Honus bowed his head, “Yes, Master.”
Daven opened the sack. “Then garb yourself properly before I read.” He removed garments from the sack. They were made from homespun wool and dyed a darkish shade of blue that approximated the color worn by Karm’s servants. The style of the clothes imitated those worn by Sarfs. There were leggings, a pair of baggy pants that ended just below the knee, a long-sleeved shirt, and a cloak, all without ornamentation.
Honus took the clothes. They were obviously of peasant make, but they were new. It had been over seventeen winters since he had walked abroad so garbed, and his hard-won tranquillity diminished as he envisioned doing so again. Nevertheless, he smiled. “You seem to have been preparing this surprise for a while.”
“I have one more,” said Daven. From beneath his sleeping mat, he produced a sword and scabbard. It had the slightly curved blade and two-handed hilt of a Sarf’s weapon. He handed the sheathed sword to Honus, who immediately drew the blade to examine it.
“This isn’t temple forged,” said Honus. “Where did you get it?”
“A blacksmith dwells two villages over. He makes mostly plows and mattocks, but his knives are sharp.”
Honus ran a finger over the sword blade’s edge, noting that the steel lacked marbling. “It’s certainly that.” He slashed it about, and found the sword adequately balanced, but no more than that. He smiled again. “It seems this day was long foreseen.”
“I knew it was coming,” replied Daven. “But I didn’t know when until yesterday. Are you pleased with the sword?”
“Your foresight pleases me. As the saying goes, a naked Sarf always dons his sword first.”
“But the sword pleases you less.”
“It’s a skillful imitation. I doubt a man lives who can forge the traditional blade of my order.”
Daven sighed, “The times require us to use what’s at hand.”
“That’s surely true,” said Honus. “I’m not much of a Sarf.”
“I was thinking of myself. Your part was foreseen long ago. It’s needled on your back, though I lack the skill to fully understand it. Put on your new leggings and pants. Don your sword but not your shirt. Then we’ll sit in the sunshine, and I’ll study what the Seer tattooed.”
Soon Honus was sitting outside, feeling Daven’s fingers trace the markings on his back. Daven studied the runes for a long while. Then he pondered them even longer. Honus remained motionless throughout. Finally he heard Daven’s voice. “This is the clearest guidance I can give you, and I’m uncertain about a word in it. That word is ‘tul.’ It usually means ‘tool,’ but it can also mean ‘weapon.’ The runes say that when you find your proper tul, seek the leader who cannot wield it.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“Is that any help?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m told time oft reveals meaning.”
“Yes, but I was hoping it would make sense to you now. The rest is less specific. I think Yim’s seeking someone named Froan. Perhaps she’s doing so as we speak; it’s hard to tell. So, if you encounter someone by that name, I’d say that’s a promising sign. That’s all the runes reveal.” Daven sighed. “You should leave tomorrow.”
“Did you read that also?”
“No, but I feel it in my gut. Where will you go?”
“I’m unsure. Do you know where I am?”
“In the ancient domain of Prensturg, though I daresay none of its inhabitants recall the name. The last of its dukes fell in one of the Luvein wars. I reside in his castle. You’re on Luvein’s western border, about a half-moon’s journey south of Lurwic.”
“Then I suppose I’ll head for the Western Reach. It’s close and where I last saw Yim. At the time, she was planning to head north. So if she’s seeking someone, she might pass that way.” Honus shook his head. “It’ll be like looking for a pea in a gravel pile.”
Daven brushed his fingertips over Honus’s bare back one last time, stopping at the marks that spelled “Yim.” Her name appeared several times within the lengthy text, and was its final entry. “Have faith, Honus. Somehow you’ll find her.”
After the reading, Honus went hunting. That evening, he broke his fast with Daven, who roasted the pair of pheasants that Honus had bagged. The birds were a rare treat, and they lent a festive air to the meal. “This is a sign of Karm’s grace,” said Daven between mouthfuls. “I haven’t even seen a pheasant all summer.”
“Probably because you never looked,” replied Honus.
“No, it’s Karm’s grace, and I should know. I’m a holy man.”
“You said you were a hermit.”
“Well, you spoiled that, didn’t you? A hermit lives alone.” Daven, who had been grinning, suddenly grew serious. “When you arrived, I learned the depths of Karm’s compassion.”
Honus, hoping to steer the conversation back to a lighter mood, asked, “So what’s the difference between a hermit and a holy man? Your wardrobe hasn’t improved.”
“Respect,” replied Daven.
“Is that how you got the blacksmith to make my sword?”
“Yes. And the peasant woman to sew and dye your clothes.”
“I’m surprised Karm’s still honored here.”
“Superstition probably played as great a part as faith,” said Daven. “Holiness makes people ner vous. Besides, I’ve done some good since I’ve arrived. They remembered that, too.”
“You saved my life as well,” said Honus, surrendering to Daven’s mood. “I’m grateful.”
“You should thank Karm for that, not me,” replied Daven. “I know you don’t believe me. I see through your show of piety. If we had more time … but, well, we don’t. I can only hope you’ll reconcile with the goddess. She loves you, Honus. And her love will give you strength, but only if you accept it.”
“I’ve submitted to your discipline.”
“You did. In that, you were exemplary. Gatt was likewise, and yet he tried to kill Yim. A Sarf needs more than discipline and prowess. He must model the goddess in compassion.”
“And what if Karm isn’t compassionate?”
“She is, Honus. She is.” Then Daven smiled again. “Take the word of a holy man.”
* * *
At dawn, Honus rose and ate for the last time with Daven. Afterward, Honus embraced the former Bearer and began his journey. He bore a pack heavy with provisions and other necessities. The weight didn’t bother him, but it felt wrong to bear his own burden, for Theodus had admonished him to never do so. Honus’s late Bearer had read the same runes that Daven had; yet Daven had come up with contradictory advice. And Daven claims the runes say I’ll find Yim, thought Honus. Will they still say that tomorrow?
When Honus had last been a Sarf, the divine will had always perplexed him. It still did. Despite what Daven had said, he couldn’t see how an inscription on his back could mean one thing and then another. It made him doubt everything Daven had told him. As for “when you find your proper tul, seek the leader who cannot wield it,” that was gibberish. Spoken like a Bearer, thought Honus, reflecting that the guidance of holy ones was often cryptic. Perhaps it held some meaning for him, but I’m only a Sarf. He adjusted the burden on his shoulders and continued to trudge westward.
THIRTY-FIVE
AS HONUS began his journey uncertain where it would take him, Yim resumed hers knowing her destination. It wasn’t without irony that she trekked south, for she was convinced that Froan was behind her, not ahead. Though Yim lacked concrete proof that Froan led the men who had killed her friends, all her instincts told her it was so. Nevertheless, she persisted in journeying toward the Iron Palace.
Ever since Yim fled the marauders, she kept reliving her horrific deeds. The memories of those killings had been worst during the first night, when their freshness and the dark enhanced their vividness. As time passed, the gruesome slayings seemed more like nightmares than things she had actually done. Yet the bloodstained sword she still carried contradicted that. It was proof that she
had dreamed none of the horrors.
Yim knew that most people would say the five slayings were justified and commend her for them. They would also think that she was prudent to carry a sword when traveling alone. Yim agreed in part, and she felt unable to forsake the weapon. Nevertheless, she was convinced that violence ultimately served the Devourer and couldn’t be used to defeat it.
I must find another tactic, Yim thought. All she could think of was to plead with Froan to resist the evil thing within him. She worried that approach would fail, but it seemed her best chance. After all, I’m his mother. Besides, I’ll have time to polish my arguments. Yim knew she’d have that time because Froan’s army seemed to be heading east, not toward Bahland. Nonetheless, she was certain that he’d arrive at the Iron Palace sooner or later. By then, I should be ready to confront him.
Yim intended to prepare for that confrontation by several means. First, she would stay clear of folk for as long as possible. The large sack of grain would allow her to survive on her own for many days. That way, with luck, she’d have no need to use violence to defend herself. Second, she intended to meditate frequently and grapple with her inner foe. She hoped that it would be a means to weaken its hold on her. Finally, Yim prayed that her encounter with Honus on the silver path—whether it had been a vision, a dream, or something else—was prophetic. Honus said his runes foretold that we’d meet again and that he’d help me. Although it smacked of wishful thinking, Yim clung to the hope that his promise would be fulfilled. Even though she was unable to imagine what help Honus could provide, she felt she’d need it when she faced her son again.
Froan was also on Stregg’s mind, though the black priest thought of him as “the heir” or “Lord Bahl.” His conviction that Lord Bahl’s missing son was somewhere in the Empty Lands hadn’t faltered, although he had heard nothing to confirm his belief. That was hardly surprising, for news spread slowly between the scattered settlements. No traveler had passed through his village in over half a moon, which was somewhat strange considering the season. Still, it was deemed more a cause for talk than concern.
Therefore, when Stregg heard frantic knocking on his door, he was unprepared to find a stranger standing before him. The man was wild-eyed, disheveled, and surrounded by a small flock of sheep. The animals that milled about looked as if they had been driven hard. Then the stranger spoke over their bleating. “Tha folk here say ye ken make charms.”
“I’m graced by the Devourer,” replied Stregg, fingering the iron pendant that hung from his neck. “Are ye a believer?”
“Aye,” replied the man.
Stregg could sense that the man was lying, not that he cared. The priest also noted the stranger was terrified. That pleased him, for fear would make the man more pliable. “What type of charm do ye seek?”
“One that breaks a curse.”
Stregg put on a concerned face. “A curse. So ’tis a serious matter. What manner of curse?”
“Ah’m haunted by tha dead.”
“A perished loved one? Someone ye killed? Be specific.”
“ ’Twas none o’ those,” replied the distraught herdsman. “ ’Twas a whole town o’ corpses. They were all rottin’, and vile things had been done ta them. Vile, Ah say!” The man shuddered. “And now Ah kennot get them from my thoughts or dreams. Ah’m cursed by what Ah saw. Ye must drive tha visions from me.”
Stregg’s interest perked, though he maintained a calm appearance. “Was this a dream?”
“Nay, ’twas a real place. Midgeport. Ah oft visit there ta sell mah sheep.”
“I know it,” said Stregg. “ ’Tis on the Turgen, about six day’s journey from here.”
“Not ’tis, ’twas! There’s naught a soul alive there now, only spirits who chase after ye. Ah need a charm to keep them away.”
“I’ll require a sheep for that,” said Stregg.
“A whole sheep!”
“Aye. To sacrifice to the Devourer. Mind ye, once its throat’s been cut, the carcass belongs to god.” Then, seeing that the man was dismayed by the expense, he added, “The dead want ye to join them. That’s why they haunt yer thoughts and dreams. ’Tis good fortune ye found me, for I doubt ye’d have lived much longer.” Stregg regarded the flock, then pointed to the choicest ewe. “That one will do.”
The man sighed. “Then take it.”
Stregg drew a dagger from the folds of his robe, strode over to the ewe, and quickly dispatched it. Then he dipped his index finger in the blood and used it to paint a circle on the stranger’s forehead. “Never wash that off,” he told the man. “I have something else for ye.” Stregg entered his hut and returned shortly with several dried plants. “Each night afore ye sleep, steep two leaves in water that ye’ve brought to boil. The brew will ease yer dreams.”
“So tha dead will trouble me no more?”
“With time, that may be so,” replied Stregg. “The important thing is the dead won’t slay ye.”
The stranger appeared less than satisfied by that news, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he merely bowed his head. “Ah thank ye, Holy One.” Afterward, he drove his flock down the lane, looking no less agitated.
Stregg hefted the ewe to drain its blood and butcher it. His mouth watered at the idea of roast mutton, and he was disappointed that so much of it would go to waste. It couldn’t be helped. He felt compelled to leave tomorrow morn, for the slaughter in Midgeport seemed the work of someone inspired by the Devourer. No common brigand would wipe out an entire town, only someone driven to harvest souls. Once more, Stregg could almost feel the silver chain about his neck.
That evening, the priest stuffed himself on mutton, dried some for his journey, and left the rest outside for scavengers. The next morning, he departed to find the heir. Although Midgeport lay to the northwest, Stregg headed due north. He did so because he assumed that Lord Bahl’s son was on the march and most likely heading east, for that’s where the greatest plunder lay. If his assumption was correct, then a northern route would eventually cross the heir’s trail. If Stregg found nothing by the time he reached the Turgen, he would head to Midgeport and look for clues there.
Stregg departed at sunrise on his quest and traveled through the morning without seeing another soul. That wasn’t unexpected, for it was rare to encounter other travelers in the Empty Lands. That was especially true once one left the road. Thus the lone figure approaching Stregg immediately caught his attention. He had just crested a hill when he spied a tiny form crossing the plain below. The priest immediately halted and squatted down to hide his silhouette. He studied the figure a long while before he could discern the traveler was a woman. Soon after he determined that, she sharply changed her course, heading westward rather than due south.
She’s seen me, thought Stregg, and wishes to avoid a meeting. It was a natural response for a woman traveling alone. It was far more unusual that she had ventured out at all. Assuming that only dire circumstances would force a solitary woman to undertake such a risk, Stregg decided to question her. He retreated partway down the slope, then headed west to intercept the traveler. Later, when he rounded the hill’s western side, he spied her again.
She was much closer. He could see that she had dark hair, wore peasant garb, and was burdened with both a pack and a large sack. He was also surprised to see that she carried an unsheathed sword. The weapon didn’t frighten the priest. He was confident he could intimidate any woman, even if she was armed. Moreover, he had painted his dagger with a quick-acting poison. Nevertheless, there was something about the woman that gave him pause.
Stregg froze, uncertain what to do. As absurd as it seemed, he felt intimidated. It wasn’t the woman’s demeanor or her sword that evoked the feeling. It arose from his gut, an indefinable unease that grew stronger as the woman drew nearer. When she was about a hundred paces away, Stregg’s unease turned to terror. He bolted and ran back the way he had just come, still puzzled over the cause of his fear. Nonetheless, terror governed him, and he was long gone by the ti
me the woman rounded the hillside and continued south.
Honus had been a wanderer ever since he had renounced the goddess, thus he was no stranger to the road. Nevertheless, it felt different to him, for the road was supposed to take him somewhere. For seventeen winters, Honus had been a traveler without a destination, a man who spent nearly as much time upon the Dark Path as walking the living world. Suddenly he had a place to go, only he didn’t know where it was.
Others in his situation might have ambled leisurely, but Honus felt spurred by his uncertainty. He strode with a vigorous pace as if somehow speed would aid in unraveling the mystery ahead. His primary hope was that he would chance upon someone or something that would guide him or serve as a sign. For three days he traveled west, sleeping outdoors and eating porridge that he cooked—and burnt—in a small pot. As evening approached on the fourth day of his journey, he decided to seek hospitality. That, too, was something he hadn’t done since he had traveled with Yim. Spying a rude hut a short distance from the dirt lane, he approached it.
The hut was built of sod, and its roof resembled a meadow. As Honus approached the dwelling, a man bearing a mattock emerged from it. Though the peasant held the tool like a weapon, Honus didn’t slow his steps until he was but a few paces from him. Then he halted and calmly bowed before he spoke. “Greetings, Father. I request shelter and food in respect for the goddess.” The phrase felt strange to utter after so many winters.
“And what goddess is that?”
“Karm, the Goddess of Compassion. I’m her servant.”
“Ye are? Well, if she’s so kindly, why does her servant bear such an angry face?”
“My tattoos show her wrath toward evildoers, not innocent folk like you.”
The peasant glanced nervously at Honus’s sword. “Still, who would dare refuse ye?”
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