The Iron Palace (28 page)

It was ironic. Yim had been preparing for a long and arduous journey to find her son, and instead, he was about to find her. All she needed to do was stay put and rise from her hiding place to be escorted to him. Then Yim envisioned herself standing before her son, red-handed from butchering five men, to lecture him on restraint. With a sinking feeling that bordered on terror, she feared the task was beyond her.

Never had Karm seemed so distant or had the Devourer seemed so strong.
Can I overcome the evil inside me to turn Froan from his path?
Until that afternoon, Yim would have said yes. The frenzied slayings had made her uncertain of that answer and herself: It had felt good to slay those men. She had licked their blood and savored the taste.
This is the moment of my greatest weakness, a time when all I can argue is, “Heed my words, not my deeds.”
That seemed an effort doomed to failure.

The long trip to Bahland had one appeal—it postponed the confrontation with Froan. Yim told herself that she wouldn’t be running from it, but rather choosing a more fitting place and time.
One when I’ll be better prepared
. As soon as she came up with that rationale, she embraced it with enthusiasm that smacked of desperation. It seemed to hint how difficult that confrontation would be and reveal her lack of confidence. Nevertheless, Yim resolved to head south.

That decision brought Yim back to her original dilemma; she had to evade the marauding men. After wavering over what to do, she chose to lie in the weeds and hope for the best. If no one found her, she would head south at nightfall. If men came upon her, she had a sword. Yim was resigned to use it, though she feared the consequences. Yim didn’t believe in fate, so it seemed her life’s course would be determined by chance. All she could do was wait and learn how it played out.

M
OLI WAS
in her wagon, surrounded by what pillaged luxuries the Empty Lands afforded. She lay upon a feather mattress that filled most of the wagon bed. It possessed sheets and coverlets and was piled with all sorts of pillows. The brass oil lamp from the war boat dangled above her. Gowns were strewn about and there was wine—lately, Moli had grown quite fond of it—in a large cask. She drank it from a silver goblet.

The oil lamp was not lit, for the sun’s slanting light still filtered through the wagon’s canvas covering. The sides of that covering could be rolled up to allow her to view the passing landscape. Currently, they were rolled down, and since they were fastened from the outside, Moli was unable to change that. The air was heavy with smoke, so she knew why the view outside was hidden.
Shadow’s keepin’ his promise ta me
, she thought, not without irony. In Midgeport, he had told her that she would be spared the sight of death. The sealed covering accomplished that.

While Moli couldn’t see the continuing slaughter, she was nevertheless aware of it. The frequent smell of smoke was evidence, and she sometimes heard screams or weeping, which were always cut short. Additionally, there was the daily flow of goods that were always somewhat used. Shadow never spoke of what was done to acquire them, and he apparently forbade the soldiers to do so within her earshot. That didn’t prevent Moli from sensing their cost in human suffering. In a way, Shadow’s efforts to hide that
suffering from her made it loom ever larger in her thoughts. She hoped imagination exaggerated the horrors she envisioned, but she had no way of telling. Thus guilt dampened the pleasure that came from having fine things.

The denseness of the smoke and the sharply winding route the wagon was taking made Moli suspect that she was in a village. All that was lacking was the sound of human voices. Even the soldiers had grown silent. The deathly stillness made Moli imagine atrocities. Horrendous thoughts plagued her until she realized that only the truth would vanquish them. Instead of imagining what lay outside, Moli resolved to actually glimpse it. The wagon’s canvas covering obviously had been carefully crafted to prevent her from doing that. It was securely erected and equally well sealed without a single opening that could serve as a peephole.
Then Ah’ll just have ta make one
.

Using the pin of a silver brooch, Moli picked at the threads in a seam in the wagon’s covering. They were thick and tightly sewn, making the process slow and difficult, but at last she created a gap. It was only the length of her palm and so narrow as to allow only a sliver of a view. Wishing to keep her peephole secret, Moli decided not to enlarge it, so she set aside the brooch and put her eye to the tiny opening.

She saw nothing alarming. In fact, she saw very little, taking in just a thin slice of the world outside that changed slowly as the wagon made its way down a narrow street. For a while, all she glimpsed was a dirt lane and a wattle-and-daub wall. Then she saw a doorway and the smashed remnant of a door. The wagon traveled farther, and Moli glimpsed the bare feet of someone lying in the lane. Next she saw ankles, then calves. Then the folds of a peasant woman’s skirt slowly passed before her eyes. The hump of a woman’s behind came next. It was followed by nothing except blood and entrails; there was no torso.

Moli had seen nothing that terrible in Midgeport, and despite herself, she screamed as she scrambled away from the
peephole. Then she heard the wagon driver’s voice through the canvas walls. “M’lady, is something wrong?”

“Nay,” said Moli, struggling to keep hysteria from her voice.

“Ye sound upset. Should I send for Lord Shadow?”

“Nay, nay, ’twas only a bad dream, and it has passed. Don’t trouble my lord.”

“As ye say, m’lady.”

Moli crawled over to the wine cask to fill her goblet. Her hands were trembling as she gulped down the wine, causing her to spill it on her pretty blouse that still bore the scent of a strange woman.
What did they do ta her?
she wondered. Then Moli refilled her goblet in an effort to stop wondering.

After downing a third goblet, Moli fell into a stupor that ended when the driver entered the canvas enclosure to light the oil lamp. The wagon had stopped, and Moli caught a brief glimpse of campfires burning in the night. Her head ached. So did her heart. “We’ve stopped for the night, m’lady,” said the driver. “Lord Shadow’s with the captain, but he sent word that he’d be here shortly.” The driver’s eyes went to Moli’s wine-stained blouse. “I’ll leave ye now, for mayhap ye wish to change.”

Moli took the driver’s hint after he left, changing into a low-cut shift that was one of Shadow’s favorites. Wearing it no longer embarrassed her since the bite marks on her breasts had faded. They were nearly invisible, but even when they had been prominent, they had never repelled Shadow. Neither had her bruised face or missing teeth. Moli felt that he was more enamored with her inside than her outside. He had always been tender to her, and Moli was certain his tenderness was genuine.

That made what she saw in the afternoon all the more disturbing, for it was proof of Shadow’s other side. It was the side all the soldiers feared. The side that reaped the flow of plunder. Worst, it was the side that Shadow showed
whenever he spoke about his future conquests. If a wagon-load of pretty clothes and soft bedding required the slaughter Moli had glimpsed, she shuddered to think what a palace would necessitate. Moli imagined a river of blood that would stain each beautiful thing and drown every joy.

It seemed to Moli that there were two realities—the one inside the wagon and the one without. Inside the wagon was safety and ease. Outside was brutality and death. That was so because there were two Shadows also—the one who visited the wagon and the one who devastated the countryside. Moli was beginning to wonder if the wagon would always remain safe, or whether someday Shadow would bring the outside world with him.

The clink of chain mail alerted Moli to Shadow’s arrival. He always removed it before entering the wagon. While he did, Moli quickly filled two goblets with wine. She did so to hide her earlier drinking, not that Shadow would have scolded her for it. He never scolded her. Goblets filled, Moli rose to a kneeling position and raised them as Shadow lifted the flap to climb into the wagon. He bore a tray of food, for it was his custom to serve her himself.

Shadows eyes were cold, but warmed as soon as they regarded Moli. His face softened also. “I’ve been thinking of wine,” he said, “but mostly of you. Take a sip, dearest, and let me taste it sweetened by your lips.”

Moli smiled. “Fer a fensman, ye sure talk fancy.”

“You make me feel that way—fancy.” Shadow set the tray down, then sat next to Moli on the mattress and removed his high black boots. Afterward, her turned to Moli and kissed her with icy lips. It was a long kiss, and when it was over, he sighed and flopped down on the mattress. “That was the perfect cure for a hard day.”

“What made it hard?”

“Five of my men were killed. Brutally, too, by someone with a sick sense of humor.”

“What happened?”

“I won’t upset you with the details. It’s troubling to know what some people are capable of doing.”

Why does he talk as if I’m stupid?
Moli wondered. She couldn’t imagine that he believed she was unaware of events around her. She had witnessed the slaughter at Midgeport. She was traveling with marauders.
Then why does he pretend with me?
Upon reflection, it occurred to Moli that Shadow’s pretense was more for his sake than hers, an attempt to keep the world outside the wagon. In her imagination, Moli envisioned the wagon as Shadow must see it at day’s end. The oil lamp would make the canvas walls glow in the gathering dark. They would serve as his beacon as he stripped off his armor to join her in the light.

Then Moli saw that she was more than Shadow’s woman. She was his means to cleanse himself through tenderness and love. He needed her to be human. The notion both roused her sympathy and increased the burden that she felt.

Yim was still hiding in the meadow when daylight fled the sky and the stars grew bright. The waning moon would rise late, and she intended to take full advantage of the darkness. A brisk pace and Rowena’s cloak kept the night’s deepening cold at bay, though it did nothing to warm Yim’s internal chill. That coldness was proof of how her deeds had strengthened the Devourer, as was her lingering anger.

Yim reached the ridge at the valley’s far side without incident. That didn’t surprise her. The advancing army had no need to post sentries, for no enemies lay before it—only victims. She climbed the ridge, which wasn’t especially steep or high. Unlike its slopes, its summit was devoid of trees, allowing her to peer down at the valley. She saw the enemy’s—and her son’s—encampment, which had been set up alarmingly close to where she had been hiding. It was marked mainly by campfires. From where she stood, Yim could see little but the flames, which seemed to wink in and out as someone passed in front of them. She did notice one
light that was different from the others. It looked like a tent lit from within, except it didn’t appear to be resting on the ground. Its soft yellow luminescence was dimmer than that of an exposed flame. For some reason, the sight calmed Yim, and her anger faded. Then she turned south to put as much distance between her and the camp as she was able.

Daven was unable to sleep, so he rose from his mat to toss some kindling upon the embers in the hearth for a bit of warmth and light. The flames illuminated Honus, who was sleeping soundly after a day of hard training. He was thin, but he no longer looked gaunt or haggard.
He’s much improved
, Daven thought,
but is he ready?

Even as Daven asked that question, he understood its futility. A malevolent force was loose in the world, and it cared nothing about readiness. Having received the gift to sense unseen events, Daven had spent the day buffeted by them. The weather had been calm, crisp, and sunny; yet it had felt otherwise to him. Growing foreboding had pushed Daven to the brink of utter despair. By late afternoon, his terror was agonizing, but then it diminished. By dusk, he had the conviction that a disaster had been averted, though he was unable to fathom what it was. All he knew was that its threat had been postponed, not eliminated. The end was inevitable. Daven was certain of that, although he was ignorant how it would unfold and whether its result would be benign or catastrophic.

Tomorrow, he would send Honus to play his part in that end, the runes were clear on that. They were unclear on nearly everything else. Daven didn’t know what Honus’s part would be or what it would achieve. The markings merely indicated that Honus should venture forth and that Daven would never see him again. The thought of that parting brought tears to his eyes, and since Honus couldn’t see them, he let them flow freely.

*  *  *

When Honus rose at first light, Daven was already up. Honus bowed his head, “Good day, Master.”

“You won’t hunt or train this morn,” said Daven. “Today will be devoted to more important things.”

Honus bowed his head and waited to hear what those things would be.

“Your training’s over. Not completed, but over all the same.”

“Have I failed you in some way, Master?”

“No, Honus,” replied Daven, his voice softened by affection. “All lives are leaves in a wind. When you arrived, Karm bestowed on me the gift to feel its gusts. Now it’s blowing you away.”

“To where, Master?”

“Today I’ll study your runes to get some sense of it. When a master and Sarf part ways, it’s permitted for the Sarf to learn some of what’s needled on his back. Didn’t Theodus tell you to never bear your own burden?”

“Yes, but he didn’t know we were parting ways.”

“I think he did. But one thing he didn’t know: whose burden you must bear. I believe it’s Yim’s.”

“But I bought her because of what he’d said!”

“The runes spell out an ancient tongue that’s often ambiguous. Theodus’s interpretation makes sense, but he didn’t know what I know. He didn’t know about Yim.”

“Are you saying everything that happened is due to a mistake?”

“No,” replied Daven. “Just because the runes are tattooed into flesh doesn’t prevent their meaning from changing. Life and your choices alter their import. That’s why a Bearer must study them over and over.” Daven rose. “I have an errand this morning. Fast while I’m gone. Cleanse your body. Meditate to clear your mind. When I return, I’ll perform your final reading.”