[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm

by Morgan Howell

  “Well, you’ve certainly given me hope! I dreaded being left behind. I’ll be as glad for your company as Brother will be for Honus’s. And I really do think Brother’s plan’s our only chance. But oh my! You’ll miss Honus so!” A romantic look crept onto Cara’s face. “Would you like me to sleep elsewhere tonight?”

  Yim sighed heavily. “No, you must stay put, and perhaps you should tie me up while you’re at it.”

  “I’ve always wanted to be in love,” said Cara. “I mean truly in love, like in the songs the bards sing. But zounds, now that I see what it’s done to you, I’m na so sure.” Then she grew quiet and put her back into the oars to bring the boat more swiftly to where Honus waited in the gathering gloom.

  The banquet hall was draped with fresh garlands of asters and filled with people. All residing in the manor hall were there, along with many of the villagers. Upon the tables were cheeses resembling miniature versions of Dar’s Gift. No one was seated, for the clan mother had not yet returned from the dell, and the hall was noisy with talk.

  Rodric stood near the high table, showing one of Cronin’s officers his new dagger. “So what do you think of it?” asked the steward.

  The soldier took the weapon and balanced it in his hand. “I like its look. Na fancy hilt; all the value’s in the blade.” He felt its edge. “Good steel, well forged, and nicely sharpened. A fine tool for deadly work.”

  “I acquired it just today from a peddler named Rangar, an Averen man and an affable fellow. He has many more daggers like this one.”

  “How much is he asking for them?”

  “Three silvers, and that includes a sheath and belt.”

  “A reasonable price. I’ll pass the word about.”

  “Rangar’s just arrived at the inn. I told him he was lucky to show up in time.”

  The officer cast the steward a sharp look. “Why did you tell him that? Did you say we’re about to move out?”

  Rodric’s face paled. “Oh nay! I just said Well, troubled times, you know.”

  “Aye, times when loose tongues cause mischief.” The officer handed the dagger back to the steward. “Here’s hoping you’ll have na need for this.”

  Rodric was retreating from the officer just as Cara arrived. She was still crowned with flowers that looked as fresh as they had that morning. All the company noted that her companion also wore flowers in her hair. They seemed to shine like stars against her dark tresses. Rodric was appalled that Yim had received a distinction reserved for the clan mother or her eldest daughter. It made him recall how Rangar had told him that Yim stirred trouble wherever she went.

  The steward considered relaying his concerns to the clan mother, but concluded there would be no point to it. Cara’s just a flighty lass , he thought, more readily swayed by the lies of a friend than the wisdom of an elder . He feared what would happen after Cronin left. He watched as the clan mother approached her brother and had a private conversation. Whatever she said improved Cronin’s spirits. Rodric wondered what it was and whether he’d ever find out. It galled him to be on the outside after so many years of governing the clan in Cara’s name. He attempted to console himself by recalling that tradition required that a woman be chieftain. But Cara’s still young, and these are dangerous times . He prayed to Karm that the clan would survive them.

  The Gift Day Feast was a Clan Urkzimdi tradition that not even the threat of war could wholly dampen. In the inn, locals gathered in the common room for some revelry. Daijen avoided the festivities by staying in his room. As the drinking dragged on, he grew increasingly annoyed, for he wanted to venture out without being noticed, and he couldn’t do that until the common room emptied. It was long past midnight when he finally had the opportunity to slip away.

  The village was dark and quiet under a moonless sky and the campfires of the refugees had burned out or died to a few red embers. Daijen was only one shadow among many as he quietly made his way to the meeting place. He had chosen it, a roofless hut on the lakeshore that was close enough to reach but sufficiently out of sight. When Daijen neared the structure, it appeared as a black shape against the deep gray of the lake. He halted and listened. He could hear footsteps on a stone floor. Someone was pacing inside the hut.

  Daijen approached it noiselessly, and whispered in the doorway. “When our lord comes, what shall wash the temple floor?”

  “Blood,” answered a whisper.

  Daijen stepped into the hut and saw a dark shape move. “Come before me,” he said. The shape approached and took the form of a man. Daijen reached out and touched the man’s chest until he felt the pendant hidden beneath his shirt. It was in the form of a circle, the emblem of the Devourer. “You wear iron,” said Daijen.

  “Token of our god whose grace is power,” intoned the priest.

  Daijen revealed his medallion. It was iron also, but its elaborate silver chain was the emblem of his rank within the cult. “My name is Rangar,” he said. “Know that I have been sent by the Most Holy Gorm himself and demand your full obedience.”

  The priest knelt before Daijen and kissed his hand. “I am Thromec, holy one. You shall command me in all things.” “First tell me why you’re here.”

  “A dream has much troubled me. In it, I am our master. I peer from some dead meat and behold my enemy. Hate scalds me, and I crave this foe’s destruction. Yet the vessel that contains me sees imperfectly. I perceive a face, but not its features. There is brownish darkness about it. Then everything vanishes and only hatred remains.

  “Others of our brethren have also had this dream. We have spoken together and concluded that the darkness about the face is long dark hair, and our master was viewing a woman. Thus we seek out dark-haired women and slay them. I’ve killed seven already, yet the dream returns. I’ve ventured here in hope of finding the one our lord despises.”

  “And you’ve succeeded,” replied Daijen. “I’ve learned today that she’s staying in the hall. Her name is Yim, and she’s a Bearer.”

  “Then we should kill her at once!” said Thromec.

  “Her death must be certain,” replied Daijen, “and certainty requires patience.”

  “Fie on patience! You haven’t suffered my dream! It gnaws at me.”

  “I’ve suffered also,” said Daijen, “and it has tutored me to be thorough. I’ve an informant in the hall, a man I’m bending to my will. Already he has told me that the troops about this place will leave the day after tomorrow.”

  “Then I’ll go and incite men to storm the hall. They could be here in seven or eight days.”

  “I see that assault as augmenting the more stealthy one I’m planning. This woman must die, and a double-pronged attack will assure success.”

  Thromec bowed. “I see why you’ve risen high. It’s wisest to leave nothing to chance.”

  “Yes,” said Daijen, rubbing his newly aged hands, “our lord brooks no failure.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  THE FESTIVE spirit of Gift Day didn’t linger for long in a hall where men were preparing for a desperate battle. The following day, Cronin and his officers were busy getting ready for the march. Scouts were reporting back from reconnaissance. Emissaries from other clans came and went, a few bearing good tidings and most not. Refugees continued to arrive, and each carried news of feuds and strife. Bahl’s invasion loomed as a threat that was yet invisible, but felt by everyone. It drove events and made each action seem urgent.

  Cronin found his sister drilling with the arms master in the courtyard. They were using blunted swords to practice thrusts and parries. He noted that Cara’s deficient form was partly compensated by her ferocity and that she was holding her own. Nevertheless, the master eventually disarmed her and held his blade against her neck.

  Cronin called out in a jocular tone. “Arms Master, a private word with our clan mother before you cut her throat.” Cronin’s attempt at humor fell flat. It was too close to what he feared, and he regretted his words. After the arms master left, Cara came over to her brother. “I
’ve reconsidered my plan,” Cronin said. “Perhaps it’d be wiser to leave some men behind.”

  “I want to hold nothing back,” said Cara.

  “Bahl’s not our only foe. The black priests have stirred our neighbors. If they know our hall’s defended only by women ”

  “Brother, this is my decision.”

  “So ‘tis, but I can spare those men who’d slow the march—some of the older archers to man the wall, and those with lame legs, but strong arms. I’ll fight better knowing you have some defenders.” He attempted a smile. “You can na kill all our foes yourself.”

  “Nay,” replied Cara. “For that, I’d need another fortnight of drill. You’re right. A small garrison is a wise precaution.”

  “Then I’ll see to it,” said Cronin.

  With that business done, they stood in the courtyard, not as general and clan mother, but as brother and sister. Both were aware that their positions would restrain their final farewells, and the present moment might be the last to speak their hearts. Yet there was so much to say that they found it difficult to say anything. Cara simply stared at her brother, as if trying to memorize every detail of his face. Cronin spoke first, his voice thickened by his feelings. “We’ve said goodbyes oft enough before, and I’ve always returned.”

  “Aye, ‘tis true.”

  “If I do na this time ”

  “You will! You must!”

  “But if I do na, trust your judgment, Cara. You’re wise beyond your years, and you’ve a noble heart. Mother would be proud.”

  For once, Cara was speechless, and it made her brother feel awkward. They gazed lovingly at each other until Cronin finally said, “Well, I must be off to confer with Honus about the campaign.”

  Cara watched him go. Then, wiping the tears from her eyes, she went to find the arms master and resume sword practice.

  There was an art to swaying another to one’s will, and long practice made Daijen adept at it. He didn’t gaze into someone’s eyes and force him or her to do his bidding. Although that tactic usually worked, the victim seldom performed satisfactorily. Daijen’s method was subtler and more effective. He used his powers to discover weaknesses and employ them to spur the subject toward whatever action he desired. Gatt had fallen under Daijen’s power because of his self-righteousness, anger, and lack of purpose. Rodric possessed different flaws, but they would make him no less useful.

  Thus Daijen was pleased, but not surprised, when Rodric sought him out at the inn. He was sitting in the common room when the steward entered with an agitated expression on his face. Daijen noted that Rodric was wearing the dagger he had given him, which seemed a promising sign. The steward rushed over to him and whispered, “You were right!”

  Daijen put on a concerned expression and replied in an equally low voice. “Shall we talk in my room?’

  Rodric nodded and followed Daijen there. It was a small, inelegant space with rough plastered walls, a single unglazed window, and an earthen floor strewn with reeds. A bed and a chamber pot were its sole furnishings. The men sat on the bed and Rodric started talking in a burst of words. “Already she’s been honored! Garlanded for the feast like a clan mother or her heir!”

  “I presume you’re speaking of Yim.”

  “Aye. And like you said, she’s convinced everyone that she’s a Bearer.”

  “Who would doubt her with that Sarf in tow,” said Daijen. He shook his head sadly. “She’s clever. Moreover, she’s practiced this mischief before.”

  “Where?”

  “I know of an instance among the Dolbanes,” said Daijen. “She arrived at a holding as a paragon of piety and peace, befriending all and winning their trust. And when they were all beguiled, she loosed her confederates. The home was looted and the family slaughtered.”

  “But this place is na isolated holding,” said Rodric.

  Daijen gazed into the steward’s eyes and nudged his thoughts in the direction he desired by enflaming Rodric’s resentment while deepening his fear. “Nay,” he said, “your clan hall is a far greater prize, and one with strangers camped about it.”

  Alarm spread over the steward’s face. “I warned Clan Mother of this!”

  “But she did na listen, I suppose,” remarked Daijen. He sighed dramatically. “Young headstrong women are oft blind to peril.” Then he added in a casual tone, “When she was feeding those beggars the other day, was that Yim with her?”

  “Aye, ‘twas. Clan Mother ignores me while Yim worms her way in ever deeper. Already, she sleeps in the clan mother’s chamber.”

  “Mark my words. Soon Yim will have it to herself,” said Daijen. “Your clan mother has been ensnared, just like that Sarf. There’s little hope for her.”

  “You said little, but you did na say none.”

  “You can na counsel your chieftain from folly, for Yim’s hold is too strong,” said Daijen. “Yet Yim has gained her share of enemies. If they could reach her, the impostor would meet with justice.” He shrugged. “But Yim’s safe within your hall.”

  “These enemies,” said Rodric. “Is their grievance solely against Yim?”

  “Aye, only her.”

  “So they would na harm anyone else?”

  “All they want is justice and to save others from Yim’s schemes.”

  Rodric pondered the matter for a moment. “There’s a hidden way into the hall.”

  “And you would show them its secret?”

  “Nay, but I’d admit them so they might find whom they seek.”

  “The Urkzimdi are fortunate to have you as their steward, and when Yim’s spell is broken, your clan mother will know this also.”

  “Then let’s do this soon,” said Rodric.

  “I think Yim will grow less wary when the troops move out. That will be the time to strike.”

  Honus spent the day with Cronin and his staff, talking strategy and logistics. He had fought alongside the general before, so the role was a familiar one. Only he had faced Bahl in battle and every man was intent on what he said. It was grim talk; yet Honus saw hope in Cronin’s plan, and he spent his time refining its details. It was late afternoon when the meeting finished and Honus went to find Yim.

  Cara found him instead. “Honus, a word with you.”

  “Yes, Clan Mother. What do you wish?”

  “Zounds, Honus, call me Cara. And what I wish is a private talk with you. Come.” She led Honus to a dusty room beneath the eaves that was filled with chests and ancient furniture. The only open space was before a dormer and the two stood there. Its window offered a commanding view of the village and the fields beyond, which were currently filled with refugees. Cara gazed briefly at the scene, then hugged Honus tightly. “Oh, Honus! Take care of Brother. This time I’m really frightened for him.”

  “I would do that without your asking,” replied Honus. “Now I’ll be doubly vigilant.”

  “That’s a nice turn of phrase. Quite elegant for you, Honus. I know you’re saying that to make me feel better, and I guess it does. But do we have a chance, Honus? Tell me if there’s any hope at all.”

  “Some. We’re not marching to certain death. If the invasion’s going to be stopped, Tor’s Gate is the place to do it.”

  Cara sighed. “So Brother says. If you agree, then I’m sure he’s right. But it feels so horrible being left behind to wait and hope. And I know Yim will be miserable with you away, but zounds, she’s miserable with you here! If love makes you that unhappy, I’d rather forget all about it.”

  “Yim’s different from other women,” said Honus. “Karm has plans for her.”

  “I know,” said Cara. “Zounds! Some plans! She told me about being the Chosen way back when we first met. I did na understand it then, and I do na understand it now.”

  “Some things are beyond our understanding.”

  “That’s for sure!”

  Honus grasped Cara’s hand. “Protect her while I’m away. Yim has a destiny, and I believe her fate may overshadow all we do.”

  Car
a regarded Honus’s face. She always had the talent to see beneath his tattoos, and Honus had no doubt that she perceived the depth of his love. “I swear by Karm I’ll watch over Yim,” said Cara, making the Sign of the Balance. “She’ll be like my sister.”

  “Then my heart shall rest easier.”

  Cara’s gaze shifted to the field beyond the village. Another ragged band was traveling toward it. “More refugees! How will they ever make it through the winter? How will we?”

  “I think our troubles will end before then,” replied Honus. “Either for good or ill.”

  * * *

  The meal in the banquet hall was subdued, and only the high table was occupied. Yim only vaguely remembered eating. If there was conversation, she didn’t notice. Nor did she catch the way Rodric glared at her. Her attention was focused solely on Honus, who sat on the other side of Cara. All she could think about was that he’d soon be leaving. Moreover, she had an ominous feeling about their separation. She could foresee only loneliness. I’ve been lonely nearly all my life , she thought. I can get used to it again . Yet having tasted love, she feared that wasn’t true.

  Never had the urge to forsake Karm been so strong. She yearned to go away with Honus and consummate her desire. The idea was deliciously exciting. We could go far from here, the Northern Reach or the Cloud Mountains . Yim knew that all she needed to do was tell Honus they must depart. He’ll obey. He’s my Sarf . Yim wondered if Honus would see such a departure as Karm’s will or recognize it as the product of desire. That question led to others: Could she hide from the goddess? Could she keep the truth from Honus? How would he regard her if he learned it? If only I could decipher the words on his back! It seemed a cruel irony that the answers could be so close and yet remain unknowable.

  The meal concluded when Cara rose. She and the others left, but Yim and Honus lingered behind. “I should get my chain mail and extra clothes from the pack,” said Honus.

  “Of course,” said Yim. “But who will bear your burden? Theodus said you never should.”

  “A soldier will carry my pack until I return.”

  “I’m jealous of him.” Yim smiled wistfully. “At first, I hated that pack. I hated you.”