“I’ve never even seen a horse.”
“I’ll fix that tomorrow and tutor ye in horsemanship.” Wuulf hesitated a moment, loath to make his next recommendation, though he saw no way around it. “Sire, we lost most of the oarsmen. So ’twould be helpful if ye worked yer will on some of the townsmen.”
Shadow smiled. “Nothing would be easier. My power’s grown.”
Wuulf sensed it was no idle boast. He could feel Shadow’s power by the way he cooled the room despite a fire blazing in the hearth. The chill seemed further proof of his otherworldly might. That power made Wuulf uneasy, though he appreciated its usefulness. None of his soldiers had died while capturing the town, and only two had received minor wounds. The oarsmen didn’t count, and neither would the townsmen who were destined to replace them.
In many ways, Wuulf felt lucky to serve a commander who made victory so easy. He envisioned the eastward march as an avalanche that would gather force as it advanced. Shadow would create a marauding horde, while he would provide the disciplined troops. It would be a perfect combination. Yet, while Wuulf was pleased to serve Shadow, he preferred the companionship of men whose blood ran warm and whose eyes were only used for seeing. As soon as Shadow dismissed him, he sought their company.
After Captain Wuulf departed, Froan resumed gazing about the room in wonder. Knowing that his officer was worldlier, Froan had restrained his exuberance to seem sophisticated. Once he was alone again with Moli, it returned. To his fensman’s eyes everything was grand and magnificent. The paneled walls, the large fireplace built of carved stone, the parquet floor, and—most of all—the novelty of windows with glass panes were marvels to him. Froan saw none of the room’s shabbiness or neglect. He had unwittingly lived a life of want; thus the sheep broker’s house seemed a palace.
Froan had expected Moli to share his excitement, but she didn’t. As she tried on yet another pair of shoes, her bruised face bore a subdued and troubled expression. He watched her as she rose and walked about the room, carefully avoiding the dark stain on the floor. “That pair seems to fit you well,” he said.
“Aye, they do. But Ah ken feel another’s footprints in them.”
“Pah!”
“Ah ken, Shadow! These are a dead woman’s shoes!”
“You don’t know that.”
“Mayhap, but ’tis likely! We passed so many slain! Oh Shadow, did they all have ta die?”
Froan saw tears welling in Moli’s eyes. “Moli, I’m born to rule in a world that heeds only power. Sometimes I must be ruthless.” He walked over to gently kiss her. “But never to you.”
Moli began to tremble. “Oh, Shadow, the things Ah saw! Mams and their babes …”
“Hush, sweet gentle one,” cooed Froan. “From now on, I’ll make sure you’re spared those sights.”
THIRTY
YIM HAD spent an uneasy night, feeling chilled despite the mild air and a campfire, and the morning’s sunshine brought little relief. Her discomfort was exacerbated by memories of the period immediately before the Devourer had settled in her womb. She recalled feeling cold all over. Even worse, she had been subject to violent urges that were difficult to stifle. Yim feared that she was approaching that state again. Could I become as icy as Lord Bahl? As evil? It was a terrifying idea.
Yim pondered her situation. She knew that the Devourer had entered her when she seduced Lord Bahl. It had passed to Froan upon his conception, but not entirely. A vestige lingered in her even after her son’s birth. Furthermore, recent events indicated that the part of the Devourer remaining in her was linked somehow to the part within Froan. In essence, they were a single entity. As it grows stronger in Froan, it also grows stronger in me. Envisioning the connection between her and Froan led Yim to conceive of it as something separate from them both.
That concept gave rise to an intriguing question: If the Devourer is separate from me, can I drive it out? Yim stopped seeing the dark thing within her as a taint or an evil trait. Instead, she envisioned it as a kind of parasite. She knew herbs could drive out some parasites. Others could be cut away. Yim didn’t believe that such techniques would work against a spirit. Nevertheless, she wasn’t discouraged, for she had experience with spirits. In the past, she had called them forth by the force of her will; perhaps she could drive one back by the same means.
Yim sat on her heels, shut her eyes, and tried to recall the meditations for contacting a spirit that she had learned as a girl. They came to her with surprising ease. However, she wasn’t trying to raise a ghost, so she didn’t send her thoughts to the Dark Path. Instead, she turned them inward. For a while, nothing seemed to happen. Yim concentrated harder. Then the sensations of the world slowly faded until only the self remained. Yim felt blood course through her body, the tingle of thousands of nerves, the weight of her bones, and air flowing into and out of her lungs. Then those sensations faded like those of the world as Yim delved deeper into her being.
Yim saw herself as a vessel of light that was partially dimmed by something murky and alien. Using only her will, she pushed, and the alien entity retreated. As it fled, it condensed and grew slightly darker. She pushed again, and the darkness became more discrete. Yim found that pushing wasn’t effortless, so she rested a moment before pushing harder. This time, the entity resisted and managed to slip away. Then it began to diffuse.
Opening her eyes, Yim found herself in the grove. Her feet felt warmer than the rest of her body, but they soon chilled. Regardless, she was excited to have physical confirmation that she hadn’t merely imagined the struggle. After a brief rest, she made another attempt, passing through the preliminaries a bit faster the second time. As soon as she perceived the darkness, she attacked and drove it back until it reached some sort of barrier. Though the barrier trapped and contained the dark, it also prevented Yim from expelling it.
The effort exhausted Yim. She ceased her struggle and opened her eyes. Her entire body, except for her left hand, felt warm. The hand was especially cold, as if she had plunged it into an icy pond. As a chill spread throughout Yim’s body, her left hand warmed until it was no warmer or cooler than any other part of her.
Yim pondered her latest experience. It seemed that the barrier she encountered had been her physical self. In the meditative state it was difficult to perceive the boundaries of her body, yet they were obviously there. Yim assumed that she had cornered the Devourer in her left hand. That was the barrier it couldn’t breach. That seemed logical, for the spirit of a living person was confined to his or her body. Apparently, the Devourer within her was similarly constrained.
Then it occurred to Yim that there were exceptions to that rule. She knew one’s spirit left the body during trancing. Furthermore, she had called forth spirits from the Dark Path. The exceptions perplexed her until she realized that the Dark Path figured in both. The realm of the dead paralleled the living world and permeated it. The spirit of a trancing person left his or her body to enter it. The spirits of the dead had no bodies, so they could briefly enter the living world. That provided a clue for how the Devourer could link her and Froan without leaving either body.
She knew that the Devourer remained a denizen of the Dark Path, although Gorm had used sorcery to bring a portion of it into the living world. In her mind’s eye, Yim envisioned a hand extended over a muddy puddle with two fingertips dipped beneath the water. Creatures in the murky puddle couldn’t see the hand, so the fingers seemed unconnected. The boundary between the Sunless Realm and the living world acted in a similar way, although it was not so easily breached as the surface of a puddle. As of yet, the Devourer had been unable to plunge entirely through it.
Gorm had told Yim of his centuries-long effort to release the Devourer from the Dark Path. If he succeeded, a being formed from memories of slaughter would be loosed upon the living world. There, it would strive to create more such memories. Inevitably, it would consume everyone in a reign of horror too terrible to imagine. Why can’t Gorm see the consequences of his actions?
How can he believe that he’ll be spared? Gorm’s delusion gave Yim all the proof she needed of his utter madness.
Spurred by a heightened sense of urgency, Yim began another bout with her inner darkness. This time, she didn’t bother to sit on her heels but remained standing to go through the meditations. The vigor of her assault allowed her to trap the darkness quickly. Then she opened her eyes. One hand felt icy. Yim peered at her sunlit palm and spied a dark spot there. It was small, nebulous, and blacker than the darkest shadow. Instinctively, she tried to fling it away as if it were a glob of excrement or something equally foul. The effort was futile. As the spot quickly faded into her hand, Yim conceded that it was bound to her.
Although Yim felt discouraged, her experiments led to some positive conclusions. First of all, she and the Devourer were separate, despite the intimacy of their association. Furthermore, she possessed some control over it. She believed that the same would be true for Froan. It gave her hope that he could fight the thing that afflicted him and avoid succumbing to it. This is the message I must take to Froan, she thought. The goodness in him can triumph!
Desperate for any scrap of hope, Yim didn’t try to figure how that triumph might be achieved. For the moment, its mere possibility was enough to sustain her. She had a long journey ahead and ample time to delve into that problem. Moreover, Yim felt it was likely that her instincts would guide her in the end. Meanwhile, she could prepare for that future confrontation by occasionally sparring with her shadowy inner foe.
Yim’s struggles left her hungry, and she searched the grove for anything edible. All she found were a few woody mushrooms growing on a tree trunk and several large grasshoppers. After she plucked the wings and barbed legs from the latter, she gobbled them down with the mushrooms. The insects’ chitinous shells stuck between her teeth, but they were quite satisfactory otherwise. Yim smiled to herself as she imagined how Honus would have reacted to her meal. He was always squeamish when it came to food.
Having eaten, Yim began to walk south, keeping an eye out for grasshoppers as she did. She hiked all day, except for brief pauses to rest. Along the way, she found streams to drink from and refill her water skin. She also encountered the tumbled stones of former dwellings. Usually they were fire blackened. In the late afternoon, she stumbled across the ruins of an entire village. It, also, seemed to have been razed by fire.
When the sun neared the horizon, she found the shell of a hut. Since it would provide shelter from the wind, she decided to spend the night there. The partial stone walls were the only evidence that people had ever occupied the spot. The roofless interior of the hut looked no different from the surrounding grassland, and it didn’t contain a single scrap of metal, shard of pottery, or anything else made by human hands. Yim couldn’t tell if time or looters had scoured the structure. Either way, its air of desolation was the same. There was no wood for a fire, so Yim simply leaned against a wall, opened her small bundle of wingless and legless insects, and ate her crunchy evemeal.
The next several days were much the same. Yim continued walking south through a landscape empty of people. She continued her bouts with her inner foe. Sometimes, it seemed to her that her chill had lessened. Other times, she thought that she merely had grown accustomed to it. Having finished the last of the smoked goat, Yim subsisted on what ever she could forage, which was insects and a few wild plants.
The weather turned sharply colder on the fourth day of travel, giving Yim a foretaste of autumn. She donned her cloak, but kept her thin-soled goatskin boots in her pack. The sudden cold made insects scarce, and that scarcity persisted even after the weather turned mild again. By then, Yim’s empty belly ached from hunger.
The land had become hilly, and Yim saw the territory ahead only when she crested a hilltop. She was heading up a slope when she heard a sound that stopped her short—the bleating of a goat. Following her ears, Yim discovered a solitary doe in a nearby hollow. The doe’s udder was swollen with milk, indicating she was probably someone’s dairy goat. Yim glanced about but saw no sign of a herder or human presence of any kind. Perhaps she’s a stray, thought Yim.
Mindful that goats were often wary of strangers, Yim approached the animal calmly and gradually, all the while speaking in a gentle, cooing voice. With every step, Yim’s stomach pangs grew more intense as she thought of the doe’s rich milk. When Yim reached the doe, she gently stroked the animal’s back. While approaching a strange doe was difficult, Yim knew that milking one was virtually impossible. Goats liked a fixed routine with the same person milking them. Moreover, a milking stand and treats were considered essential. With the odds so stacked against success, only desperation caused Yim to bother trying.
While continuing to stroke the doe and talk to her, Yim knelt down by the doe’s rear flank and pressed her head against it. Then Yim gently grasped a teat. The doe started, then calmed. Yim always had a way with animals, and she was especially experienced with goats. Nonetheless, she was astonished when the doe submitted to being milked. Yim kneaded a teat with her right hand to spurt warm milk into the cupped palm of her left, which she then pressed to her lips to slurp down its contents. Each small taste was exquisite, providing not only the nourishment Yim craved but also evoking memories of her life at Far Hite.
It was an extremely slow way to milk a goat, and one that required Yim’s total concentration. Her focus was further increased by her near-starving state. Thus the first time Yim was aware of the man’s approach was when he shouted, “Thief!” She turned in the direction of the shout as the goat scampered off. A man in peasant garb was striding toward her. Already, he was only a few paces away. Before Yim could rise, he closed the distance to within striking range of his staff. It was a stout piece of wood, and he held it ready to deliver a blow.
THIRTY-ONE
DESPITE HER fear, Yim was too exhausted to run. Furthermore, she thought it would be futile. The man was ready to strike, and any attempt at flight was likely to provoke him. Hoping to avoid serious injury, Yim sought to protect her head by covering it with her arms and hands. Then she bent down, curled into a ball, and tensed for a beating. No blows fell. “Ah called ye thief,” said the man. “What do ye say ta that?”
Yim peeked up. The man was watching her intently, his large, gnarled hands still holding his staff high. “I was starving, so I took the milk out of need,” she said. “I’ll repay you for it.”
“How? Have ye any coin?”
“No, but I’ll work off my debt.”
“Pah! Ye’re like ta eat more than yer labor’s worth.”
Yim continued to observe the man, who looked old but hardy. His grizzled face was sun-darkened and lined, a match for the gray hair that fell in tangles from the edge of his bald pate. Gazing into his dark eyes, she perceived that the raised staff was only a bluff. “I’ve experience with goats,” Yim said. “I kept a herd.”
“Where?”
“The Grey Fens.”
“Ye’ve journeyed far,” said the man. “Why?”
“To find my son. He ran off.”
“He wouldn’t have come this way. No one does.” The man lowered his staff as he squinted at Yim. “Someone’s cut yer throat,” he said. “Not long ago, by tha looks o’ it.”
“It was an accident.”
“Pah!” The man continued to scrutinize Yim. “Ah think yer son did it.”
“No.”
“Yer face tells a different tale.” The man shook his head in sympathy, as if he understood far more than he said. “Ye’re too tired ta hide tha truth, so tell me if Ah was seein’ right: Were ye really milkin’ that doe?”
“Yes.” Yim held out her left hand, which was sticky with goat milk. “Take a sniff, and you’ll know I speak true.”
The man grasped Yim’s extended hand and smelled her palm. “Aye, it smells o’ milk, but Ah still don’t know how. Only mah wife ken milk that doe.”
“I understand goats,” Yim said. “I herded them for seventeen winters.”
The
man gazed hard at Yim as if he was trying to come to a decision. “What have ye et o’ late?” he asked at last. “Other than my goat’s milk.”
“Roots and seeds. A few grasshoppers.”
“We eat plain fare, but ’tis better than that. Ye said ye’re willin’ ta work. Did ye mean it?”
“Yes.”
The man pulled a short length of rope from a pocket and handed it to Yim. “Then ye ken fetch tha doe ye milked.”
Yim took the rope, then looked about. The doe was still in sight, grazing at the far side of the hollow. “Does she have a name?” Yim asked.
“Aye. Muka, and she’s a contrary beast.”
“Muka,” called Yim in the same calming tone she had used before. “Muka, come with me.” She walked slowly toward the goat, talking all the while. Muka continued grazing, and when Yim reached her, she didn’t resist the rope being tied about her neck. “Good girl, Muka! Now come. You’re going home.”
Yim led Muka back to the waiting man, who stood watching in amazement. “Ye saved me half o’ day o’ trampin’, and earned yerself a meal,” he said. “Ah’m Hewt and mah wife is Witha.”
Still somewhat wary, Yim thought a moment before she replied. “I’m Mirien,” she said.
“Well, Mirien, ye look wore out. Ye sure yer boy’s worth such trouble?”
Hewt took the rope from Yim and then guided her and his goat to his hut. It proved to be a long hike. He crested the hill, descended into the narrow valley beyond, which he crossed to climb the ridge on its far side. The ridge overlooked another valley that was wider than the previous one. Directly below lay Hewt’s hut, nestled in a fold at the ridge’s base. Yim’s guide was silent during their walk, allowing Yim to ponder the unexpected turn of events. She felt apprehensive, and as she followed Hewt, she wondered if she would regret her offer to work for him.
The Iron Palace Page 20