FORTY-THREE
HONUS AND Cara lingered in the great hall, speaking together for a long while. As usual, Cara did most of the talking. Honus heard of Havren’s return from Tor’s Gate, bearing tidings of Cronin’s death and how Havren’s kindness tempered Cara’s grief. She told how their love blossomed in the aftermath of the Troubles, and she shared stories of their courtship, wedding, and marriage. Cara spoke of all her children, not just Violet. Rose—like her twin—was nearing her sixteenth winter. She had already become renowned for her beauty and courtly manners. Young Cronin, Cara’s eldest son, had the looks and strong personality of his namesake. At fourteen, he was sturdily built and a natural leader. Holden, the middle son, was the quiet and thoughtful one, while Torald emulated his eldest brother. Cara also spoke of politics, her trips to Bremven, her current building project, the fall’s harvest, and what ever else popped into her mind, enlivening her accounts with all manner of gossip. None of it was mean-spirited, for true to her word, Cara remained a romantic.
Honus gave only terse descriptions of his doings and would have been content merely to listen to Cara if she had permitted him. At her insistence, he spoke of his winter siege of Bahl’s stronghold and how he had rescued Yim. He said little about their parting, and next to nothing about the long, empty stretch of winters that followed. In truth, he remembered little of that time. Although he spoke of Daven and the incidents in Cuprick, he kept his otherworldly encounter with Yim to himself. Through his calm and matter-of-fact tone, Honus tried to hide the depths of his feelings, but Cara sensed them nonetheless.
“And you still love Yim after all this time,” said Cara, her eyes alight.
“Yes,” admitted Honus, “though that love oft seems like torment.”
“When I first saw you two, I knew nothing about love’s pain,” said Cara. “Then, it seemed all about living happily ever after. Yet even then I was clever enough to see that you were smitten, though you denied it. And to think you thought Yim was your slave! Zounds, she sure turned that around!”
Honus sighed. “She certainly did.”
“This is going to end well, Honus. I do na know how, or why, but I think it will. I certainly hope so!”
Cara would have liked to have wiled away the afternoon with Honus, but she had to sit in judgment over a dispute. She left him in the care of Freenla, the same young woman who had met him at the door. “Clan Mother says you’re to have a room to yourself,” said Freenla, unable to conceal her puzzlement. “ ’Tis a high honor.”
“Especially for a worn-out and ragged derelict.”
“You look fine, Karmamatus.”
“And you’re a gracious liar,” said Honus. He silently followed Freenla through the corridors awhile before asking, “Do you know Violet well?”
“Aye. And she’s Thistle, never mind what her mother says. I tend Thistle during her season with us. That is, what little tending she needs.”
“But according to Lady Cara, this is the season when she sleeps in the dell. Was it just happenstance that you met her at the door?”
“There’s na such thing where Thistle is concerned. She dreamed to me so I’d be waiting.”
“Dreamed to you? What does that mean?”
“She can enter dreams as a way of speaking.”
“Yet you seemed to not know why she came.”
“Aye, Thistle keeps much to herself.”
“Does she say anything about the one she calls Mother?”
Freenla bowed her head. “Begging your pardon, Karmamatus, but ’tis a matter between you and Thistle, na the likes of me.”
“You seem to hold the girl in high regard,” said Honus, “higher than her mother does.”
“Karmamatus, my husband’s an Urkzimdi, but I’m a Dolbane. I’m alive because of Lady Cara. When my da and mam were slain in the feuding, my brother brought me here. Lady Cara protected us and provided as best she could. All the food we ate came from her hands, so I’ll na speak ill of her. But Thistle is beyond her ken. And mine, too.”
By then, the pair had reached the upper floor of the manor house. Freenla led Honus down a narrow corridor and into a room tucked under the eaves. Its slanting ceiling was broken by a dormer that faced the low mountains nearby to the north and the road Cronin’s army had taken to Tor’s Gate. The room appeared seldom used, and its floor was strewn with flowers that had withered to shades of beige and brown. Nonetheless, it was a pleasant chamber with wood-paneled walls carved with floral designs, a large feather bed, and a small fireplace. A fire had been lit to warm the room, and nearby was a basin and an ewer of water. Upon a small table was a loaf of bread, a large piece of cheese, an ale jug, and a goblet.
After Freenla left, Honus realized how hungry and tired he was. All the drive that had brought him to his destination dissipated, and he became aware of how great a toll his journey had exacted. The bed looked inviting, but so did the food. For a moment, Honus’s fatigue battled his hunger. Hunger won. Honus bit into the cheese and tore off a large hunk from the loaf. As he chewed, he walked over to the window. From it, he could view the tower Cara had built for her faerie-kissed daughter. It seemed a large undertaking for the sake of a child, a concrete testament of maternal devotion.
Honus peered at the structure with interest. It rose slightly higher than the hall’s surrounding wall, but not as high as the manor itself. It was an open-topped cylinder that tapered slightly from its base. The structure was starkly functional, and its stonework gave the impression that it had been hastily erected. Its top, which was about ten paces in diameter, lacked crenellations. From his viewpoint, Honus could see nothing of what lay inside the tower’s open top except the tree. It rose to form a roof of sorts. Since the tree was an oak, it had retained most of its brown autumn leaves. They were whipped about by a brisk wind that had suddenly filled with snowflakes.
As Honus gazed at the tree, he spotted Thistle sitting high among its branches. She was still wrapped in the brown cloak that Freenla had given her, which made her blend with the dry leaves. Her bare legs and feet dangled in the wind, appearing almost as white as the falling snow. She swayed with the branch on which she perched but was otherwise perfectly still. Thistle stared northward. Even from his removed vantage point, Honus sensed the intensity of her gaze and concluded that she was waiting for something important to happen.
Settlements were few and far between in the Western Reach, so it wasn’t uncommon for Frodoric to be caught outdoors by nightfall when he traveled. Halfway between two distant and tiny villages, the bard scanned the darkening landscape for any sight of firelight. When he saw none, he sighed and spoke to the only one present—himself. “By Karm’s icy feet, another night ’neath her starry roof. And winter nipping at my buns. But there’s naught to do about it, other than gather firewood. Best seek some while there’s yet light.” He set down his pack and harp to go looking for wood.
By the time it was dark, he had a small blaze going. After he brewed some herb water in a small pot, he pulled out his only income from the previous night’s singing—a small loaf of brown bread. He broke it in two with difficulty, then dunked an end into the herb water to soften its crust. After consuming half the loaf, the bard took out his harp and strummed it. Music helped make the night feel less lonely. He continued playing until he thought he heard footsteps in the dry grass. Frodoric stopped strumming and listened. He heard a couple of footsteps, then nothing more. Peering about, he saw only black beyond the light cast by his fire.
“Hallo! Is anyone about? I’m but a traveling bard, poor in everything but songs. Come, and I’ll share one with you.”
Frodoric waited. For what seemed a long while, he heard and saw no sign of another person. “Come, friend,” he said. “I’m sure you mean no harm, for I’ve nothing worth taking.”
After an additional spell of silence, he heard the rustle of footsteps in the grass. Their slow cadence gave the impression of a cautious approach. Frodoric peered in the direction of the sound. Event
ually he saw a shadowy form. As it drew nearer, the form became a hooded figure carrying a stick in one hand. Then the firelight illuminated the figure better and the “stick” turned out to be an unsheathed sword, its blade coated with dried blood.
Frodoric’s heart sank, and he made the Sign of the Balance. “For Karm’s sake, please don’t hurt me!”
The stranger spoke with a woman’s voice. “I only want directions. Do you know these parts?”
“As well as any man, better than most,” replied Frodoric, feeling somewhat relieved but still cautious.
“Then how do I get to Bahland?”
“Why in the name of mercy would you wish to go there?”
“I have a relative in the Iron Palace.”
“I have relatives on the Dark Path, but I’ve no wish to visit them.”
The woman stepped closer to the light. She looked weary and melancholy. Frodoric noted that she had an ugly scar across her throat. “Will you help me or not?” she asked.
“I’ll help you,” replied the bard, “by warning you to stay clear of that place. Its folk are hostile to strangers, and quick to do them harm. Many a traveler has been snared by their harsh laws, which are enforced with hot irons, the gibbet, and the chopping block.”
“Yet it’s my doom to go there,” replied the woman.
Her resigned manner calmed Frodoric’s fear and awoke his sympathy. “That’s no gentle fate,” he said.
“There’s no such thing as fate,” replied the stranger. “It’s my choice.”
“Well, it’s an unfortunate one.”
The woman sighed. “So you don’t know the way?”
“Only what I’ve learned from song. Bahland lies to the west, and the Iron Palace overlooks the ocean from a high cliff at the head of a bay.”
“I already knew that, but thank you anyway,” said the woman, who seemed about to leave.
“You’re not a sorceress are you?”
The woman smiled at the question. “No,” she replied.
“If you can’t conjure up your dinner, then dine on this.” Frodoric held out what remained of his loaf. “It’s a rare thing to meet a woman traveling alone.” As soon as the bard said that, he thought of Honus’s search. He was about to mention it when he recalled that the Sarf had gone to Averen. Therefore, he simply stated that he was Frodoric of Bremven.
“I’m Mirien of Nowhere.”
“Ah,” said the bard, “a locale of high repute. I’m told many folk are headed there. In fact, I’m oft told that I’m going there myself. Are you a native? Mayhap you could acquaint me with its inns.”
The woman smiled. “No one runs a fine establishment.”
“Excellent news! No one has been good to me before.”
“Then, no doubt, no one will be good to you again.”
Frodoric grinned. “Such fine repartee! Mirien, would you mind pulling back your hood?” When she complied, he appraised her face. “I know this will sound forward, but my intentions are entirely commercial. Forget your trip to Bahland and accompany me instead to pass my hat while I sing. We could make a fortune. My art matched with your wit and comely looks would be a lucrative combination.”
“You should be more cautious about whom you invite as a partner,” replied the woman, “for I’m not alone.”
Frodoric started and fearfully scanned the surrounding darkness.
“My companion is not in the darkness without,” said the woman in response to the bard’s fearful peering. “It’s the darkness within. I struggle with it daily.”
Her reply confused Frodoric and did little to calm his apprehension. “And do you win those struggles?”
“I’ve yet to lick the blood from my sword, and I haven’t slain anyone for a while.”
Frodoric swallowed hard, regretting his invitation. “You talk as if it’s a temptation.”
“As I said, it’s a struggle. I’ve grown stronger, but so has my foe.”
Frodoric impulsively pressed the bread into the woman’s hand. “Then eat and build your strength. There’s herb water in the pot. It helps with the chewing. While you eat, I’ll sing something calming. I trust you’re not a friend of Lord Bahl.”
A hint of a wry smile briefly passed over the woman’s lips. “No. Not a friend.”
“Then I know a ballad that should please you. It’s based on recent history and tells how a heroic young man joins Bahl’s army and subdues his power. It’s an uplifting song, though its ending’s sad.”
“As many endings are,” said the woman. “What’s it called?”
“ ‘The Lay of Count Yaun.’ ”
“Count Yaun! That nasty toad!”
“You must be confused.”
“Did he die at Tor’s Gate?”
“Yes, quite heroically.”
“I know all about the man’s end, for I was there. Believe me, he was no hero. To call him a pig is an insult to pigs.”
Frodoric threw up his hands. “Lately, it seems everywhere I go I meet someone who claims to know the subject of my ballad. First the Sarf, now you.”
“What about the Sarf?” asked the woman, looking intrigued.
“He claimed he knew Cara One Arm when she was but a child.”
“What was his name?”
“Honus. He named me Karm’s Own Tongue.”
“When?”
“Just half a moon ago, in Cuprick.”
The woman grew excited. “Where’s that? Is it far? Can you take me there?”
“If you’re looking for him, he isn’t there. He went to visit the Cara of the ballad.”
“Do you know the way to her hall? If you’ll be my guide, I’ll help you with the hat and you can keep all that goes into it.”
Frodoric was tempted, but wary. “What of your inner darkness?”
The woman raised her sword, swung it around her head, and hurled it into the darkness. “You’re the sign that I may triumph yet. Now will you be my guide? Please. Please!”
“I can take you part of the way,” said Frodoric. “I’m headed for Vinden and will pass close to Averen’s northern border. I can get you that far and set you on the road to Cara One Arm’s hall. Mind you, the way through Averen is hard traveling this time of year.”
“I’ve trod far harder paths.”
“Truly?” said the bard. “Any worth a ballad?”
The woman didn’t reply, for her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. Her fatigue and sorrow fell away, and she beamed in a way that vanquished Frodoric’s lingering fears. Then, for a moment, her face took on such radiance that she befitted the old saying and looked “as lovely as the goddess.” The moment passed, and it seemed to Frodoric that the woman’s inner darkness had risen up to subdue her joy. If that was so, the bard thought she might be a fitting subject for a ballad, though its ending would likely be a sad one.
FORTY-FOUR
HONUS WOKE in his room well past sunrise, which was unusually late for him. It was as if his body understood that he had no place to go and nothing to do and so surrendered to exhaustion. Despite his long sleep, he felt tired and fuzzy-headed. Nevertheless, he rose and looked out the window. The fields and the mountains beyond them were snow covered, and flakes were still falling from a gray sky. Honus thought of Yim, trudging somewhere out in the cold.
She could be anywhere, he thought. Ever since his stay in Cuprick, he’d been expecting to find Yim waiting for him at Cara’s. Gazing at the empty and wintry landscape, Honus felt the full weight of his disappointment. He worried that Cara might be right, and he’d grow old waiting for Yim. I feel old already.
Thistle’s cryptic talk of “Mother” gave Honus his only hope. He had planned to question her about it at last evening’s meal, but she hadn’t shown up. Cara’s other children had been there, and he had met each of them. Rose had made the strongest impression, for she was strikingly similar to Thistle and different at the same time. Despite the two girls’ seeming disparity in ages, Rose was clearly Thistle’s twin. She had the same golde
n hair, blue eyes, and finely formed features; although Rose’s complexion was ruddy, not pale, and her countenance was animated rather than serene. However, the principal difference was that Rose had grown without interruptions and had entered womanhood. As such, she was singularly beautiful and possessed the poise of a young lady well aware of her powers of attraction.
When Honus had asked Rose where her twin was, her face briefly lost some of its prettiness. “She’s off sleeping naked with bears,” she replied.
“But I saw her just this morning.”
“Then you know more of her whereabouts than I. I thought she had disappeared till spring.” Rose lifted her hands in a graceful gesture of despair. “She’s such a wild little thing, I can’t keep track of her.”
Honus had made no more inquiries, and had spent the remainder of the evening attempting to be a cordial guest at a typical clan hall dinner, which included more than two dozen diners. It was a role he hadn’t played for ages, and he had felt uncomfortable in it. He had been a failure as a conversationalist, for there was little about his recent history that he cared to remember, much less relate. As for his life before Yim’s departure, it seemed to him the tale of a different man, one who had become a stranger. Cara had sensed Honus’s unease and shushed young Cronin’s and Torald’s pleas for tales of battle. Nevertheless, Honus couldn’t politely evade Havren’s inquiries, and he had given a terse account of his one-man siege of Bahl’s stronghold and the pursuit of Yim’s captors that led to her rescue. Otherwise, he had eaten in silence, and departed as soon as courtesy allowed.
Honus’s late rising meant that the hall’s daily activity was well under way by the time he left his room. He went down to the chamber off the kitchen where the house hold ate their morning porridge. Due to his tardiness, he expected the porridge to be cold, and it was. Honus also expected the room to be empty. Instead, Cara was waiting for him.
“Good morn, Honus,” she said cheerily. “I trust your bed was softer than the frozen ground, and the room warmer than a snowbank.”
The Iron Palace Page 29