The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

“Our door has always been open to you. All you needed to do was present yourself. We would have welcomed you.”

  “Like this, I suppose.”

  “Admit it, you’ve proved troublesome in the past.”

  “And what does Lord Bahl have to say of this treatment of his mother?”

  The priest smiled. “I’m told he grieves for her untimely death.”

  Yim gazed into the priest’s eyes, and saw that he was partly telling the truth: Froan believed that she was dead, though the priest didn’t know if he grieved. “Then he’ll be pleased to learn the contrary,” Yim said.

  The priest shrugged. “Mayhap. Who knows? It’s not my place to tell him.”

  “Whose is it?”

  “Why, the Most Holy One. Who else to give such joyous news?” The priest grinned sardonically. “Or not, as he deems best. It’s a matter you two can discuss.”

  “When?”

  “In good time, my lady. In good time. Until then, this holy one will tend you.” He nodded at the other priest, a young, lanky, thin-faced man, with a hawk nose, pimply face, and a shock of wild blond hair. “He’ll give you food and drink, bathe and dress you”—the priest gave a shallow metal pan a distasteful look—“and deal with other necessary functions. My vigil is over. I bid you good riddance, my lady.”

  The elder priest departed from the room, and Yim focused her attention on the remaining one. “Do you have a name?”

  “Ye may call me Holy One.”

  “What if I don’t think you’re holy?” asked Yim.

  “But I am holy, m’lady,” said the priest, putting a sarcastic twist on the last word. “Holiness is power, and ye’ll find me fulsome powerful. Ye eat and drink at my leave. If ye wish to make water, ye must beg my assistance.”

  “It seems you forget who I am,” said Yim.

  “Ye’re only a hole to me. One Bahl entered it, and another came out. Don’t think ye’re something special.”

  “Your god’s within me,” said Yim, still trying to gain some leverage. “If you don’t believe me, touch my flesh. It’s as chill as your lord’s.”

  “My lord’s the Most Holy One. Bahl is but his tool. As for yer chill—’twill be departing soon enough, although I doubt ye’ll be glad to have it go.”

  “Do you speak of the suckling?” asked Yim.

  The young priest’s pale face appeared to grow paler. He refused to answer and seemed to become engrossed in gazing at his fingernails.

  “So, I’m not supposed to know about that?”

  The priest continued to look away.

  “When the Most Holy One visits me—and he most certainly will—I’ll say you told me all about it.” Yim watched the priest’s face grow paler yet. She smiled. “Or not, as I deem best. Now, tell me your name.”

  “Ye know a word, nothing else.”

  “The Devourer within my son is incomplete until he drinks my blood in a ritual called the suckling. There’s no Rising without the suckling. Until it happens, I’m very precious indeed. So best tell me your name.”

  “Tymec, m’lady.”

  “Well, Tymec, serve me some wine. Climbing a wall is thirsty work.”

  As Tymec went to get Yim’s wine, what ever minor satisfaction she felt was quickly swallowed by despair. Her sense of doom was absolute. I’ll never see Froan. Gorm will see to that. Gorm’s trap had worked perfectly, and she was certain that the suckling had been planned with equal thoroughness. I’ll die, and my death will destroy my son, and he’ll destroy the world. Tymec brought the goblet to her lips. Yim drank, barely tasting the wine. Her sole thought was that, of the three things that would inevitably happen, her death would be the least tragic.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  HONUS WAITED in the crevice for dawn as he mulled over what had happened. He was far too distraught to sleep. To be separated from Yim once again was devastating. Worse, he feared that she was headed for disaster or had already encountered it. As soon as there was light, Honus peered from the crevice at the palace, anxious to discover some indication of Yim’s fate.

  He noted a change immediately: soldiers manned walls and watchtowers that had previously stood deserted. Watching whole squads of armored men pace behind the crenellations erased any doubt that the Iron Palace was an active fortress. Honus came up with two explanations for the change, and both spelled trouble. The first was that Yim had been caught, and Lord Bahl had set the guards to deter further intruders. The second was that the absent guards had been part of a trap, a ploy to make Yim overconfident. The return of the guards was a sign that the trap had worked.

  Either way, Yim was Lord Bahl’s prisoner. Nevertheless, Honus liked the second explanation less, not because it was less likely, but because it was more disturbing. It meant that he had failed to be sufficiently wary. In retrospect, the forgotten rope seemed too good to be true, like a door left open to lure in a thief. Too late, Honus concluded that had been the case. Furthermore, a trap meant that Bahl had known that Yim was coming. Probably, he had been informed by sorcery, something that always made Honus uneasy.

  Uneasy or not, Honus knew what he must do. Both as Yim’s lover and her Sarf, he felt bound to rescue her. “Attempt to rescue her” was more accurate, and Honus realized it. His chances for success were negligible. He was vastly outnumbered and had no clue as to Yim’s whereabouts within the huge complex. Nevertheless, he was determined to act because the thought of inaction was unbearable.

  Yim’s night in the Iron Palace was only a little more restful than Honus’s on the rocky ledge. Her bed was luxuriously soft, but horrific dreams lurked and pounced the moment she drifted off to sleep. They startled her awake, and afterward, the memories of them made her loath to shut her eyes again. Yet exhaustion eventually left her with no choice, and she endured the bloody nightmares.

  When Yim awoke in the dim, windowless room, she had no idea how long she had slept. She still felt tired, but that could be the result of a troubled sleep and not a short one. Yim was certain that her gruesome dreams were the result of the Devourer’s pervasiveness. Its greater part lurks within Froan, and he’s inside the palace—perhaps only a few floors away. Yim wondered if her presence might somehow affect her son and alert him to her nearness. Upon further reflection, she doubted it. Moreover, even if Froan felt her presence, the Devourer’s servants seemed firmly in control.

  When Tymec saw that Yim was awake, he fed her and tended her other needs. Afterward, he made Yim maneuver within the confines of her chains so he could position a thick canvas-covered pad beneath her. She discovered its purpose when he undressed and bathed her with cold water that had an unpleasant herbal smell. Tymec tried to hide his interest in her body, but his manner of washing betrayed his lust. Yim chose to ignore him and stared at the ceiling throughout. To her great relief, Tymec didn’t wash her hair and discover the comb.

  When Yim was washed and dried, the pad was pulled away and she was dressed in new clothes. Her outfit consisted solely of a long tunic fashioned out of a rectangle of fine black cloth. It had a neck hole in its center, and when it was pulled over her and tied closed with a silken cord, it was a fairly modest garment. After Tymec finished dressing Yim, he pulled a chain suspended from a hole in the ceiling. That seemed to confirm Yim’s assumption that she was being prepared for something. The suckling! Yim forced herself to appear calm, but her heart started pounding rapidly.

  Yim waited a long while before the door to her room opened. The Most Holy Gorm entered, looking not a day older than the last time she had seen him. Tymec immediately rose to his feet and bowed. “Wait outside” was all Gorm said. He waited until the door was closed before approaching Yim with a grin. “One of the advantages of long life is that it teaches patience. I always knew this moment would come.”

  “That’s a lie,” said Yim. “You had no idea when we last spoke.”

  “You mistake my meaning,” replied Gorm. “The intervening period was different than I expected. The other mothers lived in luxury, not a bog. But thi
s ending was foreordained.”

  “You mean the suckling?”

  For an instant, Gorm looked surprised. “How did you learn about that?”

  “General Var told me before he lost his head. So when does the party start?”

  “You might as well ask the general. You’ll find me no more talkative.”

  “I ask because I’m resigned to my fate. My only wish is to see my son before I die and speak with him one last time.”

  “So now you’re asking, not demanding?”

  “It’s but a small request. What difference could it make?”

  “Let’s stop this game. You know my answer. No.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d not permit it, if only to cause you grief. But I’ve other reasons, too.”

  “What are they?”

  “The only thing I’ll tell you is that you’ll soon die. Perhaps Var revealed the manner of your death. If so, know it’s unavoidable.” Gorm paused a moment. “On second thought, I’ll tell you something more: what ever you did to your son in the bog didn’t take. He was quite bloodthirsty by the time we found him. He’d already recruited a band of cutthroats, slaughtered an entire town, and was marching east, slaying everyone in his path. As they say, blood will always show. He was thrilled to learn he was Lord Bahl.

  “Moreover, he’s proved adept in other ways. Inflaming minds comes easily to him. He gained the knack without instruction. This bodes well for the Rising. Before next spring, Bremven will be awash in blood, and Karm will only be a curse upon the lips of the dying.”

  “How grandiose are your delusions and how arrogant,” said Yim. “The goddess has thwarted you before, and she’ll do so again.”

  “What do you expect from your defiance? My respect? My annoyance?”

  “I expect nothing from you. I’m merely stating the truth.”

  “You sound pathetic with your false bravado. But I didn’t come to bandy words. Now listen to me: I’ve brought two men to make a cast of your face. If you cooperate, your remaining time will be easy. If you don’t, I’ll subdue you with potions, and after the cast is made, I’ll have you tortured with venomed needles.”

  “I’ll behave,” said Yim.

  “See that you do.”

  Gorm opened the door and ushered in two men who weren’t dressed as priests. The younger of the pair had a good-sized wooden box that was slung from his shoulder by a leather strap. As he set it on the floor, Gorm addressed the older man. “Ring the bell if she causes you the slightest trouble.”

  “I shall, Most Holy One.”

  “I want it made of gold. The More Holy One will provide all you need. This mask will become a keepsake, so its interior should be a perfect likeness. But the exterior features mustn’t resemble hers. Make the eyes closed and the expression peaceful. A half smile would be a fitting touch.”

  “We shall, Most Holy One. Will it require straps? And should we make allowance for a gag?”

  “Neither will be necessary, for she’ll be rendered unable to speak or move.”

  Gorm cast Yim a wry smile. “So now you’ve learned you’ll be under the power of a potion. But also know this: Although you’ll be completely helpless, you’ll be fully aware and feel everything.”

  With those words, Gorm left the chamber. Yim glimpsed Tymec beyond the door. He seemed about to return when Gorm pulled him aside and began talking in a low voice. Before Yim could make out anything he said, Gorm shut the door. Yim turned her attention to the two strangers. One was mixing water and white powder in a bowl. The other approached her bearing a small jar. “My lady, we’ll be taking an impression of your face by covering it with plaster. ’Tis like mud that hardens quickly. While it does, you mustn’t move. You’ll breathe through straws in your nostrils. This grease will prevent the plaster from sticking to your eyebrows, lashes, or skin.”

  Soon, Yim’s grease-coated face was encrusted by a thick layer of plaster, which grew warmer the longer it was in place. The men tapped the covering occasionally to monitor its hardening. As she waited for it to be removed, she heard one man say, “Get the gold right away; this must be done in two days.”

  “Two days for such a work!”

  “Aye, and the Most Holy One expects perfection.”

  “By the circle, we’ll get not a wink of sleep.”

  “That’s for sure. We have only till two bells afore sundown of the second day, not a moment more.”

  As Yim listened, she felt certain that she had just learned when she would die.

  Honus’s first step in rescuing Yim was to sleep. If his reckless endeavor had any chance of success, it would require flawless execution, and he knew a rested body and mind would be essential. Having a goal allowed him to focus on achieving it. Thus, to save Yim, he willed himself to forget her awhile and doze.

  After Honus woke in the afternoon, he decided to take his first gamble. The only way into the Iron Palace seemed through its gate, so he needed to observe the traffic passing through it. Simply exiting the crevice in daylight was risky, and from then on, the risks would escalate. To improve his odds, Honus made some preparations. First, he took a piece of hardbread and crushed it into powder with a stone. Then he meticulously picked out specks of fat from a sausage until he collected a sizable lump. He mixed the fat with the powered hardbread to make a paste, adding pinches of dirt and a few drops of his blood until it approximated the color of flesh. Then he smeared it on his face to hide his tattoos. Honus had no way of telling if the paste covered his dark-blue markings or whether he had applied it well. The best he could hope was that he wouldn’t be recognized as a Sarf; being a stranger in Bahland was perilous enough.

  Next, Honus adjusted the straps on his scabbard and his sword belt so he could wear his sword on his back. That way, his cloak would hide it better, although he’d have to shed it to reach the hilt. Honus was well aware that drawing his blade outside the palace would be a last resort and the first act in a final stand.

  Having made those preparations, Honus ate the mangled sausage, grabbed a water skin, and made a quick exit from his hiding place. He headed away from the palace, taking advantage of what cover could be had, and traced a circuitous route toward the palace gate. He was unable to approach it closely, for the grounds surrounding the palace were kept clear of any growth that might hide an enemy. Nevertheless, he was able to observe the comings and goings on the road from a clump of weeds.

  Honus noted numerous motley batches of young men who were marched by soldiers toward the palace. He assumed they were fresh conscripts. Other human traffic was more sporadic, but it moved in both directions. Honus spotted squads of foot soldiers, cavalry troops, many black-robed priests, and all sorts of common folk. He also saw a great deal of wagon traffic. The influx of recruits indicated that the huge palace was a garrison. That meant it was probably as populous as a city and possessed all a city’s needs for food, fuel, and fodder.

  Most of the wagons on the road were returning from the palace empty. That seemed to mark a pattern of morning deliveries. Honus recalled his and Yim’s trip to Bremven with Hamin the wool trader. Hamin had parked his wagon in a camp that catered to wagoners who were forced to wait for the city gate to open. It made Honus think that there might be a similar place nearby.

  Honus saw no point in looking for the wagoners’ campground until late at night. The waning moon wouldn’t rise until early in the morning, providing ample time for his search. When dusk came, Honus moved his sword back to its customary position, and wiped the paste from his face. A blue face would be harder to see at night, as would the way a sword on the hip changed the drape of a cloak.

  It was long after sunset when Honus followed the road toward the town. He found the wagon camp easily. All that remained of its campfires were a few dull embers, and there was no sound of anyone stirring. Honus skirted the camp’s perimeter until he saw a wagon to his liking. It was piled high with hay. He crept toward the wagon, only to discover that its driver was asleep on his load.
Honus continued looking, but after reviewing his other options, he returned to his original choice. He crept over to the hay wagon, climbed up its low wooden side, and rolled over its top rail, all the while hoping the wagoner wasn’t a light sleeper. The weight of his body partly wedged him between the wagon’s side and the pile of loose hay. In the quiet night, the rustling of the hay seemed loud to his ears.

  Honus froze, listening for sounds from the man above. The wagoner stirred a bit, then settled down. Honus was by no means hidden, but he took his time worming into the hay, moving only sporadically and in short bursts. Eventually, he was out of sight. Then, as slowly as he had done the burrowing, Honus pushed his hand through the hay to grasp his sword hilt.

  When that was done, Honus meditated so he would be calm enough to sleep. In the morning, the wagon’s movements would serve to wake him. When the hay was unloaded, he would rise from it, sword in hand. What would happen next would depend on what he encountered. Honus assumed that he would emerge in a stable, but he had no idea where in the palace it would be or whom he would face. If he survived his arrival, his only plan was to try to enter the main building, head for the upper floors, and see what developed. He hadn’t a clue as to what to expect, but it seemed likely that once he drew his sword he’d never sheath it again.

  FIFTY-SIX

  YIM WOKE with a start, just as she had done ever since she had become a prisoner. This time, something more alarming than a nightmare occupied her thoughts. Do I have one or two days left to live? Yim had lost her sense of time because she had no way to mark its passing. The windowless room never changed. Her meals followed no schedule, for Tymec fed her only when she asked. Furthermore, she slept erratically, and the young priest never left the room. After his conversation with Gorm, he avoided eye contact and seldom answered her questions. Nevertheless, Yim attempted to speak with him. “How long have I been here?”

  Tymec silently gazed elsewhere.

  Yim recalled how she had once forced Commodus to tell the truth and had even been able to probe Gorm’s thoughts briefly. She thought she could easily do the same with Tymec. But I’ll have to look him in the eyes. Yim thought of a ploy that might work. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and shy. “I know I’m doomed. I was wondering … well … hoping that … Oh, Tymec, will you tup me?”