“You gazed into her eyes, even though I warned you not to!”
“Nay, Most Holy One. I don’t recall looking her way. Not once.”
“No. Of course you don’t, you stupid ass!” Gorm drew his dagger and stabbed the young man in the heart. Tymec gave a long, rattling gasp and collapsed to the floor. Then Gorm turned to stare at Yim with cold fury. “Perhaps you’d like to take me on rather than a gullible boy.”
Yim felt the Most Holy One try to invade her mind. He had tried once before, and she had beaten off his assault. She struggled to do so again. The contest between them was intense and ferocious, despite being silent and motionless. As before, it ended in a draw.
Yim expected Gorm to leave, but instead, he climbed onto the bed and sat on her chest. Placing his shins on her shoulders, Gorm shifted his weight to them. His position inflicted pain, but it permitted Yim to breathe. Then Gorm squeezed her head with his knees, immobilizing it. Yim prepared for a second round in their contest, but Gorm spoke to her instead. “I don’t know what Tymec could have told you. Certainly nothing of consequence, for I chose him for his ignorance.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, I believe you do,” replied Gorm. “And I suspect you did more than just ask him questions. He seemed thoroughly befuddled.”
“Nonsense.”
“Perhaps,” replied Gorm. “But I think you revealed your hand. Lucky for me. Less so for you.”
Yim saw the dagger point only the instant before it entered her eye. With a burst of pain, the eye’s vision blurred and darkened. Liquid spilled on her cheek. Helpless, all Yim could do was close her remaining eye. Gorm used one hand to pull its lid open. The last thing Yim ever saw was Gorm’s other hand holding the blade. Pain and darkness followed. The only defiance she could offer was not to scream or sob. Then she heard Gorm’s voice. “Although your gaze no longer poses a threat, since you abused your last attendant, you won’t get another.”
Yim remained silent. Gorm wiped the liquid from her face, then left the chamber. Alone with Tymec’s corpse, Yim trembled violently. Her pain was easier to endure than her sense of violation. Worst was the fact that the deed was irrevocable. Although Yim still hoped that she could survive the upcoming ritual, Gorm’s cruelty had ensured her life would be forever diminished. I’ll never see Froan again, she thought, but that doesn’t mean I can’t save him. That one idea was her only barrier against total despair, and Yim clung to it in the darkness.
Awareness returned to Honus, one realization at a time. He was cold. He was lying on a floor. It was stone. Two men stood nearby. He was bound. He was doomed.
Then more details surfaced. The men were priests and both were tall and massively built. One was blond and bearded, the other dark haired and clean shaven. Honus saw that he was no longer dressed as a priest, but wearing his old clothes again. Apparently someone had found them next to the body of the first priest he had slain. He was bound hand and foot in an elaborate manner that appeared decorative as well as effective. Coils of black rope neatly encircled his legs in crossing loops from his ankle to just below the knee. His wrists and arms were secured behind his back, so he couldn’t see how they were bound, except that two bands of rope—each five coils wide—passed across his chest. The upper band was also wrapped about his upper arms. Honus was unable to speak due to a leather gag in his mouth.
The blond priest noted Honus’s eyes were open. “Well, our ‘honored foe’ is awake at last.”
“Just in time,” said the dark-haired one.
“I thought Sarfs were supposed to be tough. This one was out an entire day.”
“ ’Twas the power of the spell, not the weakness of the man. He slew more than a score of our brethren, and fell only because the More Holy One is graced with might.”
“Aye, he’s mighty now, but I remember when—”
“Best swallow those words afore they summon trouble.”
The blond priest wisely changed the subject. “So what was that writing on the Sarf’s back?”
“Some say it foretells his fate,” replied his companion. “Mayhap it does, but to me, it’s gibberish.”
The blond priest laughed. “You mean he strolled through life with ‘Lord Bahl will cut my throat’ needled on his hide? That must have cheered him up.”
Wrapped in her personal darkness, Yim awaited the ordeal ahead as stoically as possible. Her suffering made her recall a vision of the goddess on a long-ago morning outside Bremven. Then, Karm had appeared to her with a mournful face and covered in blood. She said some of it was mine. Yim felt that she fully understood the depths of the goddess’s sorrow for the first time, as well as her cryptic guidance to do “what’s necessary.” Yim sensed that she would soon be put to her final trial in a lifetime of trials. Moreover, she was certain what was necessary. I must save my son.
Yim heard the door open and footsteps on the stone floor. Then someone lifted her into a sitting position. She heard Gorm’s voice. “You can drink willingly or we can force it down your throat. Which will it be?”
Yim replied in a resigned tone. “I’ll cooperate.” When she felt the rim of a goblet touch her lips, she opened them to drink its contents. The liquid was laced with honey to hide its bitter undertone. Whoever was holding the goblet, tilted it so she had to gulp. Yim swallowed as fast as she could, but even so, some potion flowed down her chin and neck. After the goblet was drained, she lay down. Someone wiped the spilled liquid away and scrubbed the dried crust from beneath her eyes.
Yim heard Gorm’s voice. “Give it a while to take effect, then test her with the needle. Bring her up when she’s ready.” Then Yim heard someone leave. She assumed it was Gorm.
The priests took turns carrying Honus over their shoulders up the long flight of spiral stairs. Honus considered resisting, but he couldn’t see the advantage in it. Struggling would change nothing, just as his futile assault had changed nothing. Besides, his weight was causing the priests enough trouble, making them sweat and pant as they climbed upward. Eventually, they pushed open a trapdoor and emerged onto a square deck of oiled iron. It was only six paces across. Honus realized that he was atop the highest tower in the palace. The platform lacked railings and possessed only two features. A rectangular block of basalt occupied its center. The stone was waist high and proportioned so a person might lie upon it. The other feature was an iron pole near the edge of the platform. Honus didn’t recall observing it from the ground and suspected it had been erected only recently.
Four priests stood waiting on the deck, and they helped the other two take hold of Honus and move him toward the pole. Using extra men for the task proved wise on their part, for when they brought Honus close to the platform’s edge, he struggled to jump off and take several of his captors with him. Subdued by their numbers, Honus was tightly bound to the pole so that he faced the stone block. Afterward, all the priests departed.
Honus could still move his head, so he glanced around. The sun was low in the sky, brightening the ocean and the bay with flecks of gold. The beauty of his lofty view contrasted with the direness of his circumstances. Upon the block of stone was a knife made out of obsidian. The glassy, black rock was sometimes used for knives because it could be flaked into an extremely sharp, albeit brittle, edge. The leaf-shaped stone blade was large, with one end wrapped in boiled leather to form a handle. Honus suspected that it would be used to cut his throat in some sorcerous ritual.
Yim lay perfectly still, expecting to feel a needle any moment. The waiting seemed to take forever. Then she felt a hand grab her foot and was grateful for the warning. Soon afterward, a needle entered the tenderest part of her sole. She focused all her will on not reacting in any way, fully aware that her fate depended on it. The needle must have been coated with venom, for it inflicted far more pain than usual. Nevertheless, Yim remained passive. Even after the needle was withdrawn, her foot continued to hurt.
“She seems ready,” said a voice.
One by one, the shackles on her ankles and wrists were removed. Each time, Yim let the limb fall limply. She was stripped of her clothes and bathed in cold, pungent water. On this occasion, her hair was washed, and the comb was found and discarded. After Yim was dried, she was dressed in what felt like a sleeveless tunic that extended just past her knees. A girdle was tied about her waist, and cloth—perhaps a scarf—was wrapped around her neck so that her scar was covered. Throughout all this, she was handled like a rag-stuffed doll, and she tried to behave like one.
When those things were done, she was thrown over someone’s shoulder and carried from the room. Soon, whoever was carrying her changed his gait, giving Yim the impression that he was climbing stairs. She heard the sound of squealing hinges and metal striking metal. After she was carried up a few more steps, she felt wind and smelled the sea. Yim also heard the muffled sound of someone moaning. He or she sounded highly distressed. Next, she was laid upon something hard and cool. It felt like stone. As someone arranged the folds of her garment, she felt metal cover her face. That must be my mask. Its interior conformed to her features. Yim could breathe through her nostrils but not her mouth. She knew that above her lips rested a golden pair and they were half smiling.
From the feel of the salt breeze and the slight warmth of sunlight on her skin, Yim sensed that her bare feet pointed toward the ocean. The only place she could be was atop the windowless tower. They’re preparing for the suckling, Yim thought. The fact that they had placed her on the stone unmasked seemed evidence that Froan was not yet present. Therefore, she remained perfectly motionless. Unmasking too soon will ruin everything. I’ll only have one chance to surprise Gorm. Yim knew that she must wait for a clear sign that Froan had arrived. I won’t do anything until I hear his voice.
After being bound to the iron pole, Honus had been left alone until the sun neared the horizon. Then the trapdoor opened again and a priest emerged bearing a limp woman in a white sleeveless tunic. Honus’s apprehension heightened as soon as he saw her long, walnut-colored hair, but it became agony when he saw her face. He tried to scream “Yim!” but his gag transformed her name into an incoherent moan. The priest placed her on the stone block and covered her face with a golden mask. It resembled a smiling hooked-nosed woman with a pointed chin and seemed to mock Yim’s beauty. However, Honus was more concerned by other things. Foremost, was Yim’s limpness, which made him worry that she was either dead or under a spell. Her eyes also worried him. They were shut, but they didn’t look right. The mask covered them before he could get a good view, but he thought they appeared sunken.
Honus was somewhat relieved when he saw that Yim was breathing. Then it occurred to him that his relief was selfish. If Yim was dead, she’d be immune to further harm. Then Honus feared that he’d been brought there to witness some atrocity done to Yim before he died. As if to confirm his fears, more priests arrived bearing bowls of blood that steamed slightly in the cool ocean breeze. With wide brushes, they painted a bloody circle upon the platform, encompassing everything but its four corners. The oil on the iron deck hampered their work, and they were forced the reapply the blood many times before the circle was perfect.
The priests worked silently, communicating with hand gestures, so that the only human sounds were Honus’s attempts to call Yim’s name. Eventually, he also fell silent. When they finished painting the circle of blood, the priests departed. Soon afterward, a new priest emerged from the trapdoor. Honus recognized the silver chain that suspended the priest’s pendant; it marked him as the one who had employed the iron spell. This priest carefully inspected the bloody circle before descending through the trapdoor and returning with two other men. One was a dark-haired and bearded priest, who had a young face and whose iron pendant hung from a chain of gold.
It was the third person who riveted Honus’s attention. He was a young man whose sleeveless tunic was identical to Yim’s except that it was black. His walnut hair and his features so closely resembled Yim’s that there was no question he was her son. Nevertheless, the similarities underscored differences. While Yim’s face was tender, Froan’s face was harsh. It lacked the degree of malevolence found in the bearded priest’s expression, but the potential was there. Moreover, the piercing eyes were definitely Lord Bahl’s. Yim’s irises were dark brown, but Froan’s irises were so light as to seem a faint brownish haze encircling two black holes.
Froan or Lord Bahl—Honus couldn’t decide which name best applied—caught Honus’s gaze and smiled at him in a disturbing way. Then the bearded priest touched the younger man’s shoulder, and he looked away. Everyone seemed to know what to do next, and they did it silently. Yim’s son moved to where his mother’s head lay upon the stone. The bearded priest picked up the obsidian knife and moved beside him. The other priest stepped back a pace. Then the priest with the knife turned to look at the sun. Honus followed his gaze. The sun was so red its light seemed to turn the sea to blood. It was sinking rapidly. When it touched the water, Honus caught movement from the corner of his eye as the priest plunged the stone knife downward.
FIFTY-EIGHT
WITH KEENLY attuned ears, Yim waited for a sign that Froan had arrived. After the moaning had stopped, all she heard was wind and soft footsteps. People were moving about on the ironclad deck and climbing up and down the stairs, but she had little idea what they were doing. Probably preparing for the ritual, thought Yim. They’re silent because they’re only servants. A new odor mingled with those of the ocean and the pungent herbs that scented her skin: it was the smell of blood. That suggested the ritual was about to begin, but nothing happened, just more comings and goings. Yim continued to listen for her son’s voice.
Then Yim felt a blade enter the side of her neck and blood spurt out. An instant later, she felt cold lips upon the wound. Froan’s lips! Nevertheless, as traumatic and shocking as both sensations were, another one dominated: Yim felt the malevolent thing inside her swell with triumph as its two parts united. It had become whole again as blood passed from her to Froan. The Devourer remained within her, but it was retreating rapidly toward Froan. Yet for the moment, it united and bound them like an umbilical cord. Yim instinctively knew that Froan was unable to draw his lips away. That would be possible only after the Devourer was entirely within him.
Then Yim recalled the Old Ones’ counsel to hold fast to the shadow, and she finally understood its meaning. The Devourer is now one and can occupy only one body—Froan’s or mine. With all her will and all her mother’s love, Yim resolved that the body would not be her son’s. Strengthened by her struggles to subdue her shadow, Yim seized it. It was less a physical act than one like a movement upon the Dark Path, where thought was equivalent to action. Regardless, the struggle was intense.
Yim felt that she was grasping something frigid and slimy, a being that likened to an im mense and powerful slug. It was so foul that she had to fight the impulse to let go. She held tight, but her opponent continued to slip into her son. It seemed that all her life had led to this single contest and she was losing it. In her despair, Yim thought, How can I overcome the power of malice? Then words echoed in her head: Love is your strength. Yim couldn’t tell if the statement came from Karm or was her own. All she knew was that it was true.
Yim thought of those she loved: Froan and Honus, Cara and Cronin. Hommy and Hamin. Gurdy. Hendric. Rappali. Even Gatt. Each name suggested another, and when she ran out of names she thought of the nameless ones who had suffered: The faithful slaughtered in Karm’s temple. The victims of war and feuding. Those enslaved. All souls yearning for compassion. Lila and Thistle called me Mother, she thought. So did the Old Ones. At last, Yim felt the name fit, for at that moment she was everyone’s mother, struggling for everyone’s sake. She loved all who had ever lived, and from that love came strength.
The Devourer’s power lay in fear and hate. Love was alien to it, and so was love’s might. That gave Yim the advantage of surprise. The thing she grasped writhed, unable to break free. Then Yi
m strained to pull it toward her. Soon she realized that she was drawing the evil from her son. Yim could feel it growing within her—a vile thing, cold and baleful—but she didn’t relent. Once Yim understood that she was winning, she redoubled her efforts. Suddenly, the lips upon her neck turned warm and fell away. Yim contained the entirety of her foe. She knew precisely what to do. What’s necessary. She rose and bounded toward the sun and the sea.
Honus knew that the priest’s knife stroke had severed an artery when he saw a stream of blood spurt from Yim’s neck. All too familiar with the sadism of Bahl’s minions, he was surprised that the priest would inflict such a relatively quick death. That opinion changed to horror when he witnessed Yim’s son kneel down to suck the wound. His revulsion grew when he saw that the lad was not merely tasting her blood but gulping it down like an infant suckling from a breast. Honus was about to turn his face away in disgust when something caught his eye.
Yim’s every muscle tensed. At first, Honus thought it was from pain, but that didn’t seem quite right. Yim raised her hands over her chest, her splayed fingers seeming to grasp the empty air above it. Then the air didn’t seem entirely empty. There was something nebulous there. It looked like dark haze.
Despite its vaporous appearance, the thing Yim grasped terrified Honus. The air turned so chill it nearly stopped his breath. Moreover, an aura of malevolence sapped his strength. He wasn’t alone in his reaction. Both of the priests stood white-faced and immobile, their mouths slack with fear. Only Froan appeared unaffected as his lips remained on his mother’s neck. As Honus continued to watch, the haze grew darker until it resembled a shadow given physical form. It was as repulsive as a gigantic leech.
Froan fell back. As he stared up at his mother, she sat upright and the mask fell away. Then Honus saw that Yim had been blinded. Although she was sightless, she moved with purpose and vigor. Still clutching the dark thing close, Yim slid from the stone block, and with three powerful bounds, dashed off the platform and sailed into the sky. For an instant, she seemed suspended in air—a swirl of white and black. Then she silently plummeted from view.
The Iron Palace Page 40