Yet as soon as Yim envisioned consummating her desire, a contrary thought arose: I can’t! I’m the Chosen . She couldn’t perform her sacred duty if she wasn’t a virgin. There was no middle ground; she could either fulfill her love or her destiny. Torn between the two, Yim found she couldn’t forsake Karm. She had revered the goddess since childhood, and she had loved Honus for less than a day. Nonetheless, the strength of her new feelings made the choice a wrenching one. Yim hurriedly dressed in her wet clothes, as if to dampen desire. It remained as strong as ever, but instead of being exhilarating, it became torment. Love transformed into a gnawing hunger with no prospect of satisfaction.
Yim slumped on a rock, chilled by her damp clothes. Her physical discomfort mirrored her anguish as joy hardened into sorrow. For a while, she sought to convince herself that Karm had chosen Honus to father her child. That’s why she helped me save him . Despite wanting to believe that, Yim sensed it wasn’t true. If I were meant to bear Honus’s child, we would’ve conceived one long ago . The Wise Woman had been adamant that the goddess would reveal the father, so Karm’s silence seemed proof that Yim had yet to meet him. She probably never would if she made love to Honus.
When Yim pondered her dilemma further, she felt that surrendering to desire would not only betray Karm but also Honus. As a Sarf, his life was dedicated to the goddess. Yim recalled Cara’s words: “You need only climb into Honus’s bed to thwart Karm.” Yim couldn’t imagine Honus opposing the goddess. To cause him to do so in ignorance would be deceptive and supremely selfish.
I must reveal to Honus what it means to be the Chosen , Yim thought. There’s no other way . She felt the truth would shatter their happiness, and that thought dispirited her. She recalled with irony how she had thought of love as Karm’s gift. It had become Karm’s curse instead, a poison—first sweet, then bitter—that burnt without hope of relief. Yim wished that she didn’t love Honus, yet couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him. She wondered if her feelings were a trial, a punishment, or the means to some end she couldn’t imagine.
Yim remained on the rock a while longer, but her thoughts were caged beasts that ran in circles. She loved both Honus and Karm, and she could have one only by denying the other. Finally wearied of thinking, Yim waded across the brook to find Honus and bare her heart to him.
* * *
In the center of the clearing was a huge pile of branches and dry brush. Gatt lay atop it, looking peaceful in death. Honus was nowhere to be found. Yim waited for him and the passing time compounded her unhappiness. Honus didn’t return until midafternoon. He carried three pheasants and was grinning broadly before he caught Yim’s anguished look. His smile vanished. “Yim, what’s the matter?”
“Honus, I must tell you something.” Yim saw the concern in Honus’s face and felt that he had never looked more beautiful. Words deserted her for a moment, and she simply stared at him, filled with longing. Honus waited patiently until she regained her composure. “Honus, you know that I’m the Chosen.”
“Yes.”
“You believe that’s something holy. Well, it’s not. Karm gave me a task. If I accomplish it, some good will be achieved. My worth lies solely in that. I’m only the vessel, not the wine.”
“Karmamatus ”
“Please Honus, let me finish. I’ve kept so much from you.” Yim felt her throat constrict, and she struggled not to cry. “I I regret that. I was sworn to secrecy, but now now that things have changed between us and Oh Honus! I need your strength more than ever.”
Honus bowed. “You have it, Karmamatus. Be assured of that.”
“I’m supposed to bear a child. Karm will reveal who’s to be the father. She hasn’t done so yet. Until she does, I may tup with no man.” Yim noted the surprise on Honus’s face. “Yes, I lied to you. I’m a virgin and must remain one.”
“And last night this morning ”
“Mistakes.”
“I see.”
“I’ve never loved a man before. I didn’t foresee the path love takes. Yet now that I do, I must think only of my duty.”
“If your duty is to bear a child, why take on Theodus’s quest?”
“Karm told me to follow his footsteps. For a while I thought they’d lead to the man who’s to father my child, but now I’m not sure. My visions seldom make sense. I can’t even read your runes. You should leave me. I’m unfit to guide you.”
“I’m your Sarf. You needn’t guide me.”
“But we shouldn’t be together!”
“Because you must remain untouched? Yim, one can love chastely. I’m proof of that.”
Yim smiled wanly. “Now I understand your torment.”
Honus gently enfolded Yim in his arms. “It can be hard, but there are good times, too.”
Yim wavered, then returned Honus’s embrace. “I worry I’ll be weak.”
“You’ve never been that, Karmamatus.” Honus kissed Yim’s forehead. “And Theodus taught me one thing well: Real love is never weakness.”
Deep within the Black Temple was a room that few priests knew about and fewer still had ever entered. It was built deep underground so that daylight never reached its walls of dusky basalt. When the room’s iron door was shut and the lamp extinguished, the darkness there was absolute. The rough walls leaned inward; otherwise the chamber was featureless except for a circle carved into the stone floor to form a shallow trough.
Daijen entered the room, throwing back the deep hood that hid his newly aged face. A single oil lamp burned, filling the chill air with pungent smoke. Its pale light revealed a small boy dressed in a slave’s tunic who lay shivering on the floor. His wrists were tied, as were his ankles. He stared at the More Holy One in terror, his rapid breath visible in the room’s otherworldly coldness.
The surroundings were new to Daijen, but the ritual he must perform was familiar to him. He drew a dagger from his robe and made quick work of the sacrifice, holding his victim’s throat over the trough so the blood flowed into it. When a crimson circle marked the floor, the More Holy One stepped inside its protection. There he knelt and sent his thoughts to the Dark Path to invoke his master. The Devourer overlooked the entire world, and none could hide from its malice. Soon Daijen would know where to find Yim.
The sun’s last rays filled the clearing with rosy light when Honus touched Gatt’s pyre with a burning branch. Flames rapidly spread from the spot. Before they engulfed the dead Sarf, Honus drove the point of Gatt’s sword deep into the ground. He placed his sandaled foot against the middle of the blade, which he had cleansed of poison, and grasped the hilt. Then pulling with both hands and pushing with his foot, he bent the blade until it snapped. Honus placed the broken sword on Gatt’s chest, then stepped back from the pyre’s growing heat. “Now the Bearer speaks to Karm,” he said.
“What should I say?”
“Whatever comes to you.”
Yim gazed at the dark shape within the swirling flames awhile before she spoke. “His name was Gatt. He was a Sarf. He tried to kill me. That’s all I know about him. I hope you’ll show him mercy in your judgment because ” Yim paused a long moment, gathering her thoughts. “Because he was probably unable to see how deeds play out. Was he guided by your will? You can tell, but I think it was less easy for him. It can be hard to discern the proper path. Very hard. I know, for in this I’m like Gatt. So please show him mercy if he was wrong, just as I hope that you’ll show me mercy.”
Honus looked at Yim, wanting to contradict her and say that she was unlike Gatt. But when he saw the tears streaming down her cheeks, he knew her words were heartfelt, and so he held his tongue.
It was nighttime when Daijen finally staggered from the subterranean chamber. His hood hid his face from prying eyes as he rushed from the temple. Thus no priest observed his drawn expression and speculated on what had caused it. Daijen wandered the dark streets awhile, scarcely conscious of where he was. He felt like a sailor cast ashore by a raging storm, but instead of wind and waves, otherworldly
forces had battered him while he cowered within the ring of blood. The ordeal had seemed like it could end only with his destruction; yet somehow he had survived. Something had struggled with his master within the dark room, and the contest had nearly shattered Daijen’s sanity. The invisible forces were so powerful that they affected his mind like physical blows. Each assault from either side was agony, a clap of pervasive pain that left him reeling and nauseous.
When the combat finally subsided, Daijen felt profoundly disturbed. He had always regarded the Devourer as all-powerful—the world’s inevitable overlord. Yet within that dark chamber he had just experienced his master’s power being challenged. After the massacre at Karm’s temple, he hadn’t believed such a thing was possible. To him, Karm was a deity for weaklings, one that bestowed only worthless gifts. None of her followers could cheat death, practice sorcery, or enflame men’s minds. Yet some power had stymied his master, and Daijen felt certain that it was the goddess.
Pondering on the import of what had happened, Daijen wondered if Karm was as impotent as he had supposed. It seemed possible that the goddess had been merely biding her time and hiding her power until the proper moment to strike. If that were so, then she had just revealed her hand for the sake of a woman. This Yim is far more than an irritant , he thought. She must somehow threaten my master . Daijen couldn’t imagine how a mortal could do that, but he didn’t doubt his conclusion. It made Yim’s destruction all the more urgent.
Daijen turned his thoughts to that end. He had learned little of use within the room, for whatever guidance his master had for him had been muddled and obscured. The Devourer’s hatred for Yim was vividly apparent, but the vision of her whereabouts had been reduced to jumbled fragments. Daijen recalled mountains as glimpsed through a nighttime fog. He assumed they were in Averen, for that was where Yim had been headed. The other images that formed in his mind had dissolved as quickly as smoke in wind. One scene kept arising and vanishing with such frequency that bits of it stuck in Daijen’s memory. Mountains. Buildings. He thought one building might have been walled. The other structures were smaller and clustered about it. And something large and bright lay nearby. A lake perhaps . Daijen thought the scene showed either Yim’s hiding place or her destination.
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all he had. Daijen headed for the taverns in the Averen quarter. As he walked, he devised his story. It would be about a vision, a gift from the goddess. He would recount the disjointed images he had seen and say they hinted where he might find his long-lost child. A daughter named Yim. With patience, I’ll find someone who’ll know of the place I seek . Already, Daijen envisioned himself astride a new steed and riding forth to regain his master’s favor.
FIFTEEN
IT WAS tradition to feast after a Sarf’s final ceremony in order to celebrate his deeds. Honus saw the meal of roast pheasant as honoring the form—but not the substance—of that custom. He felt there was nothing to celebrate and couldn’t bring himself to forgive Gatt, even if Yim did. He knew it was a fault in him, but that knowledge didn’t sway his heart. Honus only pecked at his food, his appetite spoiled by discontent. Ill will toward Gatt wasn’t its source: That morning he had felt blessed, and that blessing had been withdrawn.
Honus was angry, but he was unsure where to direct his anger. Certainly not at Yim. She gazed at him with such love and sadness that it was painful to look into her eyes. She who had so handily deceived him had become unable to hide her feelings. They were raw, and Yim seemed tortured by them. Every time she glanced at his face, she acted like a bird stealing grain from a cat—stealthy and hesitant, yet driven by need. Her obvious torment was both pathetic and endearing. Honus wondered how he might soothe her misery but doubted it was possible.
Did Karm do this to her? Is this some trial? And who’s being tested? Yim or I?Honus believed that Karm was the goddess of compassion; yet to inflict such an ordeal seemed cruel. But when has Karm ever smoothed my way? Honus recalled being taken from his parents, his rigid training, the pain of the tattoo needle, the hard road he traveled with Theodus, and his beloved Bearer’s gruesome death. And now this! Nevertheless, Honus couldn’t rage against the goddess. She was the well of holiness, the same holiness that drew him to Yim.
Honus wondered if he should be angry with himself. If he had caused Yim to love him, then he had also caused her torment. It pained him to think that, but the more he considered the notion, the truer it seemed. But if Yim was a victim of his love, he was also. Despite himself, Honus reached out to grasp Yim’s hand, which was greasy from eating pheasant. She didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, Yim.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replied.
“Spoken by one who forgives her assassin.”
“He wasn’t my assassin. He didn’t kill me.” Yim squeezed Honus’s hand. “Thanks to you.”
“Still, I regret the pain love brings you.”
“That pain is Karm’s gift,” replied Yim, her voice laced with irony. “Most of her gifts are accompanied by pain. You know that yourself. Many times I’ve seen you trance and return stricken by another’s forgotten grief. Yet you still do it.”
“I trance to seek happy memories, not sorrowful ones.”
“Then you endure the bitter for the sake of the sweet.” Yim smiled. “Your touch gladdens me, though it stirs my yearning.”
Honus sighed and released Yim’s hand.
“Honus, I’ll learn to live with this. I must.”
In the Western Reach, the burning village lit the night. The peasant soldiers had finished their slaughter and withdrawn, leaving the Iron Guard to systematically loot and burn. Wearing a dead man’s helm and breastplate, Hendric sat close to a campfire and stared at his hand. The encampment was crowded, and the darkness was filled with the sounds of men pushed to extremity. Some cried in pain, while others laughed with a raucousness that bordered on hysteria. A few, still caught up in the battle frenzy, cursed and roared incoherently. Somewhere, a woman screamed. But Hendric shut out the din, fully engaged by the puzzle at the end of his wrist.
When did I lose those fingers?he wondered. He had no recollection of the event. They had been there in the morning, and by night they were gone. The little finger on his sword hand was entirely missing and only parts of the next three fingers remained. The bloody stumps were painful, and it was pain that first alerted Hendric that something had happened to him. He assumed that the fingers had been severed in the assault, but when and how were mysteries to him.
Hendric had been in five battles so far, but he recalled none of them coherently. His recollections seemed like half-remembered dreams suffused with manic glee. Once he had been a tenderhearted man, a peasant who hated butchering his chickens. Nevertheless, Slasher had been right; Hendric had come to relish killing. When Bahl stirred his troops for battle, Hendric was swept up in exultant frenzy. Then nothing mattered except the task at hand. During those times, Hendric was capable of anything, and it was easy to disregard the loss of a few fingers.
The peasant never understood how Lord Bahl incited him. It seemed to be more than the power of words. He seldom recalled what was said; only that Bahl’s speech stirred him like music that echoed in his mind for ever-longer periods. While it did, Hendric was transported to an energetic form of oblivion that expunged his longing, misery, and fear. Afterward, he was always exhausted and bloody. Moreover, sickening images would haunt his waking thoughts and disturb his sleep. Hendric feared they were memories of things he had done. Regardless, he had come to crave those frantic spells as a drunkard craves ale. Though the aftermath was hard, forgetfulness was bliss.
The army had been on the march for days, leaving a swath of destruction and slaughter in its wake. Lord Bahl rode at its head, accompanied by the priest, the Most Holy Gorm, and Hendric’s own lord, Count Yaun. The peasant despised the count who had taken him from everyone he loved, but he felt differently about Lord Bahl. He feared his cruelty, but he also held him in awe. Lord Bahl seemed
more than a man, and thus immune to men’s judgment. And with each new round of slaughter, his power over Hendric and the other men grew.
Already, there were men among the troops who were never free from Lord Bahl’s spell. They were always eager to kill and dangerous to be around. As the march progressed, their numbers increased, despite losses within the army. When Hendric reflected on it, the battle frenzy lingered ever longer in him also. Existence blurred. He had only a vague idea of where he was, other than far from home. He knew that they were headed for Averen, but he didn’t know when they’d get there. Hendric hoped it would be soon, for one thing Lord Bahl had said stuck in his mind: In Averen, misery would be washed from his soul in a bath of blood.
Yim slept wrapped in her cloak, apart from Honus. When she arose the next morning, she scattered Gatt’s ashes before resuming her journey to Cara’s. They were far enough from the highway that it seemed pointless to return to it, and since Honus knew the country from his travels with Theodus, he proposed another route. “Westward lie the lands of Clan Dolbane,” he said. “There we’ll find farmsteads and roads.”
“And will we be welcome?”
“Theodus and I were in the past,” replied Honus. “I don’t know how we’ll fare now.”
“I guess we’ll find out,” said Yim, hoping that when she reached Cara’s lands she wouldn’t find folk turned against her.
Honus led the way to where he had fought with Gatt and then headed west. For most of the morning, the land they traveled was wooded and wild. The rocky terrain was rugged, and though they walked within valleys, they usually hiked uphill. Until the midsummer sun rose high, the air had a crispness to it. They found a narrow pathway just before noon, and Yim was glad for some sign that people lived about. A short while later, they encountered a field on a sunny mountainside. At its edge was a dwelling that was half-buried into the slope. Smoke rose from a hole in its roof.
[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm Page 10