Authors: Morgan Howell
“Because the weak despise the strong. She would smother your light rather than endure its brightness. And she would justify her betrayal in the name of Karm, the goddess of timidity.”
“What you say stirs me,” said Froan, “but your accusations dampen its appeal. Mam has cared for me all my life, while you offer only words.”
“I offer truth,” replied the spirit. “Truth you can test yourself. Not only does Honus live, he’s a Sarf—the deadliest
of men. He’s a killer, not a goatherd. Moreover, your mother forsook him so she might bed me. Spring this news on her and watch her face. It will confirm my honesty.”
“And what good will that do?”
“It’ll free you from a web of lies, so you might become your true self. That’s no small thing. If you choose to seek your destiny, first visit a high and barren rock that lies near the river. It’s shaped like two stone fingers pressed together.”
“Twin Hite,” said Froan, recognizing the place from its description.
“The power that oversees the world has worked its will to provide you an omen. Deep in a crevice near the rock’s summit you’ll find a token of your birthright, one that will help you achieve it.”
“Who are you, and why do you speak in riddles?”
The spirit came closer, and for the first time, Froan felt the full power of its gaze. Then his doubt and wariness seemed foolish. He felt a deep kinship with the spirit and was ready—even eager—to believe all it said.
“My name you may not know until you gain the strength to bear it. Until then, it would only imperil you. Great lords have many enemies.”
“Tell me how I might achieve that strength.”
“It’ll be easier than you think. Follow your instincts. Your first impulse will always be the right one. Remember that you were born to rule and laws are made for common men. Be ruthless, and you’ll succeed where I failed. Always remember that there is strength in anger. Use its power to make your way.” With those words, the spirit began to grow nebulous. “And heed this parting warning most of all: Never bed a virgin.”
“Wait!” cried Froan. “Did my mother slay you? And when will I know …” His voice trailed off as the spirit faded altogether.
F
ROAN STARED
into the darkness for a long while as a succession of emotions gripped him. He was perplexed, suspicious, and excited in turn without settling on one reaction.
What just happened?
he wondered. Froan had heard of visions, but the spirit didn’t seem divine. The fensfolk spoke of boghaunts, the lost souls of persons swallowed by the muck; yet the apparition hadn’t died by drowning. Thus it was possible that the ghost was what it claimed to be—the shade of his father.
Since much of what the spirit said affirmed Froan’s deepest yearnings, he wanted to believe it. However, some of its claims were disturbing.
My mam a whore and a murderer?
That seemed as farfetched as it was unsettling, for Froan considered his mother naive and squeamish. Yet Froan felt that he couldn’t pick and chose what to believe. The spirit had either revealed the truth or attempted to deceive him. There seemed only two possibilities: he was either the son of a lowly goatherd or the heir of a mighty lord. Furthermore, if he was destined for greatness, then his mother was a murderous whore. The alternatives were so extreme that Froan couldn’t decide which was genuine. Fortunately, the spirit had provided a means to confirm its claims. All Froan needed to do was catch his mother in an unguarded moment and reveal what the spirit had said about Honus. Regardless of what happened next, Froan felt certain that he would learn the truth.
It was dusk when Froan left the cave and headed
homeward. Preoccupied with the bizarre visitation, he was halfway home before remembering that he was supposed to bring some meat. He rushed back to the smoke cave, opened its door, and grabbed some strips of goat from the rack inside. Then, after latching the door, Froan hurried to dinner.
When he arrived, his mother, who preferred to cook outdoors in warm weather, was stirring a pot nestled among orange-red embers. Lit by their dim glow, her face appeared serene but also mysterious. Froan had spent his entire life in her company, but he had given little thought to her existence before he was born. In that respect, she was as much a mystery to him as she was to the fensfolk. Thinking upon the matter, Froan couldn’t decide if his ignorance was due to indifference on his part or evasion on hers. He had learned only recently that she had been a slave, and it wasn’t his mother who had told him.
Perhaps her past is as sordid as the spirit said
, thought Froan. Although he was anxious to discover the truth, it didn’t seem the right time to confront his mother, for the dim light would make it hard to read her expression.
Froan handed his mother the strips of smoked goat meat and retreated from the light, aware that his face might betray his turmoil. As she tore apart the meat and added it to the pot of simmering tubers and herbs, her expression became uneasy. She shivered and looked in his direction. “Did something happen to you?” she asked.
“No,” replied Froan, taking pains to keep his voice even and casual. “I’m just hungry.”
“Then you’ll enjoy this stew. The meat will give it savor,” his mother replied, still gazing at Froan’s shadowed face.
Froan had been cold since birth, and he seldom noticed his perpetual chill, but at that moment he did. It had deepened. Moreover, his mother seemed to have noted the change, causing Froan to speculate that was why she shivered despite her nearness to the embers.
Is it my chill that makes her uneasy
or something else?
It was another question that he must postpone asking.
Froan walked toward the entrance of the home that the two of them shared. “There’s a chill in the air,” he said, anxious to avoid his mother’s gaze. “I’m going to get my cloak.”
The door was open to admit the faint light from the evening sky, but Froan could have found his cloak with his eyes closed. The outer wall of moss-chinked stone enclosed a cramped cavity chipped into the rocky hite. It barely accommodated two narrow mattresses, some pots and baskets, and a space to cook. In the fashion of all fens abodes, the hearth was set into the outer wall, which also incorporated a chimney. Froan had to duck his head to pass through the doorway. Then it took only two steps before his outstretched hand touched his cloak, which hung from a peg on the far wall.
Froan slipped the goatskin garment over his bare shoulders, but he didn’t immediately rejoin his mother. Instead, he imagined how his home would seem to his noble father. The cavity smelled strongly of smoke, although his mother has been cooking outside since spring. It also smelled of goats and the two people who tended them. Darkness obscured most of the meager possessions that hung from pegs or cluttered the tiny floor, but Froan saw them in his mind’s eye. They seemed few and pitiful. He had heard tales of lords, how they wore colorful garments made of fine cloth, dined off golden plates on meat at every meal, and lived in stone-built houses the size of hites.
What would my father think of this tiny hole?
It was easy to guess:
It seems more a pen than a home
.
When Froan emerged into the night, his mother was still gazing in his direction. He found a shadowed spot and sat down. After a while, his mother broke the silence. “I’ll do the milking next morn so you can go to Green Hite and deliver some cheeses.”
“To whom?”
“Turtoc. He has smoked eels to trade. I know you’re fond of them.”
“Green Hite’s a fair trek from here,” said Froan. “How’d you learn about the eels?”
“Oh, I had cause to visit there.” After a spell of silence, his mother added, “Most like, Turtoc will be tending his traps, but Treemi will be there.”
“Who?”
“His eldest daughter. You’ve met her before. She’s comely with golden hair.”
“I scarce recall her.”
“Well, she certainly remembers you. I sensed an attraction.”
“She’s but a girl.”
“Not so! She’s nigh on sixteen winters. And not only pretty but a hard worker and sweet tempered.”
“Mam, what are you saying?”
“Fensfolk marry young, and—”
“Is that what you wish for me? To wed a fish trapper’s daughter?” Froan recalled the spirit’s warning that he should never bed a virgin. It suddenly seemed highly relevant.
“I wish you to be happy,” replied his mother. “It’d be a good match.”
“Forget it. I’m going to be like you and never marry anyone.”
“But I did marry. I married Honus.”
Froan had to fight the impulse to challenge that assertion, and he found the strength to do so from an unlikely source. It was the part of him that he called his shadow. Before, it had only spurred his anger, but on this occasion it tempered his urge to act. Then Froan saw the advantage of a more cold-blooded approach and changed his tone. “Of course,” he said. “I forgot Honus. You were happy with him, weren’t you?”
“To the day he died.”
Froan was glad that the shadows hid his smile. “I’ll see that girl tomorrow, and I’ll keep an open mind.”
“That’s all I ask,” replied his mother in a meek tone that Froan found annoying.
You’re playing with me
, he thought.
Working to forestall my future
. For the time being, that future was still nebulous to Froan, a dream without specifics. Thinking upon it, he was eager for morning to come.
Daylight will reveal what the night hides. Then perhaps Mam’s games will cease
.
Dawn found Froan wide-awake and still calculating how to best surprise his mother. He rose and ate a bit of cold stew, then waited for her to rise. When she did, she smiled at him. “No milking for you this morning.”
“How many cheeses should I take to Green Hite?”
“Two. I’ve already spoken to Turtoc. We’ll get six eels for them.”
“You gave him generous terms,” said Froan, guessing his mother’s reasons.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Treemi gives you a few extra. Just use your charm.”
Froan smiled. “I’ll do my best.” He didn’t leave, but waited until his mother stepped outside to round up the goats for milking. Following her into the sunlight, he called to her in a gentle voice. “Mam.”
She halted and turned.
Froan walked over to her until they were close enough to touch. “About last night,” he said. “I know you wish the best for me.” His mother’s face took on a pleased look, mingled with a hint of relief. Froan gazed at her eyes, but was unable to peer behind them. With others, he could perceive far more—sense emotions and grasp unspoken thoughts. But when he gazed at his mother, Froan saw only what came to the surface. Nevertheless, he had grown skilled at reading
her most subtle expressions. Nothing escaped his notice. He reached out and tenderly grasped her arms. “Mam, have you ever had a vision?” Watching his mother carefully, Froan noted his question both surprised and alarmed her.
“Never.”
“I think I did last night.”
“What did you see?” asked his mother in a voice that strained to seem casual but revealed growing apprehension.
Froan permitted himself to smile ever so slightly. “My father.”
“Honus?” Apprehension turned to outright fear.
Froan, ever more certain where the truth lay, tightened his grip on his mother’s arms as he spoke. “You mean the killer you abandoned? He’s not my father.” Froan watched the blood drain from his mother’s face. When she struggled to break free, he held her fast. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out? My sire’s a lord, not a goatherd.”
“No! No!”
“It’s pointless to lie. Your face betrays you.” Froan released his mother, who stood transfixed by shock. “I was born for greatness, and you’ll not hold me back!” Then Froan smiled, turned on his heel, and strode away. He was ten paces down the path before his mother cried out to him. “Froan! Froan! Come back!” Her voice seemed on the verge of sobbing and sounded pathetic to his ears. Froan didn’t even turn around.
As Yim watched her son stride away, she realized that trying to stop him would be both futile and foolish. Froan had managed to totally surprise her, and the shock of his revelation had left her stunned. Yim had no idea what to do, but she felt a wrong move would be disastrous. Since Froan had stormed off wearing only a breechclout, he was virtually guaranteed to return home. When he did, Yim would have a chance to sway his course. She suspected it would be her only one.
What chagrined Yim most was how all her sacrifices had been for naught.
Why did I presume I could hide Froan from the Devourer?
In retrospect, the idea seemed naive, even though she had vanished from the larger world. From the perspective of Averen or Bremven, the Grey Fens were as distant as the moon. The fensfolk had been so astonished by her arrival that some still didn’t believe that she was human. Yet the bog had proved no sanctuary.
The Devourer is like the goddess
, thought Yim.
It overlooks all the world. It was merely biding its time until my son grew
.
Yim realized her mistake in relying on isolation and deception. Froan had learned the truth despite them.
But only part of the truth
, thought Yim.
He’s learned his father was great and powerful, but I doubt he knows what that power cost him
. Yim saw that her only hope lay in revealing the whole truth about Lord Bahl to Froan, and in that effort, her previous deceptions would work against her. Froan had learned his true parentage, and having caught her in a lie, he would hold all she said suspect. Nevertheless, speaking truth was her only option short of violence, and Yim could never harm Froan. For seventeen winters, she had nurtured and loved him. Knowing that his flaws arose from his conception, she felt if Froan failed to overcome them, it would be her fault, not his.
What ever it costs me
, Yim swore to herself,
I’ll save him from his doom
.
F
ROAN DASHED
through the bog in order to catch Telk before he left to check his fish traps. Certain that the apparition had been his father, Froan was anxious to visit Twin Hite and discover the token that the spirit said would be there. To do that, he would need Telk, for the hite was reachable only by boat.