“Did your husband die recently?” Yim asked.
“Near the end o’ winter,” said Tabsha.
“And you’ve been alone since?”
“Aye.”
“Were you married long?”
“Ever since Ah comed into womanhood. Eight winters in all.”
Yim quickly calculated and was startled to realize that Tabsha was not much older than she. Yim stared at her in appalled wonder. Glancing at the empty cradle, Yim asked, “And you had a child?”
“Five,” said Tabsha dully. “Four be dead. One be took.”
“Took?”
“Stolen. Ah do na know if she be dead.”
Yim wanted to console Tabsha, but felt the woman was beyond comforting. Nevertheless, she clasped Tabsha’s dirty hand, which was still sticky with porridge. “I’m sorry.”
Tabsha nodded.
Honus sat silently throughout the exchange, his attention fixed on Tabsha. After Yim withdrew her hand, he spoke. “I trance sometimes.” Tabsha gave no sign that she understood what he meant. “I can cause my spirit to visit the Dark Path,” he said by way of explanation.
Tabsha’s eyes widened. “The Dark Path! Why would ya wan’ go there?”
“There are things to be discovered, things worth knowing.”
“Like wha’?” Tabsha whispered.
“Today I encountered the spirit of the man who is buried in your field.”
“Toff?”
“I didn’t learn his name, but I learned he was your husband.”
“An’ ’e spoke with ya?”
“No.”
“Toff did na speak much even when ’e beed ’live.”
“I cannot converse with spirits, whether they were once talkative or not. But their memories are revealed to me. Those are what I seek. Memory lingers, even after the spirit has departed westward.”
Tabsha regarded Honus as if he were a storyteller. Yet, when she peered into his eyes, her disbelief faded.
“I came here,” said Honus, “because of Toff’s memory of you.”
The fire had died to embers. In the dim half-light, it seemed that the Sunless Way had invaded the quiet hovel. Honus’s voice sounded distant, almost not his own. “You came from bathing in the brook, wearing only yellow flowers in your hair. He watched you approach, feeling a sense of wonder that was more than passion. Then, his life held only promise. He praised Karm to live in a world that included you. That moment shone throughout his life. Its memory was the treasure he bore to the Dark Path.”
Honus spoke as though he was that man, caught in the rapture of love. What his words couldn’t express, his eyes told with eloquence beyond the power of speech. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it seemed to Yim that Tabsha was transformed. Her face softened and she was no longer drab and worn, but a girl unburdened by tragedies and filled with the hope of youth.
The moment passed. Tabsha didn’t move. Her eyes welled with silent tears that made pink trails where they flowed down her grimy cheeks. Yim felt as constrained to silence as an intruder. A sense of emptiness came over her. As she drew up her cloak to lie down and sleep, she saw that Tabsha was looking at her with a questioning expression. Yim ignored her and rolled to face the wall.
Lying in the dark hovel, Yim heard movement and soft whispers. The idea arose that the intimacy she had just witnessed between Honus and Tabsha might soon take a more physical form. The thought disgusted her, yet she found herself straining to hear confirmation of her suspicions. She detected none. Instead, Honus and Tabsha grew quiet. Eventually, Yim turned to face them. They lay motionless beneath Honus’s cloak. It was hard for Yim to see, but it appeared that Honus was holding Tabsha, who was sleeping peacefully. As Yim stared at them, she felt alone and forgotten. Despite her exhaustion, it was a long while before she fell asleep.
Yim awoke in the early dawn amid thick smoke. She looked around and saw Tabsha asleep beneath Honus’s cloak next to the cold embers of last night’s fire. Honus was gone. Yim left the hovel to find him standing, mattock in hand, while the field burned.
“Master, what are you doing?”
“Burning off the weeds to prepare for planting.”
“Why?”
“It needs to be done.”
Yim sensed it was pointless to question him further. Instead she asked, “Shall I prepare breakfast?”
“You’ll have to forage for it first; the grain’s for Tabsha alone.”
“I don’t understand,” replied Yim, only partly hiding her irritation. “Didn’t you look into her baskets? There were roots and beans in them. She has plenty of food.”
“I can tell you’re no farmer,” replied Honus. “She must plant those for this year’s crop. This season often brings a hard choice for the poor—go hungry in the spring or eat the seed stock and surely starve in the winter.”
“Oh,” said Yim. “Then I’ll look for breakfast.” As she headed into the tangled wild, she began to hear the rhythmic sound of the mattock striking earth. When Yim could no longer hear the mattock, her spirits lifted. With her master engaged in work, she could take her time and be her own mistress.
Although Yim had been thoroughly taught the uses of wild plants, she found little to eat. This was only partly due to the earliness of the spring; there was a poverty to the land that went beyond the season. Luvein truly seemed the abode of want. After much searching, Yim found some mushrooms and greedily ate them all. Let Honus find his own food! she thought. Nevertheless, Yim knew it was unwise to return empty-handed. She continued her search until she encountered swampy ground and spied the first leaves of faerie arrow poking above dark water. She dug in the muck for their tubers until she collected an ample supply. Then, after washing the mud from the tubers and from her hands and feet, she lay back and lazed in the morning sunshine. She stayed as long as she dared before heading back. It was midmorning when she returned to the hovel.
Honus was working steadily in the ashy field. He was drenched in sweat, and before him were long rows of upturned earth. Tabsha squatted over one of the rows, digging with a stick to plant roots. At the sight of Yim, Honus stopped swinging the mattock. “So, you’ve returned.”
The tone of his voice made Yim defensive. “There were sparse pickings, Master. I found some tubers, but they must be cooked first.”
“We’re all hungry,” Honus said, giving Yim a meaningful look. “You should cook them now.”
Yim retreated to the hovel to boil the tubers. She brought them out when they were done. Honus and Tabsha stopped working and joined her to eat. Tabsha nibbled tentatively on a tuber, then wolfed it down. “Where did ya get these?” she asked.
Yim was surprised by the question. “Don’t you know about faerie arrow?”
“Nay.”
“Then I’ll show you how to find it.”
“Not today,” said Honus. “You’re needed to help with planting.”
After the meal, they worked steadily until dusk. By then, Honus had turned over almost half the field. Following behind, Yim and Tabsha had planted all the earth he had tilled. Yim was relieved when work halted, for she ached from all the stooping. Looking at her dirty hands and feet, she asked Tabsha if there was someplace where she could wash.
“Aye. Ah’ll show ya.”
Tabsha led Yim to a small stream about a hundred paces from the hovel. Yim waded into it and began to clean the soil from her arms and legs. Tabsha did the same. “Ah washed more when Toff beed ’live,” she said.
Yim, not knowing how to respond, concentrated on her washing.
“Ah be sorry,” said Tabsha in a low, shy voice. “’E…’E made me remember when Toff…when Toff…” Tabsha’s voice trailed off and her face shone as she relived the memory. Then she recalled what she had begun to say and the look faded. “Ah be sorry,” she said again. “Ah fergot mah place when Ah slept by yar man.”
“My man?” said Yim. “He’s not my man. You could have tupped him for all I care.”
Tabsha star
ed at Yim, openmouthed.
“I’m his slave, Tabsha.”
“’Is slave?” said Tabsha. “Ah did na know.”
“Well, now you do.”
“Toff said they took our girl ta be a slave. Wha’…Wha’ it be like?”
“I have to do whatever Honus says.”
“Then ya be like a wife.”
“No, it’s not like that. He owns me. He doesn’t care about me at all.”
“Oh,” said Tabsha. “Then it be a ’ard life.”
The two women returned to the hovel, hungry and tired. Yim glanced at Tabsha as they made their way through the tangled undergrowth and their eyes briefly met. In that instant, Yim was stung to realize that the poor, broken woman pitied her.
EIGHTEEN
YAUN’S HEAD still throbbed from a hangover as two armed men roughly pushed him into a large chamber. A young-faced man with gray eyes, a deep tan, and a full black beard stood there. He wore a long black robe adorned by a large pendant on an elaborate gold chain. The pendant was a simple circle made of iron. The bearded man didn’t speak, but peered at Yaun as though he were an interesting but disgusting bug.
“Why won’t anyone speak to me?” Yaun asked.
Silence.
“I’m not some commoner. I’m due respect!”
The stranger arched an eyebrow as if the assertion amused him.
The look deflated Yaun. “At least untie my hands,” he said more humbly. “They took my sword and dagger.”
The man drew a dagger from the folds of his robe. “Do you wish to live?”
Yaun grew pale. “Yes.”
The stranger moved behind Yaun and pricked his back with the dagger’s tip. “I know you’re foolish,” he said. “Are you also rash?”
“No,” Yaun croaked.
The blade plunged downward and sliced Yaun’s bindings. Yaun gasped, then realized his hands were free.
“Wait here,” said the stranger as he left the room.
Yaun looked about. He was in the main hall of a modest manor house that lay outside the borders of his father’s county. Yaun had visited it with the count several years ago. The room had been looted of its furnishings—recently, judging from the fresh bloodstains—but the paneled walls retained their elegance and the windows were unbroken and sealed. Although it was a mild day, a large fire blazed in the fireplace, making the room uncomfortably warm. Yaun wished he had some ale.
No one entered the hall, and Yaun’s anxiety increased with the passing time. He paced anxiously and wondered why he had been kidnapped. As the lesser of two sons, he wouldn’t be ransomed, and his kidnappers had already taken his money. Then it occurred to Yaun that he might have been seized for revenge. Soon his pounding head filled with frightful scenarios as he recalled friends he had betrayed and women he had abused. The more Yaun thought, the longer his list of potential enemies grew.
“Why did I linger in Durkin?” asked Yaun, his anguished voice echoing in the empty room. The answer was simple, though Yaun would never admit it, even to himself: Afraid to face his father, he had escaped in drink.
When the room began to darken, a door opened. The black-robed man entered, followed by the pair of armed men who had kidnapped Yaun. They seized him from where he had slumped in a corner and brought him forward. “We know everything about you,” said the black-robed man. “Though it’s your nature to lie, it would be most unwise for you to do so. Is that understood?”
“Yes,” said Yaun.
“Yes, Most Holy,” corrected the man.
“Yes, Most Holy.”
“Do you know why you must address me thus?”
“Because you’re a priest of the Devourer?”
“Because I’m holy!” bellowed the man. “Holiness is power. These men obey my commands. Your life is mine to take. The Devourer has bestowed this upon me, and you can measure my holiness by your fear.” The priest grinned malevolently. “You must admit I’m very holy.”
“What do you want with me, Most Holy?”
“You opposed my lord in battle. That was foolish.”
“Lord Bahl?” Yaun whispered.
“Yes. Does that make you afraid?”
Yaun silently nodded.
“It’s wise to fear him. Lurwic’s duke didn’t, and now he’s dead. So are his subjects. Your comrades, too. You remain unfinished business.”
“Alaric made me fight,” whimpered Yaun. “I was his squire. What choice did I have?”
“And what did you gain by your subservience? Glory? Fortune? You deserve what Alaric received. Would you like to taste his glory?” The priest made a gesture and one of the guards drew his sword.
“No!” cried Yaun, as he fell to his knees. “Please spare me! I beg forgiveness.”
“I cannot pardon you,” said the priest. “Only one has that power.”
Another door opened, and in walked a man dressed in gold and velvet. Yaun scarcely noticed the rich garments, for he who wore them had his full attention. The man appeared neither young nor old, as though years flowed over him without leaving their mark. His unnatural pallor gave him the aspect of a corpse, and his long hair was so blond as to appear white. Despite his cadaverous complexion, he possessed an aura of power. Moving with feline grace, he seemed a man with all softness burned away and in the process transformed, as iron is into steel. Compelling eyes, so pale that only the black pupils were prominent, dominated his face. The man’s bloodless lips were drawn into a sardonic smile. Yaun remained on his knees and bowed his head to Lord Bahl.
The lord approached, and the sweat on Yaun’s brow chilled as the air turned cold. Yaun looked up and couldn’t turn his gaze from the approaching eyes. His entire existence shrank down to the two black pupils fixed on him. Yaun knew his fate was being decided.
“Rise,” said Lord Bahl in a low voice that seemed to Yaun both sweet and harsh, like strong drink. It was as equally intoxicating. Upon hearing that single word, Yaun craved to hear more. “So you’re the count’s son who became squire to a hireling soldier, then servant boy to a Sarf. They found you drunk in Durkin with shit on your sleeves. Can you sink any lower?”
Yaun felt a surge of shame.
“At least the duke paid Alaric,” said Lord Bahl. “What did you get? Nothing! The same wages the Sarf paid. Nothing! The same as your inheritance. Nothing! I see a pattern here.”
Lord Bahl produced a dagger. “I believe this is yours.” He turned it in his hand, examining it. “The blade’s good.” He ran his finger along its edge. “Sharp. Do you poison it?”
“No, Lord.”
“I find it a useful practice. Yet then, one must decide which venom to employ. There are so many choices—slow and painful…paralyzing…quick…subtle. If you were to poison this blade, which one would you choose? I think the coward’s choice—quick.”
Bahl waved a hand and the two guards seized Yaun’s arms. The priest stepped forward, tore open Yaun’s shirt, and pulled it down behind his shoulders to expose his chest and stomach. Bahl grasped the dagger by its hilt. “Do you know how Alaric died?”
Yaun shook his head.
“Of course you wouldn’t. You were hiding, weren’t you? Well, they gutted him. He died tangled in his own intestines.” Bahl’s lips formed a mirthless grin. “Do you wonder how that felt?” The point of the dagger poked Yaun’s belly. “Be very still now. I have a surprise.”
Yaun screamed in pain and fear as the blade moved across his abdomen, parting flesh. Then he fainted. He was revived by an icy hand that forced him to look at his wound. There was a bloody line across his belly, but no entrails spilled from it. The hand released him. “Get up!” commanded Bahl.
Yaun rose shakily to his feet. His cut was painful, but superficial. Blood only trickled from it into his urine-soaked trousers.
“You’ve partly repaid your debt to me,” said Lord Bahl in his hypnotic voice, “and received a gift in return—your life. Moreover, a wound can be a valuable reminder. Hence-forward, your flesh will tear mo
re easily there, but if you’re obedient, you needn’t worry.”
Yaun felt a wave of gratitude, followed by the urge to please Lord Bahl and so rise in his estimation.
“Reflect on what you’ve become,” continued Bahl. “How did you end up alone, groping through sewage for coins? Was that what you desired? Was that what you deserved? Think. Who did this to you? How should they be repaid?”
Bahl’s words made Yaun recall his brother’s good fortune, his father’s disappointment, and Honus’s scorn. The idea grew that these others were to blame for his woes. Resentment flared into hatred as the thought took hold. They’re responsible! Nothing was my fault! They brought this on me!
Lord Bahl smiled as if he had read Yaun’s thoughts. “I’ve heard of your brother, so righteous and thin-blooded. I’m told he looks down upon your manly appetites. When he’s count, will you still sit at the high table? Will you even be seated in the hall? Perhaps you’ll be lucky, and he’ll toss you scraps as he does to his dogs, but only if you’re meek and beg like them.
“Perhaps you could pray to Karm and beg scraps from her also. You should have kissed that arrogant Sarf’s ass while you carried his pack. That was a missed opportunity.”
As Yaun listened, each word was a lash driving him to further frenzy.
“Durkin smolders as I speak and none of its folk live. Eastward lies Falsten, your father’s county. The Empire is crumbling while I grow mightier. What aid will Falsten receive if I turn on it? It’s time to choose sides. I could be harsh or merciful. I might make a treaty and spare Falsten. With which count should I parley? Your father? Your brother? Or you?”
“Me, Lord! Please! Let it be me!”
Bahl held out Yaun’s dagger. “Then take what you deserve! The Devourer blesses those who seize their due. Apply your anger! Use this weapon to clear your path.” Bahl handed Yaun the dagger and a small vial of liquid. “With this on your blade, the smallest prick will be deadly. When you’re count, you’ll need a priest. Most Holy Gorm will attend you.”
[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Page 12