Yim struggled to remember that the horrors she saw and felt were not real, but only echoes from the distant past. That realization was her only defense against her unseen adversary. Still, it was hard to grasp when pain shot through every nerve and blood seemed to rise around her. It reached her waist and clawed at her legs like a swollen river. Yim feared that, at any moment, she would be swept away. The source of this torrent was right before her—the vast pile of groaning men that blocked her path. Crimson poured from countless wounds in their broken bodies. Convulsing with terror, Yim slipped and sank beneath the flowing gore. As blood filled her screaming mouth, the swirling crimson darkened to black.
FIFTEEN
HONUS WAS sitting on the ground, watching over Yim, when her eyes flew open. They seemed blinded by terror. Honus grasped her hand. “So you’ve returned,” he said.
Yim clutched him and pressed her face into his chest. “I can’t do it!” she cried. “It’s impossible! Karm asks too much!”
“What’s this talk?” asked Honus in a gentle voice.
Instead of replying, Yim began sobbing.
Honus wrapped his arms around Yim, and in her traumatized state, she accepted his embrace. Honus didn’t speak again until she ceased crying and her trembling subsided. “The goddess asks only that we do what we can,” he said, his voice still gentle.
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand this,” said Honus. “Karm wants you to bear my pack.”
“But she…” Yim cut herself short and became silent.
“It’s within your power,” said Honus.
Yim let out a deep sigh. “Yes. I can carry your pack.” Honus felt her tense, and when she spoke again, her voice was vehement. “I can do that, but only that.”
Honus started to rise, but Yim clung to him. “Hold me a while longer. I need to touch a living person.”
“What did you see at the pass?”
“A battle, the one you described.”
“It was a vision,” said Honus, feeling awed. “I thought as much.”
“It was horrible, just horrible.” Yim looked at her legs and feet, as if fearful of what she’d see. “I thought I drowned in blood.”
“War is indeed terrible,” said Honus. “I’m sorry you witnessed it, even as an apparition.”
“And you saw and heard nothing?”
“No, but after you collapsed, I sensed a presence,” said Honus. “I dared not trance to seek it out.”
“I remember nothing after I fell. I don’t even recall walking here.”
“You didn’t. I carried you.”
“How far?”
“Far enough.”
Yim peered about and seemed aware of her surroundings for the first time. They were on the roadside, beneath a stunted tree. The mountains and Karvakken Pass were not close, but they still loomed against the darkening sky.
“If you’re capable of walking,” said Honus, “we should put more distance between us and the pass before nightfall.”
The terror-stricken look in Yim’s eyes returned. She released Honus and rose shakily to her feet. “Let’s hurry, Master.”
When Honus moved to shoulder the pack, Yim stopped him. “That’s mine to carry.”
Though Honus doubted Yim had the strength to bear the pack, he gave it to her. He was still trying to make sense of her initial outburst. Perhaps she was confused by her ordeal. He suspected, however, that explanation fell short of the mark. Yim’s despair troubled him, especially since it followed a vision. Honus had been taught that visions were significant portents. That Yim was so traumatized by hers seemed a cause for concern.
They headed down the road, and walking seemed to do Yim good. Her gait became steady, but she was wrapped in a brooding silence that Honus was loath to disturb. They walked until the sun approached the horizon. “We’ll find no farmhouse this close to the pass,” said Honus. “We should look for a campsite soon.” Seeing Yim’s haunted expression, he added, “You’ll be all right. The vision has passed.”
“It seemed so real. I even felt and smelled the blood. Is it really like that?”
“What?”
“A battle.”
“I don’t know what you saw,” replied Honus.
“There was screaming and shouting and cruelty. I felt surrounded by pain. And the blood! It reached my waist!”
“I’ve never been waist-high in blood. I don’t know if such a thing is possible.”
“So a battle’s not like that?”
“The rest rings true enough.”
Yim turned quiet, but her face reflected inner struggle. She walked that way awhile before uttering, “There was…” Yim stopped speaking, and the struggle resumed. A moment later she spoke again. “There was something else in my vision. The most frightening part—a being that thrived on the slaughter. It cared not who won or lost, as long as men perished.”
“What kind of being?”
“I don’t know. Not a man or his spirit. Something powerful and malicious.”
“It sounds horrific,” said Honus, “but Theodus told me that visions are often metaphors. That being may have been one.”
“It felt real enough.”
“Whatever it was, it deserves contemplation,” said Honus. “Your vision was divinely inspired. As terrible as it seemed, it was a gift.”
“A gift! Visions are afflictions!”
“You mustn’t say that.”
“Why? Have you had visions?”
“No,” admitted Honus.
“Then don’t speak of things you don’t know! Visions have ruined my life!”
Honus stared at Yim, dumbfounded.
“Look at me!” she cried. “I’m a slave! I’m dressed in a rag and a dead man’s cloak. This is what my visions did to me! Gifts, indeed! Pray that you never receive such gifts.”
Yim slumped down on the roadside. Before she covered her face with her hands, it reflected a mixture of despair and rage. Honus knelt down beside her. “You’ve had more than one vision?” Yim didn’t answer. “Perhaps I can help you understand them.”
“Would you take off your shirt so I could understand your runes?”
“That’s different.”
“My visions are no less private. I shouldn’t have mentioned them. I regret that I did. They’re my misfortune, but they’re mine alone.”
“Yim…”
“I’ll bear your pack. That must satisfy you. I pray it satisfies Karm.”
Honus was about to reply, but Yim’s expression convinced him it would be futile. Instead, he stood up. “There’s a brook we can reach by sundown,” he said. “It’d be a good place to camp.”
Yim rose and mutely followed Honus, who respected her silence. They left the road when they reached the brook, then walked upstream until they found an open, sandy bank. Yim set down the pack and went to gather firewood. While she was away, Honus tried to catch a fish. Upon her return, he was still bent over in a stretch of quiet water with his arms submerged to the elbows. He remained perfectly still while she watched curiously. Then with a sudden movement, he scooped his arms downward and then flung a large fish at Yim’s feet.
She jumped back from the flopping trout. “Merciful Karm!” she cried.
“It’s good to know you can still talk.”
Yim didn’t seem to hear him, but a moment later she spoke. “Master, about those things I said…”
“Yes?”
“I was out of my head. Don’t pay attention to them.”
“Are you speaking of your visions?”
“I don’t have visions. Not really.”
Honus was unconvinced. “Such things are matters for Bearers and Seers. I’m only a Sarf, but I think you may have a special talent.”
“No, Master, I’m no one special. I’m only the slave who bears your pack.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“That’s all I’ve become,” said Yim. “That’s all I can be.”
Honus thought he sho
uld be pleased by Yim’s resignation, but it depressed him. “I’m sorry you were so frightened.”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“All right,” said Honus. He left the brook and walked over to examine the fish. “Do you know how to cook this? I’m unskilled at such things.”
Yim appeared glad for the change of subject. “Hot stones work well.” She went to the brook and searched for flat rocks of suitable size and shape. When she found some, she lit a fire and placed the stones in the flames to heat. While they did, she scaled and gutted the fish. By the time it was dark, the fish was baking in its makeshift oven.
“Theodus used to cook fish like that,” said Honus.
“Your master cooked for you?”
“It’s custom for a Bearer to cook.” Honus stared wistfully into the flames. “But custom or no, he would’ve done it. He was a caring man, and he liked to cook.”
Eventually, the fish was done and they ate it with some porridge. Afterward, Yim stared into the dying embers. She looked forlorn and in need of comfort. Honus spread his cloak upon the sand near the embers and Yim moved next to him. She leaned against his shoulder as might a weary child. “I think it’ll be cold tonight,” she said.
Honus put his arm around Yim. After they sat awhile, he moved his fingers up to her neck, softly caressing it. She didn’t evade his touch, but surrendered to it. The feel of her kindled Honus’s desire. He tenderly brushed Yim’s cheek, and she turned to face him. Honus gazed into her eyes. The veil that obscured her thoughts was partly asunder. He could see her despair, her loneliness, and most of all, her vulnerability. At that moment, she seemed as frail as a blossom and as beautiful. He recalled the sight of her bathing and his ardor grew.
Honus slowly moved his hand to Yim’s breast and cupped it through the thin fabric of her tunic. She didn’t pull away. His fingertips found her nipple and gently caressed it. Yim’s reaction was an almost imperceptible gasp. Honus was no stranger to lovemaking and knew how to arouse a woman. But his touch provoked only stillness. He detected neither resistance nor desire. I can have her and not violate my pledge. No force would be required. All he need do was assert his passion. In her fragile state, Yim would acquiesce.
But as soon as Honus realized he could fulfill his desire, he knew it would be a callous act. Four nights ago, he wouldn’t have cared. But after the day’s revelations, he saw Yim in a different light. It’s not what she deserves. Yet touching Yim’s body and the promise of her compliance tested Honus’s resolve. Her eyes still met his. Her parted lips were so close he could feel her breath. Yim seemed nervously expecting more intimate caresses. Only a lifetime of self-discipline allowed Honus to overcome his desire. He moved his hand away. “You must be exhausted,” he said.
Yim went limp against his shoulder. “I am, Master.”
“Then lie down and sleep, knowing you’ll be safe.”
In Durkin, an old woman peeled roots for a late supper, though her withered arm made the task a struggle. A knock on the door interrupted her. A low voice spoke from behind the barrier. “Open up, Ma, it’s Curdac.”
The woman unbolted the door to admit her son. He slipped in quickly and secured the door behind him. “Ale!” said Curdac. “I must have ale!”
“Ale’s dear,” replied his mother.
“So? That cloak I brought ye last should have paid for plenty.”
“I only got three coppers for it.”
“Pah! Don’t lie. ’Twas worth twice that. After what I’ve seen, I need drink!”
From a corner of the dingy room, the woman retrieved a jug and a bowl. When she brought them over, Curdac ignored the bowl to seize the jug and gulp from it. As he drank, his mother eyed the sack he had carried and was disappointed by its empty look. After Curdac set the jug down, she asked, “What did ye get?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Gone two weeks and nothing? And there’s fighting in Lurwic. The roads must be full of folk.”
“I went to Lurwic, and there are no folk.”
“What?” said the woman, noticing that her son was trembling.
“None on the roads. None anywhere.” Curdac reached into his sack and pulled out a child-sized shirt. It was rent with gashes and stiff with dried blood. “This was the most whole thing I found.” Curdac’s trembling became more violent. “More whole than the boy who wore it. They left nothing. No houses. No crops or cattle. No goods. Just corpses and only bits of them.” Curdac took another long draught from the jug. After several more, his hand grew steadier.
Seeing that her son had calmed somewhat, his mother attempted to ease his mood further with conversation. “I sold that cloak to a Sarf.”
“A Sarf?” replied Curdac. “What was a Sarf doing here?”
The old woman grinned. “Bought himself a strumpet. The cloak was for her.”
“Well, the world’s gone daft for certain. A Sarf with a whore.” Then Curdac shrugged. “Well, why not? Live while ye may. What other news?” He lifted the jug for another draught.
“A bunch of Black Robes passed through town. They were searching…”
The sound of the shattering jug interrupted her. The woman glanced at her son with surprise. A look of terror was frozen on his face, and it was a long moment before he could speak. “The Devourer’s priests are here?”
“Nay, they found what they wanted and left.”
The news did nothing to calm Curdac. “By Karm’s tits, that’s even worse! Gather up yer things Ma. We must leave by dawn.”
“Son, ye’re mad. Where will we go?”
“To the Dark Path if we stay. Those priests are an ill sign. They’re the crows that fly afore the wolf pack. Those that did bloody work in Lurwic must be headed here!”
As his mother watched openmouthed, Curdac began to dash about the room, stuffing things into his sack. He was too frantic to go about it rationally. Clothing was seized haphazardly and packed with roots, both peeled and unpeeled; dirty dishes; a stolen frock; and various household goods. His behavior inspired fear, and soon his mother was also packing. As she did, her eyes fell again on the child’s slashed and bloody shirt. It seemed a token of what would come.
SIXTEEN
IN THE dream, Yim revisited her childhood. She was just old enough to tend goats alone in the high meadows. The new spring grass was lush and felt soft beneath her feet. Clouds filled the valleys, so each peak about her seemed an island in a white sea. The homeward path faded into nothingness and Yim felt she was in a realm of spirits. The clouds rose higher and invaded the meadow. The grass grew pale, as did everything else.
Yim had turned to gather the goats when the mist grew bright and a young woman emerged from it. She was dressed in a simple white robe that fell halfway down her shins. About her bare feet, the grass turned white with frost. She advanced toward Yim, who was unable to flee or even move. The woman’s eyes were as dark as her hair. They fixed on Yim, who felt captured by them. The woman gazed at her, taking her measure, but with such a fond look that Yim thought she might be her mother’s spirit.
“Mommy?”
The woman smiled but shook her head. “Yim,” she said, “tonight when you return to your father, you must tell him to take you to the Wise Woman who lives above your village.”
Yim simply nodded, too astounded to ask how the strange woman knew her name.
“When you see the Wise Woman, tell her you met She Who Holds the Balance.” Yim noticed for the first time that the woman carried a set of scales. “Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” replied Yim, “but what if she doesn’t believe me?”
“She’ll believe you,” said the woman. “She’s expecting you. Tell her that you’re the Chosen.”
“The Chosen?”
“The Wise Woman will understand. She’ll know what to do.”
The mist grew thicker and the woman faded from view. When the air cleared, the meadow was empty except for Yim’s goats.
In the dream, Yim wa
s also an observer hovering in the air. She cried out to her younger self, “Don’t tell anyone!” Yet, even as she said those words, she knew it would make no difference. Yim had been a dutiful child. She would give her father the message, and he would take her to the dark cottage that smelled of herbs. There, alone with the Wise Woman, Yim would recite the fateful words—“I’m the Chosen.” Afterward, her life would be ruined.
At dawn, Yim rose to prepare the morning meal. She lit a fire, then took out the grain sack and noted how little it contained. “I fear we’ll go hungry soon,” she said.
Honus peered into the sack. “If we eat sparingly, this might last us through Luvein. Then we’ll be among folk who’ll make us welcome. Meanwhile, we’ll supplement our grain by foraging and hunting.”
After a meager breakfast, they returned to the road, which descended into a rolling country. The air grew warmer, and though the land was still wild and empty, new foliage softened it. As Karvakken faded in the distance, Yim’s heart grew lighter and the way seemed less daunting.
“Master, would you tell me about Theodus?” asked Yim after they had walked awhile.
“Why?” he asked.
“The same burden that sat upon his shoulders now lies on mine. I have kindred feelings toward him, though I can’t explain why.”
“It’s hard for me to speak of him.”
“The dead find comfort when the living remember them,” said Yim. “At least, that’s what they say where I come from.”
“I think your people are wise.” Honus sighed. “I should talk of him.” After a quiet spell, he spoke in a soft voice. “Theodus was my Bearer. He was fond of pointing out that the word ‘bear’ has many meanings. It means to carry, but also to uphold…to announce…to give birth…to show patience…to render witness…to be accountable…to possess relevance…to move steadily…and, most importantly, to endure. Theodus encompassed all those meanings.”
[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Page 10