The Iron Palace

by Morgan Howell

  When Honus reached the ruined bridge where he and Yim had camped, he took Froan to see the dark man’s castle. There, he told how Yim had rescued him from the sorcerer and then lied to hide her deed. He found the castle’s interior overgrown where once it had been barren. The keep’s roof had fallen in and some good-sized trees grew in the space. The courtyard was also reverting to forest.

  They returned to the road and traveled a short way farther until they spied a lush field where two boys and three girls were working. The oldest boy seemed nearly Froan’s age. Honus halted the cart and watched them awhile before calling out, “Have any of you heard of a woman named Tabsha?”

  “Aye,” replied the eldest boy. “She be our mam.”

  “Mam!” shouted one of the girls. “Thar be a blue-faced man askin’ ’bout ya.”

  Froan whispered to Honus, “Who’s Tabsha?”

  “Your mother and I helped plant her field when she was widowed and starving,” said Honus. He declined to say that Tabsha had pitied Yim for being a slave.

  A woman emerged from the stone hut at the field’s edge to stare in amazement. Despite all the time that had passed, Honus recognized her immediately. Tabsha had fleshed out, and though there were gray streaks in her hair, she actually seemed younger than when Honus had seen her last. “ ’Onus? Be tha’ ya?”

  Honus bowed from the seat of the cart. “Yes, Mother. It’s good to see you well.”

  Tabsha turned to her children. “ ’Onus be tha man who saved mah life. Go fetch yar da an’ tell ’im.” She turned to Honus and Froan. “Will ya stay an’ sup with us?”

  “We’d be honored,” replied Honus.

  “Ya ’ad a slave with ya las’ time,” said Tabsha.

  “Yes,” said Honus. “Yim.”

  “Wha’ ’appened ta ’er?”

  “I freed her.”

  “Ah’m glad.”

  “And this is her son, Froan.”

  Honus and Froan had climbed down from the cart by the time Gowen, Tabsha’s husband, arrived in the tow of his youngest daughter. He was a robust man with a thick beard, thinning hair, and an effusive manner. By the time he reached Honus he had already bowed to him half a dozen times and was grinning broadly. “By Karm, ’tis ’Onus ’imself,” he said, bowing twice more. “Now Ah ken finally thank ya fer savin’ mah sweet Tabsha.”

  At dinner that evening, Honus made inquiries about vacant lands and learned of a nearby ruin with an intact cellar that might be suitable for cheese making. He and Froan visited it the following day. The roofless structure topped a hillside and consisted of four stone walls pierced by arches that once had held windows. The walls enclosed dead leaves, scrubs, and a few slender trees. At first sight, the structure appeared more suitable for a goat pen than a residence, but its cellars were large and cool. Honus thought they had stored wine long ago.

  They moved in the following day and set to work. Following Gowen’s advice, they quickly cleared a plot by girdling trees, rather than cutting them, and put in a crop of roots and beans. They built a small hut using a corner of the ruin for two of the walls. The rest of the building became a goat pen.

  The garden flourished, the goats thrived, and before long, the hut felt like a home. At times, Honus reflected that he was living the same simple life as Gan and his mam, who had provided shelter to Yim and him on their second night together. They had lived in a ruin also, and Yim’s visit had changed their lives. Since Honus was unable to trance, when thoughts of Yim made his heart heavy, he turned to the living world for solace. He found it in simple things: milking goats, seeing his crops grow, working with his hands, and viewing the changes of the world from one spot.

  Where Honus found refuge, Froan found redemption. Freed at last from the evil that had oppressed him throughout his life, he seemed to blossom before Honus’s eyes. His disposition became kind and cheerful. He was patient and never lost his temper. He became interested in everything and tackled all tasks with energy. He enjoyed helping others. He mastered cheese making, although he claimed his mother’s cheeses were far superior. In many ways, Froan reminded Honus of Yim, and not just in appearance. It took Honus a long time to figure out why, and when he did, his conclusion startled him. Froan seemed holy. It wasn’t a word that Honus took lightly, and one he never thought he’d associate with Lord Bahl. Nevertheless, upon further reflection, it seemed likely that Yim’s child would be serene and good. Honus kept that judgment to himself, for he knew Froan would smile and refuse to believe it.

  SIXTY

  RAPPALI STOOD on the northern slope of Tararc Hite, peering at the fen’s twisted waterways. Frost had caused the reeds to die back, and from her vantage point, nearly everything was tan or blue. Blue dominated. Tangled strands of azure joined the Turgen’s broad cobalt band, which in turn, touched the bright autumn sky. It was a lovely sight, but that wasn’t why she had climbed so high. Rappali was there to view something else, and she strained her eyes to find it.

  At last, she saw what she was looking for—a speck moving among the blue. It was making its way toward the hite and her. As she watched it grow ever larger, her heart pounded faster. Finally, when she felt it would burst from joy, she ran down the path to the shore. For a while, the reeds obscured her view. Then she saw the boat turn into the channel. It wasn’t a reed boat, but a wooden one. The tall young man who stood upon its deck wore strange clothes, and instead of poling his craft to propel it, he sculled it with a single oar. Rappali scarcely noticed those things, for the young man was her son whom she had thought she had lost forever.

  “Telk! Telk! Telk!” she cried out between sobs of joy. “Yim said ya’d come home taday.”

  “How could she do that?”

  “She spoke ta me in a dream.”

  “Did she say I went off with Froan, and he’s Lord Bahl?”

  “Aye, but Froan’s Bahl no more. Yim saved him.”

  “Then good for her. Oh, Mam, ’twas like some terrible dream. What things I saw! What things I did!”

  The boat touched the shore, and Telk bounded into his mother’s arms.

  The following spring brought more traffic on Luvein’s roads. Some of the travelers were tradesmen, and one of them was an itinerant carpenter. Honus and Froan had spent most of the winter clearing trees, and they paid the man with a piece of the gold mask to help them turn the logs into a wooden floor and a proper roof for their hut. Before the carpenter departed, they contracted with him to bring a crew in the fall for more extensive improvements.

  By the next spring, the ruined house enclosed a smaller one that even possessed two glazed windows. One afternoon, Honus discovered a white-haired stranger peering at the dwelling. The man’s expression was one of wonderment that increased dramatically when he spied Honus. Then he bowed very low. “Oh, Karmamatus, this is a most extraordinary day!”

  “You shouldn’t address me that way,” replied Honus. “Call me Honus, for I’m only a farmer and goatherd.”

  “Oh ho! Just wait!” replied the man, appearing not to have heard Honus. “I must get my daughter. She didn’t believe me. Scoffed at the very idea of it. But now … Oh, just wait!” Then he hurried off.

  Honus watched the man and saw that he was heading for a heavily loaded wagon at the base of the hill. A young woman sat on the bench at its front, reading a scroll. Soon the man had taken her hand to drag her up the hillside. He appeared to be talking the entire way, and soon Honus could make out what he was saying. “… a house within a house. Those were her exact words. And the Sarf! In Luvein! Even you must confess it passes your strictest test.”

  When the woman saw Honus, she bowed gracefully. She was lithe and fair-featured, with long russet hair and dark eyes, and seemed far too young to be the man’s daughter. In fact, she appeared no older than Froan. “Greetings, Karmamatus,” she said.

  “As I explained to your father,” replied Honus, “that greeting doesn’t apply.”

  “But your face marks you as a Sarf.”

  “I�
�ve renounced the sword.”

  “A blade’s not necessary to serve the goddess,” replied the woman. “Indeed, I believe it’s ill suited for the task.”

  Her father bowed. “Pardon my daughter’s impudence,” he said. “She’s outspoken concerning the goddess.”

  “I wasn’t offended,” replied Honus. “I’ve reached the same conclusion. But why are you here?”

  “I’m Vaccus, and this is my only child, Memlea. I’ve come all the way from Argenor, and though I am a sound sleeper by nature, last autumn, just after the first pressing, I—”

  “Eventually, Father will tell you Karm sent us. He claims to have had a vision.” Memlea gazed about. “And now I believe him.”

  “Pardon my daughter’s bluntness,” said Vaccus. “However, what she says is true. The goddess sent me here, although she by no means provided a clear set of directions. All I had were pictures in my head. The first I recognized was an inn by a long and ancient bridge. An excellent establishment. Its Vinden red was quite good, though lacking somewhat in body. Nevertheless, its balance and—”

  “After his vision,” said Memlea, “he sold our winery, bought grape root cuttings, and headed here to start a vineyard.”

  “On this very hill,” said Vaccus. “The goddess was insistent. There seemed little choice but to follow her wisdom, though I need not tell you that Memlea was less than supportive. ‘Karm doesn’t care about wine.’ That’s what she said. Ha! Have you ever heard such nonsense? Everything—I mean everything—is just as in my vision. So where’s the lad? The one named Frost.”

  “Do you mean Froan?” asked Honus.

  “Frost, Froan—they mean the same thing.”

  “He’s in the cellar, making cheese.”

  Vaccus beamed at his daughter. “You see? It already has a cellar! Of course, the goddess understands the grape. That’s why we’re in Luvein. It was legendary for its vintages. Yes, yes, that was long ago, but soil remains soil. Memlea? Memlea, are you listening?”

  One glance at Memlea, and it was obvious that she wasn’t. Her face had taken on a rosy hue, and she was staring at the ruined house with her lips parted in a cryptic expression that could have been shock, recognition, or even wonder. Honus followed her gaze, and saw Froan. He had emerged from the ruin, but appeared to have halted in mid-stride. His face was a mirror of Memlea’s. Honus had heard of persons who knew his or her love immediately, but only in tales. His own experience was far different, and he regarded such accounts as mere inventions of the bards. However, at that moment, he was less certain. It made him speculate that Vaccus may have misunderstood his vision, for it seemed to him that Karm’s interests lay elsewhere than in wine.

  “Honus, I’m certain that we can reach some accommodation,” said Vaccus. “After all, soil that’s best for grapes is not so good for other crops. I’ve some of the finest root-stock to be found, a lifetime of experience, and a daughter who—despite an interest in things spiritual—is a hard worker. A winery requires the labor of many hands, but the rewards can be great. Besides, all this is Karm’s will. A man with your background must surely see her hand in our arrival.”

  For once, Honus thought he did. “Froan,” he called. “Come meet Vaccus and his daughter, Memlea. Vaccus has a proposition and an interesting tale as well.”

  Yim had believed in choice, not fate. Though Honus deferred to her wisdom, he still thought Froan and Memlea were fated to choose each other. That was not to say they fell in love immediately. There was friendship from the start, for they were much alike in their good natures. Moreover, they worked well together. The deeper feelings came more slowly.

  One day, the pair disappeared. When they returned, Froan’s eyes were red from weeping, while Memlea regarded him with sympathy and understanding. Then Honus knew that Froan had revealed everything about his past. After that unburdening, their love grew more apparent and more light-hearted, too. They talked incessantly, laughed often, and found reasons to work side by side. It seemed to Honus they were two vines growing together until they were so intertwined they appeared as one. The joy they found together made Honus wistfully recall his times with Yim. But this couple had no doom overhanging them.

  Possessing the energy of youth, Froan and Memlea did most of the hard work of clearing and planting a vineyard. Vaccus helped, dispensing a lifetime of experience. When he spoke of vintages that he would never taste, it was apparent that they were doing more than planting grapes.

  Honus settled into the more routine chores of milking and gardening. Their slower pace suited him, for his many winters of trancing had exacted a toll on his body, and it seemed to him that life was moving overly fast. It often tired him out. To no one’s surprise, Froan and Memlea wed after the harvest. The simple Karmish ceremony of gifts and vows took place on the hilltop overlooking the new vines. Afterward, there was a feast for all the neighbors, but no wedding trip. There was far too much to do. Although there wouldn’t be enough grapes to press for several more harvests, Vaccus was already preparing for their first vintage. It seemed to Honus that making wine was an overly complicated business. Nonetheless, it seemed to fascinate Froan.

  Autumn’s painted leaves had mostly fallen when Karm’s summer arrived, a stretch of warm days that were most likely the season’s last. Froan and Vaccus had gone to Tabsha and Gowen’s place to help erect a fowl house. Honus, thinking it would be a good day to hunt, asked Memlea if she would do the milkings. When she agreed, he took his sling and headed for the woods. He moved more slowly than his normal pace, for his chest had been paining him of late. Nevertheless, it was a fine day to be out. Honus breathed in deeply, savoring the rich scent of newly fallen leaves and wild apples.

  As Honus moved among the trees with the silent tread of a Sarf, his thoughts were less on the current hunt than on former ones. He recalled the first time Yim had roasted hares and how she had suggested using his sword as a spit. He remembered the game they had shared with Tabsha when she was starving. He thought of the pheasants Yim and he had eaten on the day of Gatt’s funeral. The day she revealed what it meant to be the Chosen. Reliving his disappointment, Honus wondered if Yim foresaw where that role would lead her. I doubt she knew until she leapt from the tower. Honus found that he was weeping.

  As the day drew toward its end, Honus was still in the woods and still empty-handed. He didn’t mind; it hadn’t seemed a good day for killing any creature. Before heading home for dinner, he decided to go to the brook and wash. It flowed not far from the base of their hill, where the landscape was still mostly wild. Honus headed for a sandy section of the stream bank. There, Froan and he had partly blocked the brook with stones so that the water formed a pool. Though he reached the spot near sundown, the sand was still warm. Honus lay down upon it, for its warmth soothed his back.

  Then it was evening. Honus woke from his unplanned nap beneath a full moon. Before he returned home, he squatted by the brook’s edge to throw water on his face. As his hands reached toward the pool, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. Honus turned and looked upstream. In the moonlight, the brook resembled a path of silver, and a woman was striding down its center. She wore a simple, sleeveless robe that ended just below the knee. It was white, and her bare feet trod upon the water’s surface without getting wet. He had seen the woman’s face thousands of times in Karm’s temple, where it had been rendered in mosaic. Then she spoke. “Honus.”

  “Goddess?”

  Karm smiled. “You may call me Yim, for I was her and still am.”

  “How can that be?”

  “The true question is not ‘how’ but ‘why.’ ”

  “Then why?”

  “Because when I made the world, I gave all its creatures the freedom to choose their paths. A creation ruled by fate would be as static as a scripted play. Yet that same freedom constrains my actions. In the living world, only the living can oppose evil. Hence, the need for the Chosen.”

  “So Yim was an ordinary woman?”

  “Yes. Y
im possessed all the qualities of the living—uncertainty, mortality, and the freedom to choose well or poorly. But she never knew that she was also me.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Do you doubt I can be in two places at once?”

  “No. The Seers taught that you can.”

  “And they’re right,” said Karm. “So why doubt I can be two things at once—divine and mortal.”

  Karm squatted down before Honus, her feet still resting on the pool’s shimmering surface. “Look at me. Who do you see before you?”

  “Yim.”

  Yim smiled. “And I see my beloved.” She leaned forward and softly kissed Honus. He expected her lips to be cold, but they were warm. Then she dipped her hands into the brook and brought up water to wash his face. The water was warm also. “This is not the face of wrath,” she said. As the water fell back into the brook, Honus saw that it was stained. Gazing down, he viewed his reflection. There were no marks upon his face, neither those made by a tattoo needle nor those etched by time.

  Yim rose, and Honus rose with her. They embraced with the intensity of longing and suffering transmuted into joy. Honus felt Yim’s warmth against his skin and realized that he was unclothed. Then he saw that he was also standing on the brook. The water felt soft and slightly spongy beneath his soles. He glanced at the stream bank and saw a worn-out man slumped upon the sand. That was me, he thought.

  With that realization, the world around him changed. It resembled a faerie dell in its lushness, except everything had the perfection of innocence. Beauty was everywhere. There were plants, animals, and people, and all were bathed in opalescent light. “Where am I?” he asked.

  “This is how the Dark Path appears to spirits after they forget their lives.”

  “But I remember mine,” said Honus, “every bit of it.”

  “When I restored your life, our spirits merged,” said Yim. “I experienced love in a new way.” She kissed him passionately on the mouth. “I shall never forget that.”