“Yes, it exceeded all expectations,” replied Honus. “It was even strewn with flowers in shades appropriate to the season.”
“The room was last used by newlyweds,” replied Cara. “Hence the flowers.”
“If it’s a love nest, then I’m out of place.”
“ ’Twas na you I was thinking about,” replied Cara with a twinkle in her eye. “Who knows? Perhaps Yim will turn up. One can always hope.”
“Only yesterday, you seemed to caution against hope.”
“Perhaps I’ve been encouraged by this morning’s miracle, for it seems you’ve grown a new tongue. You were quite the lump at last night’s dinner.”
“I’ve grown unused to dining with others. So, it seems, has your other daughter. I missed her last night.”
“You mean Violet?”
“Yes. I wished to speak to her about Yim.”
“Well, there’s little point in waiting for her at meals. She seldom shows up. Better to go to her tower. She stays in a burrow beneath the tree. If she chooses to speak with you, she’ll pop out of it. Otherwise, she’ll na appear. If so, let her be. ’Tis unwise to trifle with her.”
“She’s but a girl.”
“Do na be fooled by appearances. Provoke her, and you provoke the Old Ones. And they make fell enemies.”
“All I want to do is talk. I doubt that will offend her.”
“Well, there’s a log that runs from the outer wall to an opening high in the tower’s side. ’Tis the only entrance and treacherous footing in icy weather. After all your journeying, ’twould na do for you to slip and break your neck, so take care. Oh … and have na iron upon your person. That’s all the advice I can give, except to counsel talking more at dinner. You were na so shy with me yesterday, thank Karm for that!”
“That’s because we’re old friends.”
“Oh, we’re na old. At least, I’m na. Neither are you, just weather-beaten. You’ve left yourself outdoors too long. It has na served you well, but never mind. A rest will mend you. Well, I must be off. A clan mother heads a large family indeed, and they save their squabbles for the wintry moons. Today, it’s over oat fields and roving sheep. Serious business, Honus. Trust me, very serious. May Karm give me strength!”
Cara hurried off, leaving Honus to eat his cold porridge. When he finished, he returned to his room. There he checked his pockets for anything made of iron, then donned his cloak and headed for Thistle’s tower. The log that Cara mentioned bridged a three-pace gap between the tower and the clan hall’s surrounding wall. It was no thicker that a man’s thigh, so it functioned as an obstacle as well as a bridge. The snow on its surface was undisturbed, a thin line of white contrasting with the tower’s dark stone. Honus stepped onto it and made a hasty crossing to the low opening on the far side. He had to duck to enter it.
Once inside the tower, it seemed as if he were standing in a brown meadow surrounded by a circular wall that shut out the view of everything except the sky. A winding path had been trampled through the waist-high plants, and it led to the tree in the center of the enclosure. The oak grew atop a small mound and its gnarled roots surrounded the opening to the burrow that Cara had mentioned. Honus strode up to the hole and called down the dark opening. “Greetings, Thistle. Will you speak with me?”
Honus waited, but he heard no reply or sound of any sort.
“Thistle?”
Again, there was no sound. After standing in the snow awhile, Honus concluded that he should return to the hall. He was about to cross the log again when he heard a voice call, “Karmamatus!” Honus turned and saw Thistle sitting cross-legged on the snow in front of her burrow. She possessed such a presence that Honus bowed before walking back and squatting before her.
Thistle wore the same cloak that Freenla had given her. Close up, it appeared woven out of grass and vines, a rough garment that didn’t look warm. Thistle had tucked the rear of the cloak beneath her to avoid sitting directly on the snow. It was her only concession to the cold; beneath the cloak she wore only her skirt of leaves, and her pale skin had taken on a bluish cast. It made Honus pity her suffering.
As if she had read his thoughts, Thistle smiled and said. “I’m merely one with the season, though at times I miss my bear. Despite what Little Sister said, I only sleep with one.”
“So you don’t mind the cold?”
“Does the snow mind it? But you did na come to ask me that. Speak what’s on your mind.”
“When you met me, you spoke of one you called Mother.”
“You know of whom I speak.”
“Yim?”
Thistle smiled. “Mother.”
“You told Freenla that she’s coming. Is she coming soon?”
“Mother gathers coins as she walks. It slows her pace. But I’ll be winter hued when she and I speak.” Thistle smiled as if Honus had said something funny. “ ’Tis na so strange to come to me for answers. I’m older than my sister, and wiser, too.” With that last remark, it seemed to Honus that the girl’s tranquil expression turned sad. But it was only a passing change, and Thistle was placid when she spoke again. “Karmamatus, we two are alike—’tis our lot to wait and help as best we can. Build your strength, and your inner strength most of all. Ere long, ’twill be tested.”
Once again, Honus felt that he should bow. He did, and when he raised his head, the only sign of Thistle was a slight impression in the snow. He rose, crossed the slender bridge, and made his way back into the warmth of the hall. All the while, he kept thinking of Thistle. It seemed to him that her lot was particularly hard, for Rose showed what her life would have been had the faeries not taken her. Did the Old Ones bless or curse Thistle? Honus couldn’t decide which, any more than he could decide if his love for Yim was a blessing or a curse. Either way, he felt bound by it.
Although Honus’s interview with Thistle wasn’t entirely satisfactory, it gave him hope that he would be reunited with Yim before the winter was out. Since his role was to wait, he resolved to become good at it. He became more sociable. He trained during the day or participated in the frequent hunts. He devoted his evenings to Cara’s children, relating his adventures with their late uncle whom they had never known. He visited Thistle’s tower several more times, but she never came out when he called. Since she made no appearances in the hall, Honus believed that she had returned to the faerie dell until Freenla told him otherwise.
“Doesn’t she eat?” Honus asked. “No one takes food to her tower.”
“The mice do that,” replied Freenla.
Honus thought that she was jesting until he remembered that owls had brought food to Lila. Afterward, Honus noted tiny trails in the snow leading to a narrow crack in the tower’s base. Once, he even spied a rodent convoy, traveling single file and unmolested by the cat that watched it. It made him think of Thistle, high in her tower and yet underground. He empathized with her loneliness, for he had lived apart from others also. However, he had frequented the Dark Path, while Thistle seemed to travel in different realms. Honus had no idea what they might be. Neither could he fathom how she lived, nor what things—if any—brought her joy. Yet he knew what she was doing. Like him, she was waiting. He wondered if she foresaw what would happen when the wait was over. He certainly didn’t.
FORTY-FIVE
THE COMMON room was perfectly silent except for Frodoric’s frenzied strumming. Yim prepared to rise, knowing that the ballad was about to end. Then the bard accompanied his harp playing by singing in a high falsetto:
“A chieftain’s might springs from her brain.
Though I can’t wield a sword again,
My foes will learn to fear my wit
As long as on this throne I sit.”
Frodoric played the final chord, and as its echoes died, he bowed. While his audience clapped and shouted, Yim rose to whisk the bard’s floppy, feathered cap from his head and gracefully move about the room. As she held out the sacklike hat to receive donations, she looked like a woman enraptured by song. There
was nothing beggarly about her demeanor; yet each time a man threw a coin into the cap, she smiled so warmly at him that he often tossed in a second one and sometimes even a third. Yim seemed to pay no mind whether the coin was copper or the far rarer silver, but she kept track nonetheless.
After making her rounds, Yim deftly whisked the coins into the large pocket at the front of her woolen skirt, holding back a few to pay for Frodoric’s ale. She obtained a large mug and brought it over to the bard, who was surrounded by rustic admirers. Frodoric smiled when she handed him the ale. “Thank you, Mirien. Singing’s thirsty work.” He took a deep swallow. “What did you think of tonight’s rendition?”
“Oh, Frodoric, it was your best yet! I don’t know how you did it, but this night you surpassed your performance for the emperor. When the faeries demanded Cara’s arm and you sang ‘This hand will ne’er my firstborn hold,’ I—I—” Yim began to sob. Frodoric seemed forced to reach out and pat her hand before she could continue. “I—I was just so moved. I love that ballad and never tire of it.”
Frodoric smiled. “I know.” He turned to his audience. “Mirien was betrothed to a count, but my art ensnared her, and she forsook him to lead our vagabond life. I oft feel guilty over it.”
“Pray don’t, my sweet,” said Yim. “What are jewels and manor houses compared to truth and beauty?” Then she grabbed Frodoric’s mug and took a long swig from it before settling into a chair and assuming a blissful expression. It was a convincing performance, and none in the room—not even Frodoric—guessed how thoroughly sick Yim was of “The Ballad of Cara One Arm.” She knew every word by heart, and having lived through the events that they purportedly recounted, she was irritated by their falsehood. As far as Yim was concerned, all the ballad got right was Rodric’s betrayal and a reasonable approximation of Cara’s fortitude and bravery. The rest was goat dung in her estimation, and she was heartily glad that there was no mention of her in the song whatsoever.
Frodoric knew that Yim was tired of the ballad, but he knew nothing about her role in its actual events. That was because Yim had taken care to remain a mystery. She was still Mirien to Frodoric—witty, useful, and aloof. In large part, she was as contented with their arrangement as he was. Traveling with Frodoric provided a modicum of safety, not only because a man accompanied her but also because bards were valued entertainers. Moreover, Frodoric knew the roads, and they usually slept indoors.
The price for those advantages was traveling slowly. The bard never passed any village that held the slightest promise, and the farther south they went, the shorter were the distances between settlements. Although Frodoric hadn’t mentioned it, Yim knew that they were approaching Averen. It had taken them nearly two moons to get that far, and the closer they got to her goal, the slower they went. Yim was convinced that was intentional on Frodoric’s part.
While the bard was enjoying his ale and adulation, Yim saw the innkeeper and gave him three extra coppers so that their room would be a private one. Then she took a rush candle and retired to it.
The chamber was small, and contained only one bed. That was also small, but at least it had a cover. Augmented by her cloak, it would make for warm sleeping. Yim spread her cloak over the tattered cover, took off her boots, and slipped into bed, otherwise fully clothed. She wasn’t tired, for they had traveled only part of the morning, but it was warmer to wait in bed until Frodoric finished drinking.
It was late when the bard entered the room, humming softly to himself. “When the innkeeper told me about the change of rooms,” he said, “I had hoped to find you naked.”
“Then the power of your optimism is exceeded only by your imagination,” replied Yim.
“A man can dream, can’t he?”
“Dreaming’s permissible, but only that.”
Frodoric shucked his boots, removed his multicolored jerkin, and then pulled off his striped trousers, so that he was dressed only in his hole-riddled socks and a long linen blouse. “Move over, Mirien.”
“What?” replied Yim. “I, a count’s betrothed, share a bed? Fie! Haven’t I already abandoned my jewels and manor houses?”
Frodoric laughed. “That was a nice touch, as was ‘my sweet.’ Now move over.”
Yim shifted toward the wall. As Frodoric climbed beneath the covers, he frowned. “Must you wear all your clothes to bed?”
“Yes, as a prevention for temptation. Besides, I’m always cold.”
“Mayhap, but your clothes are getting ripe.”
“No riper than our patrons’.”
“I should warn you that, unlike me, peasants favor musky women.”
Yim laughed. “I doubt it’ll be a problem.”
“So what of tonight’s accounts?” asked Frodoric.
“Nineteen coppers and one silver. Nine coppers for room, meals, and ale. One silver for provisions. That leaves ten coppers.”
“Ten coppers for the night? I’d thought I’d do better.”
“You’d be surprised what ten coppers can buy,” said Yim.
“But what about the silver? What provisions did you buy with that?”
“Those were for me,” said Yim in a quiet voice. “Tomorrow, I leave for Averen.”
Frodoric was quiet awhile as the news sank in. At last he said, “Don’t go, Mirien.”
Yim rolled onto her side and lightly touched his shoulder. “You knew this time would come. I must go.”
Frodoric simply stared at the cracked ceiling as his eyes began to glisten. When he spoke again, his voice had none of its jocularity or bravado. “Come to Vinden, and forsake this thing you plan to do. I don’t know your intentions, but an artist oft feels things he cannot understand. A doom hangs o’er your undertaking. Mirien, if that’s your name—which I doubt it is—turn away from it. Travel with me. Gather what ever my singing brings, pay for my ale and board, and keep the rest for yourself. Just don’t walk into the dark.”
For the first time ever, Yim kissed Frodoric’s cheek. “Would you walk away from your songs and art for the security of plowing another man’s fields?” Then she answered for him. “No. Though your path is often hard like mine, it’s your path. And there’s satisfaction in following one’s road to its end.”
“Then take my earnings for your trip,” said the bard. “They were always more yours than mine, anyway.”
Yim smiled. “I’ve purchased all I need, except for directions to Cara’s hall. I’m hoping you’ll give me those.”
It was snowing lightly when Yim left the inn the following morning. A cold northern wind swept most of the flakes from the road, which was an old imperial highway. It still retained most of its paving, but due to generations of neglect, many of the ancient stones had heaved up to work mischief on unwary feet. The road reminded Yim of the one she and Honus had traveled along the Yorvern. In fact, it was part of the same highway.
To the south, a series of low mountains rose like waves on a pond turned to stone. They were shades of gray frosted with white. According to Frodoric’s directions, two days of hard walking would take her to the place where she would leave the ancient highway for a more rugged road into the mountains. That route would bring her to Cara’s hall in six days, if the weather was favorable. The bard had even purchased a scrap of parchment and inked her a crude map. That and his striped scarf were his parting gifts, which he bestowed on her with teary eyes and many wishes for a safe journey.
Yim felt uneasy traveling alone, and at times wished that she hadn’t discarded the sword. Though she was unarmed, except for a small sheath knife that she used in cooking, the harsh weather protected her. It cleared the highway of all but those on urgent business. Thus Yim encountered few travelers, and they were hunched against the icy wind and anxious to get out of it. Those inclined to prey on others apparently were waiting for milder days.
Toward noon, Yim crossed the western branch of the Yorvern River via an ancient bridge. The frozen waterway seemed little more than an overgrown brook compared to what it would become, and
the stone structure required but a single arch to span it. Afterward, the highway followed the river east, and Yim occasionally spied a hut built on stone pilings in the manner of river folk. Although the shanties appeared maintained, she saw no signs of occupation, causing her to assume that they were seasonal dwellings.
As dusk arrived, Yim considered staying in an empty hut until she saw a light in the distance. Recalling the hospitality that Maryen had shown her and Honus long ago, Yim decided to ask whomever dwelt there for shelter. The elderly couple that came to the door seemed reluctant to take her in until she said that she knew “The Ballad of Cara One Arm.” Then Yim was welcomed. After a hearty meal of smoked fish stew, she sang the ballad in its entirety, and then repeated the couple’s favorite parts. Afterward, they insisted that she share their bed. Yim accepted the offer gratefully, for it was a frigid night.
Late on the following day, Yim left the highway for the road into the mountains. At first, it was easy to follow, but as she began to climb higher, the snow covered the roadway. Soon Yim encountered places where it was difficult to distinguish the road from the surrounding terrain. A few times she strayed from her route, but after blundering about awhile, she always found it again.
Yim came across no dwellings, and that night was the first she spent outdoors in a long time. She found a sheltered hollow on the mountainside, broke off dead tree branches for firewood, made a crude shelter from pine boughs, and lit a campfire. Yim cooked porridge, then built up the fire and went to sleep.
Though the night was frigid, Yim’s inner chill made her accustomed to cold. Thus the winter weather was tolerable. That tolerance was the only benefit of the dark thing within her, a thing that had increased in strength as she had journeyed south. Aware of its growing power, Yim had been ever vigilant against sudden rages and murderous impulses. She had experienced more than a few. Their only outward manifestation was Yim’s expression of grim concentration as she suppressed them. Yim suspected that Frodoric had been aware of her bouts. She never knew how much he understood their nature, but he was always timid after one of them.
The Iron Palace Page 30