The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  Honus stirred, and Yim twisted around so she could kiss him. He smiled and said, “This is a pleasant way to wake up.”

  Yim smiled back. “I’d hoped you’d say that.” She kissed him again. “This feels so natural, though I don’t know why it should. How many moons did we spend together?”

  “Not many,” replied Honus. “Maybe five in all, but we packed a lot into them.”

  And I lived your entire life when our souls merged on the Dark Path, thought Yim. “We certainly did. I remember …” Her voice trailed off, and she sat up to slip on her new shoes.

  “You remember what?”

  “Why talk of memories?” said Yim. “Can you remember a single one that isn’t mingled with sorrow?”

  “I can,” replied Honus. “Right after you—” He stopped, for he was about to say “restored my life.” Instead, he said, “awoke on the dawn after I slew Gatt.”

  “Yes,” said Yim, recalling her single morning of unclouded passion. “That was just before I told you what being the Chosen truly meant.”

  “Now that you’ve fulfilled your obligation, perhaps we’ll forge new memories.”

  Yim understood Honus’s implication and quickly changed the subject. “Cara thinks I should visit Thistle’s tower. I thought I might do so this morning.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” said Honus. “Thistle has foresight. She knew you were coming and told me as much when we first met. Though, in truth, I didn’t understand her.”

  “Perhaps I won’t understand her either,” said Yim.

  * * *

  Yim found reasons for putting off going to the tower until late in the morning. When she finally climbed the wall and gazed at the slender log leading to Thistle’s abode, she was even more dubious about the visit. The frigid day was gusty, making the “bridge” seem especially precarious. “Come on,” Yim said to herself. “You’ve trekked all through the fens. Surely you can walk across a log.”

  Yim made the crossing quickly. Once inside the tower’s walls, she walked through what seemed a patch of brown meadow to call down the hole at the base of the oak. “Thistle?”

  “Enter pelt-clad, Mother.”

  Yim felt even more dubious than when she had stood before the log. She had expected Thistle to come to her, not the other way around. The dark hole looked narrow and cold. Moreover, “pelt-clad” was the faerie term for “unclothed.” The prospect of sliding down the hole naked was distinctly uninviting. Thistle’s voice wafted up from the dark. “Come, Mother. ’Tis warm, safe, and secret.”

  After some hesitation, Yim quickly stripped, placed her gown and shoes upon a low tree branch, and slithered into the hole like a snake. At first, the burrow’s sides felt shockingly cold against her bare flesh. The hole curved like a corkscrew, so all trace of daylight quickly faded. Partway into the second turn, Yim saw a faint light ahead. Soon she emerged into a warm cavity with a floor covered with a thick layer of thistledown. It was illuminated by a misty sphere of light that was the size of a child’s fist. It floated near a ceiling that was formed by intertwined roots. The light it cast was the same rosy shade as dawn. Thistle sat cross-legged on the down, her lap covered by so many rabbits that “pelt-clad” took on a new meaning.

  She smiled and bowed her head low enough to nearly touch the down. “We welcome you, Mother, and are honored that you came.”

  “I take it, when you say ‘we,’ you’re not speaking for the rabbits.”

  “They welcome you, too, but I speak for the Old Ones.”

  “And that’s why they stole you from your mother?”

  “They did na steal me. Dar Beard Chin made a gift. ’Twas na a cheese, but a promise to help in the time of need. To the Old Ones, I’m Dar.” Thistle smiled, seeming to understand Yim’s confusion. “So is Mama. And her mama, and all the other clan mothers. Time and death are different for the faeries. Dar’s blood flows in me, and that’s what they see.”

  “Still, I don’t see why they need you to speak for them. They didn’t before.”

  “They’re now constrained and can aid in only little ways.”

  “Why?”

  “This was decreed at the world’s beginning, and they’re bound by it. Even Karm is likewise bound. Do na look to her for guidance. Your will must become her will.”

  Yim sighed heavily, already despairing of learning anything useful. “Then tell me what ever you can.”

  “We cannot enter the spider’s web, yet it’s attached to living things. When the spider moves, it shakes them and we know.” Thistle’s face grew sad. “A little boy is bound hand and foot. The evil one will spill his life this night in order to gaze about. He’s looking for you. Yet he can na peer into here.”

  Yim felt a chill in her stomach. “What evil one? Are you talking of my son?”

  “Nay, na him. Evil is a choice he has yet to make, though he may soon.”

  Yim’s chill somewhat abated. “So there’s hope?”

  “Aye, a little.”

  “What must I do?”

  “Hold fast to the shadow,” replied Thistle. Though her voice sounded calm, her eyes seemed anxious.

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “You may when the time comes.”

  “May? That doesn’t sound hopeful.”

  “Hope is all we may do, Mother,” replied Thistle. “Yet you’re free to make a different choice.”

  The “counsel” proved as cryptic as Yim had feared it would be. “Can the Old Ones tell me anything more?”

  “Aye. Enter death’s domain when life’s renewed.”

  “You mean in springtime?”

  Thistle smiled. “When life’s renewed.” She held out something in her hand. “And wear this in your hair.”

  Yim took the object. It was a small hair comb carved from walnut the exact shade of her hair. She noted that there were small walnut-colored spheres attached to its surface.

  “Those are neigin seeds, Mother. The plants grow only in the dell.”

  “What’s their purpose?”

  “Swallow them, and though you eat and drink, ’twill be the same as if you fasted.”

  “So they’re poison. I’d die of thirst and hunger.”

  “When the seeds pass through you, their power will pass also.”

  Like the Old Ones’ counsel, the comb seemed a puzzling gift of dubious value. Nevertheless, Yim thanked Thistle for it.

  “Nay, we thank you, Mother.” Thistle bowed low again. Afterward, she gazed at Yim as if she were debating something in her mind. After a long moment, she spoke. “This I say only from myself: Do na mistake the Old Ones’ counsel about the shadow. You need not fear to lie with Karmamatus.”

  “You mean Honus?”

  “Aye, Karmamatus. The shadow can na enter him or any child.” Thistle smiled. “I thought it would please you to know that.”

  “Yes,” replied Yim, realizing that she was talking with another woman and not a child. “I suspect you know just how much.”

  Thistle’s smile grew earthy. “I do. So, why na nap awhile afore the night? ’Tis cozy here, and rest heightens the senses.”

  Yim hadn’t felt sleepy until Thistle mentioned napping. Then her eyelids suddenly felt heavy. As if they had been given a command, the rabbits hopped from the girl’s lap and began to nuzzle against Yim. The soft fur and warm bodies against her skin increased Yim’s drowsiness. She yawned. The down looked inviting. “A short nap sounds nice.” Yim reclined onto the chamber’s soft floor. As soon as she did, the rabbits snuggled against her as Thistle lay with her back against Yim’s chest. Yim threw an arm over the girl and hugged her close. Thistle sighed contentedly. Yim closed her eyes. Just a short nap, she thought. Then I’ll be ready for my night with Honus.

  Honus only picked at his food. Throughout the meal, he kept glancing down the head table toward Yim’s empty place. Since seating was set by protocol even at informal dinners, he had to gaze past Havren and Cara to the spot. Cara eventually noticed Honus’s
glances, and silently shrugged. Havren, caught up in describing the day’s encounter with a white stag, didn’t notice Honus’s anxiousness. Honus, in turn, scarcely heard a thing Havren said.

  When the meal was over and Cara rose from her chair, Honus hurried over to her. “Where is she?” he whispered.

  “You said she went to talk to Violet,” replied Cara.

  “Yes, but that was this morning!”

  “Violet reckons time differently from other folk.”

  “You mean the two could still be gabbing? That’s a lot of talk.”

  “Mayhap,” said Cara, “or they may have only started. I think that tower has become like the dell. Time moves differently there. Remember that I said the oak grew in just one season?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it shed its leaves and sprouted new ones near a hundred times that summer. I know because I counted.”

  “So what are you telling me?”

  “Yim’s na tardy, so do na fret. She’ll return in time, whatever that time is. So do na go looking for her, especially in the tower. I mean it, Honus. You’ll stir up things best left alone.”

  Just as Thistle had foreseen, the Most Holy Gorm ascended his ironclad tower and prepared for necromancy by drawing a knife across a little throat. He painted the bloody circle on the floor and took the magic bones from their ancient rune-stitched bag. They felt exceptionally icy in his hand, an auspicious sign. The bones’ powers for divination had increased as the heir’s power had grown. Even though Lord Bahl’s throne was still vacant, Gorm knew the young man who would fill it would soon arrive. He had known it even before Stregg’s messenger brought the news. The bones had told him.

  Bahland was already preparing for its new lord. The armories were busy. The Iron Guard was conscripting men. Ceremonies were being planned and arrests were being made. Both Stregg’s reports and the bones’ portents indicated an heir of exceptional promise. Nevertheless, Gorm—and Gorm alone—knew that one vital ingredient was missing. It was the heir’s mother. Only after her son had consumed her blood would the Devourer be reunited in a single body. All signs indicated that it would be the last body the Devourer would ever need.

  Gorm tossed the bones to discover the mother’s whereabouts. Despite eighteen years of fruitless searching, he was confident of receiving useful clues. Lately, what ever had hidden the missing woman had weakened, or the Devourer within her had grown strong enough to aid in her discovery. Regardless which, Gorm had been able to discern that the heir’s mother was on the move. Last time, there were signs that she was heading south, he recalled. Perhaps this time, I’ll learn enough to capture her.

  The bones bounced over the black stone floor and settled into place. Gorm studied them with an air of expectation. Centuries of practice had taught him to catch the subtlest of signs, although recently the portents had been easy to spot. The Most Holy One anticipated the same with the current session, and he wasn’t disappointed. Almost immediately, he spied two vertebrae that together formed the runes for “mother.” A blackened rib pointed in their direction, leaving no doubt that the mother in question was Lord Bahl’s. Gorm followed the shadows cast by the two vertebrae. They passed over a second rib, shading one of the runes inscribed into it. The Most Holy One glared at the rune with growing fury, as if his malice could erase the symbol. He would have liked to have stomped the bone to powder, but stepping outside the circle would have risked his life without changing the bone’s message.

  According to the rib, the heir’s mother had vanished. Nothing would change that fact. Gorm remained in place, and gradually his fury cooled. “The heir vanished also,” he said to the frigid dark, “and he’s now found.” Gorm studied the bones further. The more he studied, the more pleased he became. Although the mother had vanished, it would be for only a short while. Better yet, when she reappeared, Gorm wouldn’t have to search for her. She would come to him. The Most Holy One flashed a malevolent grin. “When she does, I’ll be ready. More than ready.”

  FORTY-NINE

  THE JOURNEY to Bahland was taking much longer than Froan had expected. That was mainly because Stregg had instructed him on the need to “harvest souls” for god. God, of course, was the Devourer, the same divinity that bestowed power upon him. With the black priest’s arrival, Froan had learned to think in more religious terms. The invigorating surge he felt after each violent death and the resulting increase in his power was called “grace.” The fear he inspired and his ability to inflame men with hate were its manifestations. Thus, according to Stregg, the devastation he wrought on the march to his domain—although it slowed his progress—not only made him more powerful but also more holy.

  Froan wasn’t entirely convinced. There were still occasions when he felt like a butcher, not a lord. Then, instead of feeling powerful, he felt like a prisoner—a captive of circumstance, of others’ expectations, and most of all, of “his shadow.” When such a mood was on him, Stregg’s flattery rang false and plundered luxuries brought him no satisfaction. It was at those times that Froan would wistfully recall lying in the woods with Moli. In his recollection, everything was simpler: She was just a stolen wench, and he was only a lad plucked from the river who possessed little more than Moli’s love. Yet, in ways, he had felt richer than he did as a lord. The mood always passed. But while it persisted, it exposed the depths of his emptiness.

  Although Froan missed Moli, it wasn’t because he lacked for women. Stregg procured them along with other spoils. They were either whores or dead men’s wives, never virgins. All were clean and pretty, and none was missing a single tooth. Moreover, they were eager to please. Yet after every carnal session, Froan thought that “desperate to please” was a more apt description. Sometimes, when he caught a partner in an unguarded moment, he spied fear in her eyes. One unlucky woman had even shown revulsion, a fatal slip. After his rage had cooled, Froan regretted what he’d done, although Stregg had said it was “no less than the bitch deserved.”

  The priest counseled that regret was a weakness and unbecoming in a great lord. Despite his sporadic bouts of skepticism, Froan saw Stregg’s point. Remorse seemed to be worse than useless. An army needed supplies and loot to sustain and reward its men. Regretting the deeds that were done to obtain them didn’t lessen their necessity. A conscience seemed equally without benefit. The priest endorsed that philosophy, and Froan’s men concurred—at least those still capable of logic. As for the rest, Froan had so inflamed them that they slew without reflection. When they didn’t have a foe to kill, they often slew one another.

  Most of the crazed men came from Cuprick. Its destruction dwarfed that of Midgeport. It had taken several days to accomplish, and it was the first time that Froan had used his powers to turn defenders against one another. The feat—evidence of his increased power—had felt easy and resulted in turning an evenly fought battle into a massacre.

  Afterward, the name Shadow was forgotten, and Froan became accustomed to being called Lord Bahl. The name aided his transformation. Thoughts of Moli came less frequently, as did the bouts of regret and conscience. His voice grew colder and harder. Men listened carefully when he spoke, as if afraid to misunderstand a single word. He grew used to obedience and ceased restraining his temper.

  When Froan neared the border of his future domain, messengers began to scurry back and forth from the Iron Palace. They often brought gifts. One appeared with a magnificent stallion. The steed was huge, pitch-black, and fiery eyed. Soon after another messenger took all of Froan’s measurements, clothing began to arrive. Having grown up wearing goatskin, Froan made his acquaintance with velvet, gold embroidery, and tooled polished leather. Armor arrived soon after the clothes—blackened chain mail with ebony plates of etched steel and an elegantly sculpted helm that emphasized his piecing eyes. A bejeweled broadsword and dagger, both heirlooms from his father, accompanied the armor.

  Two days later, a cavalry regiment from the Iron Guard galloped up. The general who led it dismounted and knelt in the
dust before kissing Froan’s hand. Afterward, as a demonstration of its prowess, the Iron Guard handily slaughtered everyone who had accompanied their new lord except the priest. Lord Bahl found the display impressive, stimulating, and especially symbolic, for it seemed to mark the end of his old life and the beginning of his new one.

  The Iron Guard escorted their lord for another day before they entered Bahland. Its border was marked by a pair of basalt steles that resembled gigantic stone fingers flanking the road. When Froan peered at the wintry landscape ahead, he thought that it possessed a starkness that was due to more than just the season. Nothing seemed to have been done to please the eye. The piled stones that marked the boundaries were haphazardly assembled. Refuse lay in open sight. The fields were filled with brown stubble and rot, and the untilled places were rank with thorny weeds.

  The mounted column proceeded down the road with the cavalrymen riding four abreast. The regiment was unequally divided, with a smaller contingent preceding their lord and a greater one trailing him. Froan rode in the gap between, accompanied by Stregg and the general, whose name was Drak. When a village appeared in the distance, General Drak pulled his horse alongside Froan’s. “My lord, your subjects will be gathered to show their devotion and obeisance. They will present gifts. You, in turn, will give them justice.”

  “Justice? What form of justice?”

  “Felons shall be brought forth to feel your blade upon their necks. It’s a time-honored custom.”

  As the column drew nearer to the village, Froan could see its main street was lined with folk. They stood closely packed and silent, and it seemed that everyone had turned out regardless of age or health. The drab settlement about them appeared as stark as the surrounding landscape. Gray stone was the principal building material, and the structures built from it lacked ornamentation or grace. Soot coated the stones and the unpainted wooden doors and shutters, giving them a somber look. Garbage had been removed from the streets by pushing it to the sides where the crowds trampled it underfoot. The overall impression was of squalor, poverty, and neglect.