The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Torn between those two conceptions, Froan was unable to decide which was true. His emotions were too powerful and immediate for that. Then he felt an urge that was as appalling as his mother’s death—a craving to taste her blood. The compulsion was so strong that Froan was bending toward his mother’s gashed neck before revulsion made him shrink back. He quickly wiped the blood from the dagger with the scrap of cloth that had wrapped it, fighting the urge to lick the blade instead. The effort left him trembling. Fearing that if he didn’t flee immediately he would succumb to his unnatural compulsion, he grabbed his cloak. In his haste, he was unmindful that many of the items he had gathered tumbled from his makeshift bundle. Taking it up, he turned to leave the only home he had ever known.

  Froan took one last remorseful glance at the crumpled woman who had nurtured him all his life. Then he dashed outside. As he ran, his vision blurred with tears and his stomach churned. Soon he began retching and was forced to halt and vomit. Because he had eaten nothing since breakfast, only a thin stream of sour liquid issued forth. Nonetheless, his stomach convulsed for a long while. When it finally settled, he was thoroughly miserable. The future that had seemed so alluring felt tainted by his mother’s death.

  What’s done’s done. Froan’s mind formed those words, though the thought seemed to have welled up from another source. Nevertheless, Froan saw the truth in it. Mam’s dead. Nothing will change that. I can only go forward. Then the notion came to him that her death was yet another sign, one that he was forever severed from his former life. The fens are no longer my home, he thought.

  Froan made his way to the caves on the northern side of the hite where he took a supply of cheese and smoked goat meat. He found a scrap of goatskin and fashioned it into a crude sheath. It was little more than a wrapping for the dagger’s blade, but it allowed him to tuck the weapon into the waistband of his breechclout. Once that was done, Froan fled to Tararc Hite. He intended to spend the night by Telk’s boat so he could catch his friend first thing in the morning.

  As Froan threaded his way through the treacherous bog, his mind remained in turmoil. The part of him that he called his shadow spurred him onward. Its exultation over his freedom was undimmed by remorse. Froan recalled that his father had told him to follow his instincts, and he assumed that by obeying his shadow he was heeding that counsel. Nevertheless, regret slowed his steps. He knew that his mother wouldn’t have wanted him to leave. So? said a voice within him. She was a murderer and a whore. I don’t know that! Do you doubt your father’s word? Your mam lied to you. Her last words were “I hid the truth.” Perhaps she had a good reason. Ridiculous! She loved me. She only used you like she used your father. Grief is weakness. You must be strong. There’s no turning back. She’s dead. At least, there was no arguing the last point, regardless of how he felt about it.

  Froan proceeded cautiously when he reached Tararc Hite, for Telk’s father often returned from checking his traps at evening. Froan didn’t want to encounter anyone. He was in no state for it. Moreover, he wanted to vanish without a trace. No one ever visited Far Hite, so his mother’s body would go undiscovered. To the fensfolk, both his and her disappearance would be a common mystery.

  Hiding among the reeds, Froan saw Roarc heading homeward with the day’s catch. He waited until Roarc had passed before proceeding to where Telk kept his boat, which was on a different channel than the one his father used. When Froan reached the craft, he found the sword that he had given Telk hidden beneath some fish traps. He pulled off its wrapping and frowned. The blade bore some signs of sharpening, but it remained rusty. He found Telk’s lack of diligence disappointing.

  The neglected sword seemed an indication of the challenge Froan would face tomorrow morning. Telk was content with his lot in life, and without Froan’s intervention, he would assuredly marry some fensman’s daughter and settle down to breed children and trap fish. What ever small yearning for adventure Telk possessed was the result of Froan’s prodding. And tomorrow morn, I must make him leave this place forever. Froan realized that it wouldn’t be a simple task, but one that he must accomplish. He needed Telk’s boat and navigation skills in order to flee.

  Despite Telk’s attachment to his home, Froan felt confident that he could get him to forsake it. That confidence was based on the sense of power that the spirit’s visit had awakened. Though Froan had fought his dark impulses throughout his life, he was beginning to see them as a source of strength, something that set him apart from his complacent friend and his meddlesome mother. It seemed to him that a mighty lord must see other folk as either pawns to be used or obstacles to be eliminated. Hadn’t Froan’s father told him that he was destined for greatness and possessed an innate power over others? Such power was a gift that shouldn’t be forsaken through restraint.

  As Froan contemplated the advantages that his shadowed side bestowed, he saw how violence had aided his transformation. His mother’s death had stiffened his resolve. It was tragic but also fortunate in a way. He felt guilty over having that thought. Then he reconsidered what had happened and envisioned his mother’s death as her fault. She made me drop the dagger and then lunged as I was picking it up. What happened wasn’t my doing. She killed herself. The notion eased Froan’s conscience. I shouldn’t feel guilty that some good arose by accident.

  Froan embraced that idea, for instinct warned that remorse would only impede him. It seemed a burden without benefit, one that should be discarded. Yet, sitting alone in the gathering dark, he found that hard to do. As a test of will, Froan attempted to force all memories of his mother from his thoughts. That proved impossible. Then he recalled his father’s exhortation to be ruthless. He resolved that he would become exactly that. If he couldn’t forget his mother, at least he could fight her weakening influence. He would harden himself. He would succeed where his father had failed. That resolution brought a small measure of calm, enough so that he was able to rest in preparation for the upcoming day.

  Froan woke at first light, ate a bit of cheese, then took up a stone and began to work on the blade of Telk’s sword. He had eliminated much of the rust by the time his friend arrived, though his efforts to give the sword a sharp edge were less successful. He smiled at Telk’s surprise upon seeing him seated in the beached reed boat. Holding up the blade, Froan said, “You told me that you’d make it sparkle like the sun.”

  “I had chores. But I—”

  “Did you gather your things, at least?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Bring the bundle here. I want to see it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you promised you would,” said Froan.

  Telk responded as if the lie were true. “I’m sorry, Froan. I’ll get it.”

  “Good,” said Froan. “Be quick, but don’t arouse suspicion.” Then he turned his attention back to the sword.

  It was a while before Telk returned. Like Froan, he had used his cloak to wrap his possessions. It was a small bundle, for everyone in the fens lived on the edge of want. Froan smiled when he saw it. “I knew I could count on you, Telk. And you can count on me. When the Mother came to me last night, she made me promise not to leave you behind.”

  Telk’s eyes widened. “Ya had another vision?”

  “Yes. After Mam went to sleep.”

  “But what’s that part ’bout not leaving me behind?”

  “The Mother said that we must go together. Go today.”

  “Today? Where?”

  Froan could see uneasiness on Telk’s face, and it annoyed him. Nevertheless, he smiled and replied in an easy tone, “To the river, of course, where awaits our good fortune.”

  “The river? Ya mean leave tha fens?”

  “That was always our plan. You knew this day would come.”

  “I did?”

  “We can’t rot here forever,” replied Froan, giving a harder edge to his voice.

  “But I have chores, Froan. I just can’t—”

  Froan’s annoyance flared into full-blown rage.
“Telk!” he shouted, glaring at his friend and trapping his eyes. When he spoke, he held nothing back, so that fury made his words both hot and menacing. “You’ll not desert me!”

  Telk reacted as if he had been struck and the blow had shattered him. His face went slack, and his entire frame seemed to lose its vitality. The change was so abrupt and dramatic that even Froan was shocked by it. When Telk replied, his tone was meek and tinged with fear. “I’d never go against ya.”

  “Good. I knew you wouldn’t.” Froan smiled. Telk smiled back, but in a subservient and empty way. Froan rose and stepped from the boat to lighten it. “Now get your things aboard and launch the boat.”

  Telk obeyed without a word. When the reed craft was in the water, Froan stepped back into it. “Pole us to the Turgen.”

  Telk guided the boat through the channels in the direction of Twin Hite and the Turgen beyond it. He maintained a steady pace, halting only briefly to toss all his fish traps overboard. Froan took that as a good sign—proof that Telk was firmly under his power.

  Telk faltered only once, and that was after they had passed Twin Hite. As they approached the river, the channels between the stands of reeds grew wider and their bottoms became deeper. Finally, the channel in which they were traveling seemed to disappear. The reeds no longer formed enclosing walls. Instead, there were only a few clumps of them set in open water that reached toward the horizon. Telk’s pole could no longer touch bottom. With nothing to push against, Telk couldn’t guide the craft, and it drifted aimlessly. Froan could see that his friend was unnerved. “Froan,” Telk said in a frightened voice, “are ya sure ’bout this?”

  “Give me the pole,” said Froan.

  As Telk handed him the pole, Froan felt some of his friend’s uneasiness, for he had never gazed upon such emptiness. The Turgen was a broad river, and when Froan looked away from the fens, all he saw was dull water, a faint gray line that marked the distant shore, and the vast dome of an overcast sky. He felt smaller and more exposed than ever before in his life. Yet when the boat drifted toward one of the last clumps of reeds, Froan pressed the pole against that final bit of the fens and used all his strength to push the boat toward the river. When the pole became stuck in the muck, Froan released it rather than lose momentum.

  The reed craft glided farther from the shore, and the current seized it. The boat spun slowly as the river claimed it, pulling it ever farther into its broad expanse. Like most fensfolk, neither Froan nor Telk could swim. They were entirely at the Turgen’s mercy as it swept them toward strange places and an unknown future.

  TWELVE

  YIM WAS floating in a black void. Where am I? she wondered. The question seemed unanswerable. She didn’t even know who she was. If she had a past, she couldn’t recall it. Yim continued to float, and it would have been soothing except that her throat hurt. She tried to ignore the sensation, but it persisted. It was more than painful; it was puzzling and frightening. Furthermore, it was growing more intense.

  The darkness dissipated, and Yim saw that she was lying on hard-packed dirt. It was stained with blood. The front of her neck felt on fire. She recognized her simple home and knew who she was. I’m Yim. My son has cut my throat.

  With effort, Yim sat up. Then she tried to swallow, fearing that she might be incapable of the feat. When she managed, she gingerly touched her throat. Yim’s fingers brushed a loose flap of flesh. The feel of it was ghastly, and she envisioned a gaping wound. Even the lightest pressure on it made her wince, and wincing caused further pain. Nevertheless, she traced the gash’s blood-incrusted length. It went from one side of her neck to the other. In places, blood still dribbled from it.

  Turning her body so as not to twist her neck, Yim looked around. It was late afternoon. Most of Froan’s things were missing. What remained was spilled haphazardly on his bed. Yim saw a single boot, a wooden spoon, and a few other sundry items. They seemed evidence of a hasty departure. He’s gone, she thought.

  Yim was gripped by despair, but she fought it by clinging to life. Although she still lived, she also realized that her wound might prove fatal. She had lain on dirt through a night and part of a day, perhaps longer, which meant her injury was likely to fester. She had herbs that could be boiled to make a brew that prevented festering, but she couldn’t stitch the wound closed. The healwife possessed the skill, but they weren’t on good terms.

  Cleanse the wound, thought Yim, then worry about the stitching. She rose unsteadily to pull the necessary herbs from where they hung from pegs. Crumbling their dried leaves into a small pot, she added water, and set the pot on the cold hearth. There was kindling and wood to make a fire, but when Yim couldn’t find the flint and iron to light one, she assumed Froan had taken them.

  There was a second flint and iron in the cave where she smoked meat. I’ll have to fetch them to make the brew. Yet the little she had done already had left her dizzy and exhausted. Walking to the smoke cave and back seemed beyond her strength. I’ll rest a bit before I try. Yim lay upon her bed and stared at the ceiling. A patch of darkness formed there. When it spread, she was too weak to flee. Yim watched helplessly as shadow consumed the world and her.

  Meanwhile, Froan and Telk drifted on the wide Turgen. After nightfall, a mist settled on the water, making it seem that they were drifting in a chilly void. Froan silently huddled beneath his goatskin cloak, unwilling to give voice to his uneasiness. Throughout the day, he had seen boats upon the river, but none had approached them despite his waving. Froan was beginning to wonder if they would drift unnoticed for days. That worried him, for the reed boat already seemed to be riding lower in the water.

  Telk was equally quiet. If he had misgivings, he betrayed no signs of them. Froan was unsurprised by his companion’s silence, but it made him consider the nature of Telk’s loyalty. It seemed more obedience than friendship. It occurred to Froan that a friend would have questioned his plan to set out on the river in a boat lacking means for steering and propulsion. It was apparent that by bending Telk to his will Froan had changed him. In fact, Telk seemed broken, even slightly mad. The body was intact, but the spirit within had been diminished.

  That’s the price of leadership, Froan told himself. To lead is to be alone. Gazing upon Telk’s vacant face and the wet void surrounding them both, the truth of that statement was painfully clear.

  Elsewhere, Daven fought to keep from nodding off while he watched Honus sleep. The elderly man was weary, but concern that his charge would attempt to visit the Dark Path made him loath to rest. Nothing I’ve said has weakened his urge to trance. The former Bearer shook his head sadly, wondering at the depth of sorrow that could cause a man to seek his happiness in the realm of the dead. He’s been doing it for so many winters, the habit may be impossible to break. Daven was convinced that it would prove fatal if continued. Already, he marveled that Honus was alive. It seemed a testament to his former strength that he had lasted so long.

  Gazing at the neglected body on the mat, “strength” was not a word that readily came to Daven’s mind. Honus had wasted to the point where he wavered on the edge of existence. His flesh hung loosely from his bones. He moved slowly and with effort. He seemed alive more by chance than any intention on his part. Daven knew that Honus would need more than nourishment and care to survive in his weakened state. He would require hope if he was to break free of the Dark Path’s allure. To obtain it, Honus must become convinced that it was possible to find happiness in the living world. Daven had believed his revelations would achieve that. Yet the Sarf’s despair had proved too formidable. I’ve told him that Yim needs him. What else can I do? Daven couldn’t think of anything and hoped that Karm would provide the answer.

  It still felt strange to Daven to look to the goddess for answers. When he had fled from his duties as a Bearer, he believed that he had forsaken Karm. It seemed only natural that the goddess had done the same to him. Yet reading Honus’s runes had convinced him otherwise. Not only had Karm given him a chance to redeem himself, she
had conferred a rare gift as well.

  Long ago, when Daven had lived in the temple, he had heard tales of a Seer with an unusual power. She had no visions and was unable to prophesy, but she could sense impending turmoil as some folk could feel the approach of storms. It was as if she detected subtle strains in the world’s fabric before events manifested them. She had warned of trouble from the west long before Lord Bahl’s armies had poured forth. Daven had received the same ability upon Honus’s arrival.

  Sitting in the dark room, he sensed the world’s pulse and felt the first tremors of looming conflict. Daven likened the impression to that of a frozen river at winter’s end. Beneath seeming stillness was mounting pressure. Cracks were forming. Soon, what had been calm would slip into chaos. It had already begun. Evil’s abroad again, he thought. It seeks to restore its former power. If it succeeded, Daven feared the end of all that was good and fair.

  Daven also sensed his part in the scheme of things. He must strive to heal Honus as best he could, then send him forth into the fray. He could do nothing more, and he must do nothing less. Daven was far from certain that his efforts would avert the approaching doom. In fact, he had his doubts. The foe was long-lived and patient. Moreover, it learned from every past mistake. When Daven tried to sense what force opposed such a formidable enemy, he detected only frailty. Moreover, it seemed to be teetering on the brink of oblivion.

  Within the Iron Palace’s highest tower, the shadowy divining chamber duplicated the darkness of the night outside, a redundancy that made it ideal for sorcery. There, the Most Holy Gorm sat within the safety of a circle of blood and tossed his magic bones upon the stone floor. By the dim light of a single oil lamp, he watched as unseen forces arranged the rune-covered vertebrae and ribs in telling ways. After they stopped moving, he studied them and smiled. “Bahl’s death has accomplished its purpose,” he said to the empty room. “His spirit found his son. The game is now in motion.”