’s—easy, yet alert. Honus seem prepared to pounce at any instant. She had witnessed his dazzling quickness when they were last attacked. One assailant lay cleaved in two even before Yim darted from the road.
A moon ago he was my master , mused Yim. Now I’m his . Yet as Honus’s slave, Yim had never served him willingly, whereas ever since the night in the ruined temple, Honus served her utterly. His devotion went beyond the reverence and duty that a Sarf owed his Bearer; Honus was bound to Yim by something that baffled her. It was love. Yim found Honus’s feelings perplexing and inexplicable. She couldn’t understand why they had arisen. Having never experienced desire, Yim found its passion a myste
ry.
Yim suspected that the Wise Woman had reared her to be incapable of the emotion. As the Chosen, Yim was to bear the child of whatever man the goddess decreed. Since love might impede that duty, it was a weakness to be avoided. Yim wondered if Honus’s love might prove a weakness. It worried her, for she feared that the time was approaching when she would need all his strength.
After Yim had attempted to read Honus’s runes, she resumed her journey. Throughout the remainder of the day the landscape continued to change. The hills rose higher and pressed ever closer to the riverbank until there were no places to farm. By late afternoon, the only dwellings they spied hugged the Yorvern’s banks. Honus said they were the homes of river folk who made their living by fishing and plying the waterway with cargoes. The houses were so close to the road that Yim couldn’t avoid their occupants. To her relief, everyone she encountered was respectful.
After passing a hut where the family paused in its activity to bow, Yim said, “I think the black priests haven’t come this way.”
“Or perhaps none here have believed their lies,” replied Honus. “The river is a chancy road and it teaches folk to heed their instincts.”
When sunset neared, Yim decided to seek hospitality for the first time since departing Bremven. Spying a wooden hut perched on the riverbank, she approached it. Like all river dwellings, it sat atop stone pilings to keep it dry during spring floods. A series of large rocks led from the road to the elevated doorway. They rested on dry ground, but Yim saw how they would serve as stepping-stones in wetter times.
Outside the hut, a middle-aged woman was gathering small fish that had been strung on lines above a smoky fire. When she saw Yim leave the road, she stopped what she was doing and bowed. Yim returned her bow and spoke. “Greetings, Mother. We request food and shelter in respect for the goddess.”
The woman bowed again. “Ye would honor our house, Karmamatus.”
“Please call me Yim, Mother. My Sarf is Honus.”
Honus bowed politely.
“Then ye should call me Maryen,” said the woman, her suncreased face emphasizing her smile. “We get few visitors. ‘twill be a treat to hear news.”
“Little I could say would be called a treat,” replied Yim. “Troubles are abroad. You should be glad they’re distant.”
“Do you have the means to repair leather?” asked Honus. “My mistress’s sandals want a strap.”
Maryen looked down at Yim’s dusty bare feet. “Gracious! Ye must be footsore. Come in and rest yerself.”
“First let me help you finish your task,” replied Yim, stepping up to the fire. The fish, which were no longer than Yim’s forefinger, had been gutted and strung on cords that threaded through a gill and out the mouth. She imitated Maryen, who slid the smoked fish down their cords until they dropped into a basket. When all the fish were gathered in the basket, the two women went to the river to wash the blackened fish oil from their hands before entering the hut. Honus followed them inside.
The hut’s interior consisted of a single room with a ladder leading to a loft above. Its wooden walls were darkened by age and smoke from the hearth. They were mostly covered by clothes, dried herbs, and boating gear that hung from pegs, giving the walls a cluttered look that extended to the rest of the room. It was filled with all sorts of items. There were baskets containing roots, smoked fish, grain, and other edibles lining one wall. A sizable stack of firewood was piled against another. Beside it was a cupboard crammed with crocks, kettles, and wooden plates and bowls. A jumbled pile of bedding and laundry lay close to the ladder. Oars leaned against the walls, and other boating gear was scattered about the floor where it mingled with a collection of stools of varying sizes. A large oaken table covered with a fishing net dominated the room’s center.
A young, sandy-haired boy sat at the table mending the net. He looked up when Yim entered, bowed his head, and made an inarticulate noise.
“That’s my youngest, Foel,” said Maryen. “He hears fine, but he has na spoken since he was six winters. Foel, dear, this lady’s sandal wants mending. Go get yer tools.”
When the boy scampered up the ladder leading to the loft, Yim turned to his mother. “Did he suffer some mishap?”
“Aye,” said Maryen, confirming Yim’s intuition. “A wreck upon the river with his father and sister. Only Foel was saved, and he’s never been the same. Yet he’s a good lad and my comfort when his brothers are away.”
When Foel returned, Yim took her sandal from the pack and handed it to him. He set to work while Maryen brewed herb tea. Before she could serve it, her son had repaired the sandal and handed it to Yim. Yim smiled and bowed. She ran her finger along the mended strap. Foel had tapered the splice so that it would feel smooth against her foot.
“This is skillful work, Foel,” said Yim. “Each step I take will be easier because of you.”
Foel smiled shyly and made a pleasant noise in his throat.
Maryen handed wooden bowls of the herbal brew to Yim and Honus. When Honus received his, he took care to smile, for he had noticed that Foel regarded him fearfully. Yim noticed also. “Those marks on my Sarf’s face make him look fierce,” she said to the boy. “But if you’re clever, you’ll look beneath them and see a gentle man.”
Foel peered at Honus and relaxed. Then he glanced at Yim. When their eyes met, Yim said, “No, they don’t wash off,” as if replying to a spoken question.
Dinner was a stew of smoked fish and roots accompanied by more tea. Yim ate with relish and complimented Maryen on her cooking. Afterward, she gave a brief description of the temple’s destruction.
Maryen shook her head. “I heard that news, but did na believe it. Too many wild tales fly about seeking fools’ ears.”
“I wish it were only a tale,” said Yim, “but I saw it with my own eyes.”
“What will ye do now?” asked Maryen.
“I’m still seeking Karm’s guidance,” replied Yim. “At the present, we’re headed for Averen. There we’ll visit General Cronin. He’s a good man, and his sister’s a friend of mine.”
“I’m glad ye have a place among friends,” said Maryen.
“As we have tonight,” said Yim with a smile. She turned her gaze to Foel, who had been listening to her account. In a gentle voice she said, “The river must look lovely by moonlight. Will you show it to me?”
Maryen started to speak, but she was cut short by a grunt from Foel, who nodded yes to Yim.
“Will you hold my hand?” asked Yim. “I don’t know the way.”
Foel rose and led Yim from the hut. Maryen turned to Honus in amazement. “He’s afraid of the river! He will na go near it!”
Yim held Foel’s hand even after they sat down on the riverbank. The moonlight sparkled on the Yorvern like cold fire. “It’s pretty,” Yim said. Then she shifted her gaze from the river to Foel. The boy briefly fidgeted under her scrutiny, for he was unable to look away. Then he calmed.
“Your house lies between two roads,” Yim said in a soothing voice. “One is dry and the other is wet, yet both are the same—on neither road can you know what lies ahead. Karm speaks to me, yet I can’t foresee the future. So how could a little boy?” Yim paused, and when she spoke again, it was with the gravity of perfect certainty. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Foel’s eyes welled with tears and his mouth began to quiver. “But But I saw it,” he said in a rusty whisper. “I saw the snag and could na speak.”
Yim embraced Foel as he began to weep. “Your father saw it, too, and couldn’t avoid it. Don’t blame yourself.”
Yim held Foel until his tears were dry. Then she returned with him to the hut. Honus and Maryen were still sitting at the table. Maryen grew concerned when she saw that her son had been weeping, but Foel ran to embrace her. Then in a voice faint from disuse, he cried out, “Momma!”
EIGHT
ON THE morning that Yim and Honus bid farewell to Maryen and Foel, Gatt departed from Bremven astride Daijen’s huge black horse. Despite
his bravery, he felt uneasy. Gatt was unfamiliar with horses, and he sensed that he wasn’t entirely in control. The steed was powerful and sometimes ignored Gatt’s handling of its reins. Bounced about by his mount’s jarring gallop, the Sarf was soon saddle sore. Despite his discomfort, Gatt never considered riding at a slower pace. He accepted his unease and pain as the price of swiftness. If he had any hope of catching Yim, speed was essential.
Gatt was far from Bremven when dusk forced him to look for shelter. He passed several modest cottages before stopping at a prosperous-looking farm. Dismounting his lathered horse, he led it up the path to the residence. A man who appeared to be the farm’s owner stepped out from a doorway to watch his approach. After traveling on his own for over three moons, Gatt had developed a knack for discerning which households still adhered to the goddess. Nevertheless, he adopted a demeanor that combined both humility and intimidation when he asked for charity. Placing his hand on his sword hilt, he bowed toward the man. “I serve Karm, Father. Do you honor her?”
The man returned Gatt’s bow. “How may I help you, Karmamatus?”
“I require food and shelter for myself and my horse.”
“I’d be honored to provide both.”
“Karm sees your generosity.”
“Tarvus,” the man shouted, “come and take the Sarf’s horse to the stables.”
A boy about twelve winters old emerged from the house and regarded Gatt with undisguised excitement. He bowed very low. “Karmamatus, this is an honor,” he said before taking the horse’s reins. Gatt smiled slightly and inclined his head.
[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm Page 5
