The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Bahl gulped down the rest of the potion, then climbed upon the block of basalt. Unbeckoned, a thought arose: My mother lay here. Bahl decided the potion tasted bitter. To easy his nerves, he spoke. “So, soon I’ll meet my son.”

  “Yes, and in your old form with your powers restored. The Devourer has abandoned you in this world, but not in the other one.”

  The other one? thought Bahl. The phrase had disturbing connotations. Don’t worry. Gorm said this draught wouldn’t kill me. Bahl was beginning to feel a little dizzy, so he turned his gaze seaward to glimpse something substantial. But the sea was still a seething void of gray without a horizon; only it was darker than before.

  The Most Holy Gorm waited for Lord Bahl to close his eyes and fall into an ensorcelled slumber. Then he turned Bahl’s face upright and studied it in the dying light. He had performed the ritual many times and knew what subtle signs to look for. The eyelids quivered and the lips moved, then grew still. Soon Lord Bahl’s breathing was as easy and regular as that of an innocent man. His spirit’s on its way, Gorm thought. Now my master can receive what’s been long overdue.

  Gorm reached down and lifted a long, leaf-shaped blade fashioned from obsidian. One end of the black, glassy stone was wrapped in boiled leather to form a handle. Gorm gripped it with both hands and held it high. The knife was sharper than the finest steel, and when he plunged it downward, it easily parted Lord Bahl’s chest. Gorm reached into the gaping cavity and tore out the heart. It was still beating when he threw it into the void.

  EIGHT

  AFTER SPENDING the night smoking goat meat, Yim had slept through much of the following day. Froan had performed the morning milking, and when Yim rose for the evening milking, she found that he had already led the herd to the milking shelter. It was located on the hite’s eastern side where an irregularity in the steep, stone wall created a natural three-sided enclosure. Roofed over with branches and thatch, it allowed the goats to be milked out of the weather. Inside were two milking stands, goat-proof containers of dried faerie arrow, and crockery jugs for milk.

  When Yim reached the shelter, Froan was already milking the first doe, which was contentedly munching a faerie arrow root. “Thanks for doing the morning milking,” she said.

  “You went to bed after sunrise,” Froan replied. “I thought you needed the rest.”

  “I did.” Yim led a doe to a milking stand, secured the animal, and gave her a root as a treat. Then she washed the doe’s teats with water infused with cleansing herbs and began milking. After squeezing out a little milk to flush each teat, she set a jug in place and began to fill it. For a while, the only sound was liquid squirting into jugs as Yim and Froan expertly milked the herd. Yim broke the silence. “Telk’s mother said you visited him yesterday.”

  “I wanted to see the boat he’s making.”

  “His mother thought otherwise,” said Yim. “She said Telk came home covered with marks. She believed you two were playing warrior.”

  “We were a bit. It was Telk’s idea. He’s fond of battles.”

  “That’s because he hasn’t seen one. Doesn’t he know what happened to your father?”

  “I’ve told him the tale.”

  “Honus was a good and gentle man. He deserved a better fate.”

  “You’ve oft spoke about his death but seldom about his life,” said Froan. “Telk overheard his mam say you were Honus’s slave. Is that true?”

  “I was his slave, but only briefly. He set me free.”

  “How did you become a slave?”

  “I was on a journey with my father, and we were attacked by bandits. They killed Father and sold me to a slave dealer. My fate was a common one in those times. Honus was a goatherd who needed a donkey. When he came to town to buy one, he discovered donkeys were dear and slaves were cheap. I was all he could afford. He paid ten coppers for me.”

  “Was that much money?”

  “No. He spent six coppers on my cloak, and it was used and bloodstained.” Yim smiled upon recalling it, then continued her tale. “On our first night together, I feared he would force himself on me. After all, I was his property. But he swore by the goddess that he’d never do so, and he kept his word. I think that was when I first knew he was no common man.”

  “Why did he free you?” asked Froan.

  “Because he realized that no one can truly own another.”

  “But you stayed with him.”

  “Love binds tighter than chains. We married, and soon after, you were conceived. We were so happy.”

  “And then the soldiers came,” said Froan. “I know the rest.”

  “War’s not valor and glory,” said Yim. “It’s butchery and cruelty. Don’t mistake it for a game.”

  “I just play with sticks, Mam, and only to please Telk.”

  Yim wanted to believe Froan, but she didn’t. Nevertheless, she pretended that she did. While she was at it, she pretended Froan was Honus’s son. It didn’t stretch her imagination, for the boy had Honus’s lean, strong body. As did Lord Bahl. His hair was almost as dark as Honus’s. But a walnut shade like mine. However, the eyes were all wrong. Honus’s were blue. Froan’s eyes even differed from hers, for they were so pale that only the pupils were prominent. Just like Lord Bahl’s. Similarities and differences aside, it was love that made Yim’s pretense almost believable. Her devotion was the principal thing that Honus and Froan had in common. While one was a lover and the other a son, her love for each was equally intense. With the foresight that sometimes came to her, Yim knew that would never change.

  Froan’s fingers milked the doe with a rippling motion that imitated a suckling kid. Long practice allowed him to do it without thinking, permitting his thoughts to dwell upon his discontent. Twice a day, every day, he thought. What a dreary life! He despaired at the prospect, and once again felt a restless yearning for something different. He wasn’t sure precisely what, other than an existence free of goats.

  Froan glanced at his mother, who was gazing at him in an affectionate way that he found belittling, although he couldn’t say why. It made him want to be elsewhere. But there was no hurrying milking, and Froan stuck with it to the last doe. Then he rose. “I’ll take the milk to the cave,” he said.

  “While you’re there, stop by the smoke cave,” said Yim. “The meat there should be ready. If you bring me some, I’ll add it to tonight’s stew.”

  Froan forced himself to smile. “That’ll be a treat.”

  Yim took a small jug of milk to serve at evemeal and departed. Froan consolidated the rest of the milk into two large crockery jugs that hung from a yoke. It was destined to be made into cheese, which was the staple food for him and his mother and also the item they bartered for their other needs. Although Froan knew that his mother’s cheese was a favorite among their neighbors, he was sick of it. It reminded him of the wearying sameness of his life.

  Froan hefted the yoke with its two dangling milk jugs and carried it easily to the northern side of the hite. The cave used for cheese making was there, close to the one for smoking meat. Since it was summer, the evening milking finished at sunset, and Froan arrived at his destination while some light still lingered in the sky. He entered the cave and untied the jugs to carry them farther back to a cool, dark chamber where milk kept well. Eager to be done, he didn’t bother to light a torch, and soon he had to feel his way. He had just set the second jug down when he heard a whispered voice. “Son?”

  Froan glanced about the dark chamber, but saw no one. “Mam?” he answered. It seemed impossible that his mother could be in the cave, but she was the only other person on the hite.

  “Not her,” answered the voice. “Someone else.”

  Froan peered in the direction from which the voice had come and detected a faint glimmer in the darkness. As he stared at it, the light elongated and grew brighter. “Who are you?” asked Froan.

  “Who besides your mother would call you son?”

  “My father?”

  “Yes.”
/>   “But Honus is dead.”

  The glimmer continued to expand, assuming a vaguely human form composed of luminescent mist. It was the source of the voice. “Honus is neither dead nor your father. Your mother hasn’t been honest.”

  “You mean I’m not a goatherd’s son?”

  The glowing mist resolved into the unclothed figure of a man with features as crisply defined as if they had been cut from crystal. Froan saw something of himself in the face, the lean hard body, and the piercing eyes. There was a gaping hole in the man’s chest. Its torn edges quivered as he laughed in response to Froan’s question. “Is that what she told you? Your father’s a goatherd? How droll. And what did she say she was? An assassin? A whore? She would have, if she spoke true.”

  “And what do you speak?” asked Froan. “Truth or slander?”

  “The living need to lie. For gain. To evade justice. To gather renown. Only the dead can embrace honesty, for only they are beyond its consequences. Upon the Dark Path, the sole coin is truth. So hear me out and be wiser for it.”

  “Who were you, then, other than my father?”

  “A mighty lord of men. A conqueror.” Bahl’s spirit pointed to his empty chest. “Your mother’s victim.”

  Froan stood dumbfounded.

  “Haven’t you always sensed your differentness? Don’t you feel caged in this dismal bog?” asked the spirit. “That’s because you weren’t destined for a common life. You possess the patrimony of my line—a power over other men. Your mother has worked to subdue that power, to render you ordinary. Yet greatness will out. Think how easily you sway others to your will. With use, that power will grow. That’s what your mother seeks to prevent.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the weak despise the strong. She would smother your light rather than endure its brightness. And she would justify her betrayal in the name of Karm, the goddess of timidity.”

  “What you say stirs me,” said Froan, “but your accusations dampen its appeal. Mam has cared for me all my life, while you offer only words.”

  “I offer truth,” replied the spirit. “Truth you can test yourself. Not only does Honus live, he’s a Sarf—the deadliest of men. He’s a killer, not a goatherd. Moreover, your mother forsook him so she might bed me. Spring this news on her and watch her face. It will confirm my honesty.”

  “And what good will that do?”

  “It’ll free you from a web of lies, so you might become your true self. That’s no small thing. If you choose to seek your destiny, first visit a high and barren rock that lies near the river. It’s shaped like two stone fingers pressed together.”

  “Twin Hite,” said Froan, recognizing the place from its description.

  “The power that oversees the world has worked its will to provide you an omen. Deep in a crevice near the rock’s summit you’ll find a token of your birthright, one that will help you achieve it.”

  “Who are you, and why do you speak in riddles?”

  The spirit came closer, and for the first time, Froan felt the full power of its gaze. Then his doubt and wariness seemed foolish. He felt a deep kinship with the spirit and was ready—even eager—to believe all it said.

  “My name you may not know until you gain the strength to bear it. Until then, it would only imperil you. Great lords have many enemies.”

  “Tell me how I might achieve that strength.”

  “It’ll be easier than you think. Follow your instincts. Your first impulse will always be the right one. Remember that you were born to rule and laws are made for common men. Be ruthless, and you’ll succeed where I failed. Always remember that there is strength in anger. Use its power to make your way.” With those words, the spirit began to grow nebulous. “And heed this parting warning most of all: Never bed a virgin.”

  “Wait!” cried Froan. “Did my mother slay you? And when will I know …” His voice trailed off as the spirit faded altogether.

  NINE

  FROAN STARED into the darkness for a long while as a succession of emotions gripped him. He was perplexed, suspicious, and excited in turn without settling on one reaction. What just happened? he wondered. Froan had heard of visions, but the spirit didn’t seem divine. The fensfolk spoke of boghaunts, the lost souls of persons swallowed by the muck; yet the apparition hadn’t died by drowning. Thus it was possible that the ghost was what it claimed to be—the shade of his father.

  Since much of what the spirit said affirmed Froan’s deepest yearnings, he wanted to believe it. However, some of its claims were disturbing. My mam a whore and a murderer? That seemed as farfetched as it was unsettling, for Froan considered his mother naive and squeamish. Yet Froan felt that he couldn’t pick and chose what to believe. The spirit had either revealed the truth or attempted to deceive him. There seemed only two possibilities: he was either the son of a lowly goatherd or the heir of a mighty lord. Furthermore, if he was destined for greatness, then his mother was a murderous whore. The alternatives were so extreme that Froan couldn’t decide which was genuine. Fortunately, the spirit had provided a means to confirm its claims. All Froan needed to do was catch his mother in an unguarded moment and reveal what the spirit had said about Honus. Regardless of what happened next, Froan felt certain that he would learn the truth.

  It was dusk when Froan left the cave and headed homeward. Preoccupied with the bizarre visitation, he was halfway home before remembering that he was supposed to bring some meat. He rushed back to the smoke cave, opened its door, and grabbed some strips of goat from the rack inside. Then, after latching the door, Froan hurried to dinner.

  When he arrived, his mother, who preferred to cook outdoors in warm weather, was stirring a pot nestled among orange-red embers. Lit by their dim glow, her face appeared serene but also mysterious. Froan had spent his entire life in her company, but he had given little thought to her existence before he was born. In that respect, she was as much a mystery to him as she was to the fensfolk. Thinking upon the matter, Froan couldn’t decide if his ignorance was due to indifference on his part or evasion on hers. He had learned only recently that she had been a slave, and it wasn’t his mother who had told him. Perhaps her past is as sordid as the spirit said, thought Froan. Although he was anxious to discover the truth, it didn’t seem the right time to confront his mother, for the dim light would make it hard to read her expression.

  Froan handed his mother the strips of smoked goat meat and retreated from the light, aware that his face might betray his turmoil. As she tore apart the meat and added it to the pot of simmering tubers and herbs, her expression became uneasy. She shivered and looked in his direction. “Did something happen to you?” she asked.

  “No,” replied Froan, taking pains to keep his voice even and casual. “I’m just hungry.”

  “Then you’ll enjoy this stew. The meat will give it savor,” his mother replied, still gazing at Froan’s shadowed face.

  Froan had been cold since birth, and he seldom noticed his perpetual chill, but at that moment he did. It had deepened. Moreover, his mother seemed to have noted the change, causing Froan to speculate that was why she shivered despite her nearness to the embers. Is it my chill that makes her uneasy or something else? It was another question that he must postpone asking.

  Froan walked toward the entrance of the home that the two of them shared. “There’s a chill in the air,” he said, anxious to avoid his mother’s gaze. “I’m going to get my cloak.”

  The door was open to admit the faint light from the evening sky, but Froan could have found his cloak with his eyes closed. The outer wall of moss-chinked stone enclosed a cramped cavity chipped into the rocky hite. It barely accommodated two narrow mattresses, some pots and baskets, and a space to cook. In the fashion of all fens abodes, the hearth was set into the outer wall, which also incorporated a chimney. Froan had to duck his head to pass through the doorway. Then it took only two steps before his outstretched hand touched his cloak, which hung from a peg on the far wall.

  Froan slipped t
he goatskin garment over his bare shoulders, but he didn’t immediately rejoin his mother. Instead, he imagined how his home would seem to his noble father. The cavity smelled strongly of smoke, although his mother has been cooking outside since spring. It also smelled of goats and the two people who tended them. Darkness obscured most of the meager possessions that hung from pegs or cluttered the tiny floor, but Froan saw them in his mind’s eye. They seemed few and pitiful. He had heard tales of lords, how they wore colorful garments made of fine cloth, dined off golden plates on meat at every meal, and lived in stone-built houses the size of hites. What would my father think of this tiny hole? It was easy to guess: It seems more a pen than a home.

  When Froan emerged into the night, his mother was still gazing in his direction. He found a shadowed spot and sat down. After a while, his mother broke the silence. “I’ll do the milking next morn so you can go to Green Hite and deliver some cheeses.”

  “To whom?”

  “Turtoc. He has smoked eels to trade. I know you’re fond of them.”

  “Green Hite’s a fair trek from here,” said Froan. “How’d you learn about the eels?”

  “Oh, I had cause to visit there.” After a spell of silence, his mother added, “Most like, Turtoc will be tending his traps, but Treemi will be there.”

  “Who?”

  “His eldest daughter. You’ve met her before. She’s comely with golden hair.”

  “I scarce recall her.”

  “Well, she certainly remembers you. I sensed an attraction.”

  “She’s but a girl.”

  “Not so! She’s nigh on sixteen winters. And not only pretty but a hard worker and sweet tempered.”

  “Mam, what are you saying?”

  “Fensfolk marry young, and—”

  “Is that what you wish for me? To wed a fish trapper’s daughter?” Froan recalled the spirit’s warning that he should never bed a virgin. It suddenly seemed highly relevant.