The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  “I wish you to be happy,” replied his mother. “It’d be a good match.”

  “Forget it. I’m going to be like you and never marry anyone.”

  “But I did marry. I married Honus.”

  Froan had to fight the impulse to challenge that assertion, and he found the strength to do so from an unlikely source. It was the part of him that he called his shadow. Before, it had only spurred his anger, but on this occasion it tempered his urge to act. Then Froan saw the advantage of a more cold-blooded approach and changed his tone. “Of course,” he said. “I forgot Honus. You were happy with him, weren’t you?”

  “To the day he died.”

  Froan was glad that the shadows hid his smile. “I’ll see that girl tomorrow, and I’ll keep an open mind.”

  “That’s all I ask,” replied his mother in a meek tone that Froan found annoying. You’re playing with me, he thought. Working to forestall my future. For the time being, that future was still nebulous to Froan, a dream without specifics. Thinking upon it, he was eager for morning to come. Daylight will reveal what the night hides. Then perhaps Mam’s games will cease.

  Dawn found Froan wide-awake and still calculating how to best surprise his mother. He rose and ate a bit of cold stew, then waited for her to rise. When she did, she smiled at him. “No milking for you this morning.”

  “How many cheeses should I take to Green Hite?”

  “Two. I’ve already spoken to Turtoc. We’ll get six eels for them.”

  “You gave him generous terms,” said Froan, guessing his mother’s reasons.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Treemi gives you a few extra. Just use your charm.”

  Froan smiled. “I’ll do my best.” He didn’t leave, but waited until his mother stepped outside to round up the goats for milking. Following her into the sunlight, he called to her in a gentle voice. “Mam.”

  She halted and turned.

  Froan walked over to her until they were close enough to touch. “About last night,” he said. “I know you wish the best for me.” His mother’s face took on a pleased look, mingled with a hint of relief. Froan gazed at her eyes, but was unable to peer behind them. With others, he could perceive far more—sense emotions and grasp unspoken thoughts. But when he gazed at his mother, Froan saw only what came to the surface. Nevertheless, he had grown skilled at reading her most subtle expressions. Nothing escaped his notice. He reached out and tenderly grasped her arms. “Mam, have you ever had a vision?” Watching his mother carefully, Froan noted his question both surprised and alarmed her.

  “Never.”

  “I think I did last night.”

  “What did you see?” asked his mother in a voice that strained to seem casual but revealed growing apprehension.

  Froan permitted himself to smile ever so slightly. “My father.”

  “Honus?” Apprehension turned to outright fear.

  Froan, ever more certain where the truth lay, tightened his grip on his mother’s arms as he spoke. “You mean the killer you abandoned? He’s not my father.” Froan watched the blood drain from his mother’s face. When she struggled to break free, he held her fast. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? My sire’s a lord, not a goatherd.”

  “No! No!”

  “It’s pointless to lie. Your face betrays you.” Froan released his mother, who stood transfixed by shock. “I was born for greatness, and you’ll not hold me back!” Then Froan smiled, turned on his heel, and strode away. He was ten paces down the path before his mother cried out to him. “Froan! Froan! Come back!” Her voice seemed on the verge of sobbing and sounded pathetic to his ears. Froan didn’t even turn around.

  As Yim watched her son stride away, she realized that trying to stop him would be both futile and foolish. Froan had managed to totally surprise her, and the shock of his revelation had left her stunned. Yim had no idea what to do, but she felt a wrong move would be disastrous. Since Froan had stormed off wearing only a breechclout, he was virtually guaranteed to return home. When he did, Yim would have a chance to sway his course. She suspected it would be her only one.

  What chagrined Yim most was how all her sacrifices had been for naught. Why did I presume I could hide Froan from the Devourer? In retrospect, the idea seemed naive, even though she had vanished from the larger world. From the perspective of Averen or Bremven, the Grey Fens were as distant as the moon. The fensfolk had been so astonished by her arrival that some still didn’t believe that she was human. Yet the bog had proved no sanctuary. The Devourer is like the goddess, thought Yim. It overlooks all the world. It was merely biding its time until my son grew.

  Yim realized her mistake in relying on isolation and deception. Froan had learned the truth despite them. But only part of the truth, thought Yim. He’s learned his father was great and powerful, but I doubt he knows what that power cost him. Yim saw that her only hope lay in revealing the whole truth about Lord Bahl to Froan, and in that effort, her previous deceptions would work against her. Froan had learned his true parentage, and having caught her in a lie, he would hold all she said suspect. Nevertheless, speaking truth was her only option short of violence, and Yim could never harm Froan. For seventeen winters, she had nurtured and loved him. Knowing that his flaws arose from his conception, she felt if Froan failed to overcome them, it would be her fault, not his. What ever it costs me, Yim swore to herself, I’ll save him from his doom.

  TEN

  FROAN DASHED through the bog in order to catch Telk before he left to check his fish traps. Certain that the apparition had been his father, Froan was anxious to visit Twin Hite and discover the token that the spirit said would be there. To do that, he would need Telk, for the hite was reachable only by boat.

  Froan’s haste paid off. When he reached Tararc Hite’s far shore, Telk’s reed boat was still in view. It was laden with fish traps, and Telk was poling it down the narrow channel. Froan called out. “Stop! Come back.”

  Telk immediately began to pole back toward the shore, obviously puzzled by his friend’s unexpected arrival. Before he could say anything, Froan spoke. “I had a vision last eve.”

  “From tha Mother?”

  “Of course, from her. She said we’re to go to Twin Hite to receive a token of our fate.”

  “But Da wants these traps out by morn,” replied Telk.

  Froan gazed at Telk in the same manner that his father’s spirit had regarded him and used his eyes to convey a sense of urgency. “The traps are unimportant,” he said. “We’ve been charged by the Mother to do this. Besides, when your da checks the traps this eve, he won’t know when they were set out.”

  “Nay, he won’t,” agreed Telk. He seemed infected by his friend’s mood, for he picked up the pace of his poling. Soon his small craft touched the bank. Froan stepped aboard, confident that Telk would do his bidding.

  * * *

  Twin Hite was a prominent but rarely visited spot. Thrusting from the water to the height of half a dozen men, the spire of rock resembled an index and middle finger pressed together. It served as a landmark, but was good for nothing else, since its sides were nearly vertical. The only place a man could comfortably stand was on its lofty top. The hite lay close to where the bog merged with the Turgen in an area of tangled channels that was more river than fens.

  It took a long while for Telk to thread his small craft through the maze of waterways, which often came to dead ends that forced him to find another route. The sun was high in the morning sky when he reached the hite and found no bank on which to beach his boat. “Now what?” asked Telk.

  Froan had been silent throughout the journey, caught up in splendid daydreams. Roused from those reveries, he gazed up at the towering rock. “Pole around the hite until I spot a place to climb it.”

  Telk did as he was told, and on the far side of the hite, Froan found a place to attempt to scale it. A wide and jagged crack ran up the rock face, and its weathered interior provided a few holds. Telk maneuvered the reed boat until Froan was able to
grip the rock, pull himself up, and begin climbing. The ascent was difficult and risky, but Froan approached it with a single-mindedness that vanquished fear. Soon Telk and the boat were left far below.

  Froan had nearly reached the summit of the hite when he came upon an opening in the rear of the crack. It was a crevice that extended deeper into the stone. When Froan peered into its dark interior he saw a vague form. Curious, he entered the crevice, which widened to form a small cavity.

  There, he discovered a man’s body. When Froan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he perceived that the corpse was ancient, little more than a skeleton wrapped in papery skin and moldering garments. The clothing wasn’t that of a fensman and appeared exotic, furthering the body’s air of mystery. Froan had no idea how the man had come to be in the crevice or the manner of his death. Is this the token I’m supposed to find? he wondered. If so, what does it mean?

  Then Froan saw that the bony hands resting on the corpse’s lap gripped an elongated object wrapped in cloth. The way the dead man held the bundle gave the impression that he was presenting a gift. Froan touched the wrapping and it disintegrated into dust, revealing a leather scabbard. When Froan gently pulled at it, the skeletal hands fell apart and tumbled to the crevice floor. Projecting from the newly freed scabbard was the hilt of a dagger with a brass pommel resembling the head of a snarling beast. Then the scabbard, like the cloth that had wrapped it, fell to pieces in Froan’s hand to reveal a polished blade that had remained keen despite its long hiding. Reflecting the dim light, it shone like moonlit water.

  The dagger’s preservation seemed an omen, as well as the crumbling of its scabbard, which prevented the blade from being sheathed again. “I, too, have been hidden from the world,” Froan said. He held the blade aloft. “But no more. My destiny has been revealed! I’m to take up this blade and claim my place!” The words rang within the narrow space, sounding grand and forceful to him—something a great lord would say. The weapon felt natural in his hand, less an extension of his arm than its completion. It seemed as if the blade always had been meant for him, and the thought gave him a heady sense of power. Already, the dagger was precious to him as both a token of his future and a means to achieve it.

  Upon further examination of the corpse, Froan found a sword. Unlike the dagger, it had lain in a wet place and its scabbard had rotted away to expose a blade pitted with rust. Nevertheless, Froan decided to take it also. The upper portion of the dead man’s cloak remained sound, and Froan cut two pieces from it to wrap the sword and dagger. Then he cut long strips of cloth and used them to tie the pair of bundles to his back. Descending the crack with reckless haste, Froan reached the reed boat with his treasures. He held out the largest bundle to Telk. “The Mother has sent us signs,” he said. “This one’s for you.”

  Telk seldom questioned his friend’s pronouncements, and he didn’t on this occasion either. Instead, he seemed swept up by Froan’s excitement as he pulled the aged cloth from the token of his fate. Froan caught the disappointment on Telk’s face at the sight of the rusty blade, and he quickly spoke to ease it. “Yes, the sword’s rusty. That’s to test your resolve. Take a stone to the blade and make it gleam.”

  “I will, Froan. ’Twill sparkle like tha sun.”

  “Be quick with your work, for our time draws nigh. You must be ready.”

  “For what?”

  “Adventure. Riches. Renown. Now pole us back so we might prepare. Gather your things in readiness for a quick departure.”

  Yim went through the motions of her morning routine with her mind elsewhere. Her thoughts dwelt solely on her son and what she would say to him when he returned. She could only guess about the nature of Froan’s “vision” and what Lord Bahl had told him. She didn’t even know if Bahl was alive or dead. Her only certainty was that her son hadn’t been told the whole truth. Would he choose to lose his soul for the sake of power and riches? Froan’s father had, but Yim wondered if he had had any choice in the matter. Does Froan? Yim worried that her son might have been doomed upon the moment of his conception. But if that’s true, then the world’s doomed also.

  Hoping her sacrifices hadn’t been pointless, Yim tried to devise an argument that would sway her son from following Lord Bahl’s footsteps. After she came up with one, she rehearsed it out loud during the morning’s tasks. “I hid the truth for your sake,” she said for the dozenth time as she curdled milk to make cheese, “waiting until you gained the strength to hear it. Yes, your father was a lord with a great palace and a mighty army, but that power wasn’t truly his. Its source was an evil being that possessed and consumed him. By the time I met your father, he was only a husk of a man. When you were conceived, that evil passed to you. It’s the cause of your rages and unnatural urges. I know something of its power, for a trace lingers in me. It’s a terrible legacy, and if you fail to master it, it will master you.

  “Your father would have you become its slave, as he was. Heed him and you’ll be doomed to a vile and bloody life. Do you wish to become a monster whose name evokes only fear? I brought you here so you might avoid that fate.”

  As Yim squeezed the water from the curds, she refined her argument. She also wondered if she should tell Froan that she was the Chosen, whose life’s task was to bear Lord Bahl’s child. Should I recount my degradation while in Bahl’s power? Reveal the nature of the Devourer? What tone should I take? Stern? Loving? Yim wavered on those points before concluding that Froan’s state of mind would determine the best approach. All she could do was wait for his return, then gauge his mood and decide how best to proceed.

  It was midmorning when Yim was seized by the sudden fear that Froan might try to sneak away. Abruptly halting her cheese making, she ran back to their tiny home in a state of panic that eased only when she found Froan’s things undisturbed. Yim realized that she had been lucky and that Froan could have easily slipped away forever. She resolved not to give him another opportunity and remained indoors.

  The day passed slowly until it was time for the second milking. Froan had yet to come home. Still waiting for him, Yim heard the does grow distressed when no one emptied their swollen udders. Their bleating sounded ever more urgent until Yim knew that she must do something. Taking the goats to the milking shed was out of the question, so she led the head doe to a dense thicket near her home, knowing the herd would follow. Yim settled in a place where she could view her doorway and began to milk the does simply to relieve them. Their milk spurted on the ground and was wasted, but that seemed of no consequence. Yim was milking her fifth goat, when she saw Froan approach the doorway. His stealthy manner made her think that he had timed his arrival to avoid her. Froan appeared unaware of Yim’s presence, so she waited until he entered their home. Then she followed him inside.

  As Yim suspected, her son was hastily preparing to depart. Already, his winter boots and most of his clothing lay piled inside his spread-out cloak. Yim also spied house hold goods among them—a small cooking pot, a water skin, and some utensils along with a flint and iron. “Going on a journey?” she asked.

  Froan started and whirled to regard her with a haughty gaze that reminded Yim of Lord Bahl. “That’s not your concern,” he said.

  Yim struggled to keep her voice calm, and she even forced a smile. “Of course it is. I’m your mother.”

  “I had a father, too. What of him?”

  “I hid the truth for your sake, waiting until …”

  Froan appeared not to be listening. Instead, he reached into the pile upon his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in an ancient scrap of cloth. “My father gave me a sign,” he said. “A token of my future.” His right hand disappeared into the cloth and emerged holding a dagger.

  At the sight of the blade, Yim’s carefully reasoned arguments vanished from her mind. Her entire focus centered on the dagger. The weapon seemed to have transformed her son, as if it were some evil talisman. Seeing Froan brandish it stirred grim memories of soldiers’ bloody deeds, and with those memories cam
e rage. “How dare you?” shouted Yim. “How dare you bring that thing into our home?”

  Without forethought, Yim grabbed Froan’s wrist with both hands and twisted it. He gave a startled cry as his arm was wrenched into an awkward and painful position. His fingers flew open, and the dagger fell to the dirt floor. Both Yim and Froan lunged for it, but Froan grabbed the hilt first. Yim saw the blade move upward just as she was falling toward it. There was a burning sensation across her throat as she struck the floor. Then she quickly rose to a kneeling position and gazed up at her son.

  Froan was backing away, dagger in hand, as he stared at her. His expression was unreadable, for it seemed that emotions were warring within him. Then one appeared to gain the upper hand—horror. Froan looked away, and Yim followed his gaze toward the blade. It was stained with blood. Then Yim understood why her throat burned. It’s been cut, she thought. That blood is mine. She glanced downward. Crimson stained her tunic and the dirt floor before her knees. Yim looked at her son again, wondering if she was still capable of speech. Though her eyes met his, she could no longer see him clearly, for the light seemed to be fading. She tried to say “I forgive you,” but growing darkness snuffed out her words. All Yim was able to do was gaze at her child as shadow enveloped him.

  ELEVEN

  FROAN WATCHED aghast as his mother fixed her eyes on him and attempted to speak. Her lips quivered, but instead of words, a single drop of blood passed her parted lips. The silence was terrible. The drop grew larger until it rolled down her chin, leaving a crimson trail. Then his mother’s face turned deathly pale, and her eyes rolled upward. She collapsed with a slight twisting motion to lie still upon the floor. I’ve killed her! Froan thought, unsure if the deed was accidental or not. It had happened so quickly that his memory of the event was incoherent. His most vivid recollections were of how easily her flesh had parted and of his opposing reactions of horror and exultation. It seemed as if two persons had watched, each with feelings totally alien to the other’s. Froan struggled to reconcile that he was both those persons, but it was impossible. He felt that he could be only one of them. He had either done something horrendous and abominable or he had avenged his father’s murder and liberated himself in the process.