The Iron Palace (6 page)

The servant brought a goblet of wine. As Bahl drank, he gazed about the hall. A coat of dust lightened its black stone, and the bloodstains on the floor had long faded. The lord of Bahland tried to remember when the room was the seat of power and thronged with folk. Memories of those times had faded with the bloodstains. They seemed like scenes from another man’s life and as vague as rumor. Much of what he recollected was nightmarish—ravaged towns awash in gore, men transformed into rabid beasts, brutal tortures, and a pervasive atmosphere of fear.

Bahl rang for another goblet of wine and wandered off with it. No one would notice his absence. The day promised to be like all the others—purposeless and idle. Gorm took care of the domain’s administration. The Iron Guard reported to him. He levied taxes, made judgments, and issued decrees, all in Lord Bahl’s name. No one objected. No one dared, Bahl least of all.

Bahl stepped onto a balcony that overlooked the bay and the sea beyond. Leaning against a rust-covered railing, he gazed out at the ocean as he drank. The day was heavily overcast and the restless sea had a dull, sullen sheen. There was no clear horizon, only gray water merging with gray mist. Lord Bahl finished his wine and retreated inside.

Dusk arrived. Acting on impulse, Lord Bahl had his servant dress him in black velvet and gold. He hadn’t worn the outfit for ages, and it was moth-eaten. It also hung loosely from his diminished frame. Nevertheless, it somehow seemed appropriate for the ritual, for he had worn these clothes on the night he had lost his power.
Tonight I’ll amend that error
.

When he was dressed, Lord Bahl ascended the tower stairs alone. He had climbed them only once before, for the tower was Gorm’s domain. The windowless structure was pitch-black, and Bahl carried a torch to light his way. The darkness had the palpable quality of smoke that made the torchlight pale and watery. Bahl hurried his pace to pass through it more quickly.

The last time Bahl had stood atop the tower, he was only thirteen winters in age. He recalled that occasion vividly. It was sunset. Gorm was there with a woman whom Bahl had never seen before. She was dressed in a thin white robe and lay barefoot upon a large rectangular stone. Bahl remembered her as a blonde with the pale skin of someone shut away from sunlight. Bahl never knew if the woman was drugged or under a spell, but she must have been one or the
other, for she was awake yet completely passive. She remained quiet and unresisting even when Gorm pierced her throat with a stone knife. He cut an artery, judging from the spurting blood. Then Gorm commanded Bahl to drink, and he obeyed.

The intervening winters never dimmed what happened next. No wine ever tasted as rich as that woman’s blood or was as intoxicating. Moreover, it transformed Bahl as he drank it. Before that evening, he had felt incomplete, as if he were missing some vital part. The woman’s sacrifice cured that. Bahl was convinced that he had ascended the stairs a boy but descended them a man. Although he had known the ritual was called the “suckling,” only later did he learn the blond woman had been his mother.

The ritual was still on Lord Bahl’s mind when he emerged onto the tower’s windy summit. Gorm was waiting there, and he closed the iron trapdoor after Bahl stood upon the ironclad deck that capped the tower. The deck had not been allowed to rust, and its oiled surface was shiny and black. A slight slipperiness increased Bahl’s feeling of vertigo, for the tower was the palace’s loftiest, jutting like a spire high above its seaward wall. Moreover, the platform was only six paces wide, and it had no wall or railing at its edge. Bahl shuddered and moved to the center, which featured the waist-high rectangular stone.

Gorm smiled sardonically. “The last time you were here, the height didn’t bother you. But no matter, this potion will cure your fear.”

Bahl noticed that the priest held a goblet. “What’s that?”

“A concoction to help you find your son.”

“How?”

“It’ll send your spirit forth. Blood will always find blood.” Gorm cast another derisive smile. “Don’t worry, it’s not poison. Your spirit can return. Drink.”

Bahl took the goblet and sipped from it. The liquid tasted both bitter and sweet. As the flavors warred in Bahl’s mouth,
Gorm said. “Finish it quickly. Then you’d best lie upon the stone.”

Bahl gulped down the rest of the potion, then climbed upon the block of basalt. Unbeckoned, a thought arose:
My mother lay here
. Bahl decided the potion tasted bitter. To easy his nerves, he spoke. “So, soon I’ll meet my son.”

“Yes, and in your old form with your powers restored. The Devourer has abandoned you in this world, but not in the other one.”

The other one?
thought Bahl. The phrase had disturbing connotations.
Don’t worry. Gorm said this draught wouldn’t kill me
. Bahl was beginning to feel a little dizzy, so he turned his gaze seaward to glimpse something substantial. But the sea was still a seething void of gray without a horizon; only it was darker than before.

The Most Holy Gorm waited for Lord Bahl to close his eyes and fall into an ensorcelled slumber. Then he turned Bahl’s face upright and studied it in the dying light. He had performed the ritual many times and knew what subtle signs to look for. The eyelids quivered and the lips moved, then grew still. Soon Lord Bahl’s breathing was as easy and regular as that of an innocent man.
His spirit’s on its way
, Gorm thought.
Now my master can receive what’s been long overdue
.

Gorm reached down and lifted a long, leaf-shaped blade fashioned from obsidian. One end of the black, glassy stone was wrapped in boiled leather to form a handle. Gorm gripped it with both hands and held it high. The knife was sharper than the finest steel, and when he plunged it downward, it easily parted Lord Bahl’s chest. Gorm reached into the gaping cavity and tore out the heart. It was still beating when he threw it into the void.

A
FTER SPENDING
the night smoking goat meat, Yim had slept through much of the following day. Froan had performed the morning milking, and when Yim rose for the evening milking, she found that he had already led the herd to the milking shelter. It was located on the hite’s eastern side where an irregularity in the steep, stone wall created a natural three-sided enclosure. Roofed over with branches and thatch, it allowed the goats to be milked out of the weather. Inside were two milking stands, goat-proof containers of dried faerie arrow, and crockery jugs for milk.

When Yim reached the shelter, Froan was already milking the first doe, which was contentedly munching a faerie arrow root. “Thanks for doing the morning milking,” she said.

“You went to bed after sunrise,” Froan replied. “I thought you needed the rest.”

“I did.” Yim led a doe to a milking stand, secured the animal, and gave her a root as a treat. Then she washed the doe’s teats with water infused with cleansing herbs and began milking. After squeezing out a little milk to flush each teat, she set a jug in place and began to fill it. For a while, the only sound was liquid squirting into jugs as Yim and Froan expertly milked the herd. Yim broke the silence. “Telk’s mother said you visited him yesterday.”

“I wanted to see the boat he’s making.”

“His mother thought otherwise,” said Yim. “She said Telk came home covered with marks. She believed you two were playing warrior.”

“We were a bit. It was Telk’s idea. He’s fond of battles.”

“That’s because he hasn’t seen one. Doesn’t he know what happened to your father?”

“I’ve told him the tale.”

“Honus was a good and gentle man. He deserved a better fate.”

“You’ve oft spoke about his death but seldom about his life,” said Froan. “Telk overheard his mam say you were Honus’s slave. Is that true?”

“I was his slave, but only briefly. He set me free.”

“How did you become a slave?”

“I was on a journey with my father, and we were attacked by bandits. They killed Father and sold me to a slave dealer. My fate was a common one in those times. Honus was a goatherd who needed a donkey. When he came to town to buy one, he discovered donkeys were dear and slaves were cheap. I was all he could afford. He paid ten coppers for me.”

“Was that much money?”

“No. He spent six coppers on my cloak, and it was used and bloodstained.” Yim smiled upon recalling it, then continued her tale. “On our first night together, I feared he would force himself on me. After all, I was his property. But he swore by the goddess that he’d never do so, and he kept his word. I think that was when I first knew he was no common man.”

“Why did he free you?” asked Froan.

“Because he realized that no one can truly own another.”

“But you stayed with him.”

“Love binds tighter than chains. We married, and soon after, you were conceived. We were so happy.”

“And then the soldiers came,” said Froan. “I know the rest.”

“War’s not valor and glory,” said Yim. “It’s butchery and cruelty. Don’t mistake it for a game.”

“I just play with sticks, Mam, and only to please Telk.”

Yim wanted to believe Froan, but she didn’t. Nevertheless, she pretended that she did. While she was at it, she pretended Froan was Honus’s son. It didn’t stretch her imagination, for the boy had Honus’s lean, strong body.
As did Lord Bahl
. His hair was almost as dark as Honus’s.
But a walnut shade like mine
. However, the eyes were all wrong.
Honus’s were blue
. Froan’s eyes even differed from hers, for they were so pale that only the pupils were prominent.
Just like Lord Bahl’s
. Similarities and differences aside, it was love that made Yim’s pretense almost believable. Her devotion was the principal thing that Honus and Froan had in common. While one was a lover and the other a son, her love for each was equally intense. With the foresight that sometimes came to her, Yim knew that would never change.

Froan’s fingers milked the doe with a rippling motion that imitated a suckling kid. Long practice allowed him to do it without thinking, permitting his thoughts to dwell upon his discontent.
Twice a day, every day
, he thought.
What a dreary life!
He despaired at the prospect, and once again felt a restless yearning for something different. He wasn’t sure precisely what, other than an existence free of goats.

Froan glanced at his mother, who was gazing at him in an affectionate way that he found belittling, although he couldn’t say why. It made him want to be elsewhere. But there was no hurrying milking, and Froan stuck with it to the last doe. Then he rose. “I’ll take the milk to the cave,” he said.

“While you’re there, stop by the smoke cave,” said Yim. “The meat there should be ready. If you bring me some, I’ll add it to tonight’s stew.”

Froan forced himself to smile. “That’ll be a treat.”

Yim took a small jug of milk to serve at evemeal and departed. Froan consolidated the rest of the milk into two
large crockery jugs that hung from a yoke. It was destined to be made into cheese, which was the staple food for him and his mother and also the item they bartered for their other needs. Although Froan knew that his mother’s cheese was a favorite among their neighbors, he was sick of it. It reminded him of the wearying sameness of his life.

Froan hefted the yoke with its two dangling milk jugs and carried it easily to the northern side of the hite. The cave used for cheese making was there, close to the one for smoking meat. Since it was summer, the evening milking finished at sunset, and Froan arrived at his destination while some light still lingered in the sky. He entered the cave and untied the jugs to carry them farther back to a cool, dark chamber where milk kept well. Eager to be done, he didn’t bother to light a torch, and soon he had to feel his way. He had just set the second jug down when he heard a whispered voice. “Son?”

Froan glanced about the dark chamber, but saw no one. “Mam?” he answered. It seemed impossible that his mother could be in the cave, but she was the only other person on the hite.

“Not her,” answered the voice. “Someone else.”

Froan peered in the direction from which the voice had come and detected a faint glimmer in the darkness. As he stared at it, the light elongated and grew brighter. “Who are you?” asked Froan.

“Who besides your mother would call you son?”

“My father?”

“Yes.”

“But Honus is dead.”

The glimmer continued to expand, assuming a vaguely human form composed of luminescent mist. It was the source of the voice. “Honus is neither dead nor your father. Your mother hasn’t been honest.”

“You mean I’m not a goatherd’s son?”

The glowing mist resolved into the unclothed figure of a
man with features as crisply defined as if they had been cut from crystal. Froan saw something of himself in the face, the lean hard body, and the piercing eyes. There was a gaping hole in the man’s chest. Its torn edges quivered as he laughed in response to Froan’s question. “Is
that
what she told you? Your father’s a goatherd? How droll. And what did she say
she
was? An assassin? A whore? She would have, if she spoke true.”

“And what do you speak?” asked Froan. “Truth or slander?”

“The living need to lie. For gain. To evade justice. To gather renown. Only the dead can embrace honesty, for only they are beyond its consequences. Upon the Dark Path, the sole coin is truth. So hear me out and be wiser for it.”

“Who were you, then, other than my father?”

“A mighty lord of men. A conqueror.” Bahl’s spirit pointed to his empty chest. “Your mother’s victim.”

Froan stood dumbfounded.

“Haven’t you always sensed your differentness? Don’t you feel caged in this dismal bog?” asked the spirit. “That’s because you weren’t destined for a common life. You possess the patrimony of my line—a power over other men. Your mother has worked to subdue that power, to render you ordinary. Yet greatness will out. Think how easily you sway others to your will. With use, that power will grow. That’s what your mother seeks to prevent.”

“Why?”