Authors: Morgan Howell
Froan’s haste paid off. When he reached Tararc Hite’s far shore, Telk’s reed boat was still in view. It was laden with fish traps, and Telk was poling it down the narrow channel. Froan called out. “Stop! Come back.”
Telk immediately began to pole back toward the shore, obviously puzzled by his friend’s unexpected arrival. Before he could say anything, Froan spoke. “I had a vision last eve.”
“From tha Mother?”
“Of course, from her. She said we’re to go to Twin Hite to receive a token of our fate.”
“But Da wants these traps out by morn,” replied Telk.
Froan gazed at Telk in the same manner that his father’s spirit had regarded him and used his eyes to convey a sense of urgency. “The traps are unimportant,” he said. “We’ve been charged by the Mother to do this. Besides, when your da checks the traps this eve, he won’t know when they were set out.”
“Nay, he won’t,” agreed Telk. He seemed infected by his friend’s mood, for he picked up the pace of his poling. Soon his small craft touched the bank. Froan stepped aboard, confident that Telk would do his bidding.
* * *
Twin Hite was a prominent but rarely visited spot. Thrusting from the water to the height of half a dozen men, the spire of rock resembled an index and middle finger pressed together. It served as a landmark, but was good for nothing else, since its sides were nearly vertical. The only place a man could comfortably stand was on its lofty top. The hite lay close to where the bog merged with the Turgen in an area of tangled channels that was more river than fens.
It took a long while for Telk to thread his small craft through the maze of waterways, which often came to dead ends that forced him to find another route. The sun was high in the morning sky when he reached the hite and found no bank on which to beach his boat. “Now what?” asked Telk.
Froan had been silent throughout the journey, caught up in splendid daydreams. Roused from those reveries, he gazed up at the towering rock. “Pole around the hite until I spot a place to climb it.”
Telk did as he was told, and on the far side of the hite, Froan found a place to attempt to scale it. A wide and jagged crack ran up the rock face, and its weathered interior provided a few holds. Telk maneuvered the reed boat until Froan was able to grip the rock, pull himself up, and begin climbing. The ascent was difficult and risky, but Froan approached it with a single-mindedness that vanquished fear. Soon Telk and the boat were left far below.
Froan had nearly reached the summit of the hite when he came upon an opening in the rear of the crack. It was a crevice that extended deeper into the stone. When Froan peered into its dark interior he saw a vague form. Curious, he entered the crevice, which widened to form a small cavity.
There, he discovered a man’s body. When Froan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he perceived that the corpse was ancient, little more than a skeleton wrapped in papery skin and moldering garments. The clothing wasn’t that of a
fensman and appeared exotic, furthering the body’s air of mystery. Froan had no idea how the man had come to be in the crevice or the manner of his death.
Is this the token I’m supposed to find?
he wondered.
If so, what does it mean?
Then Froan saw that the bony hands resting on the corpse’s lap gripped an elongated object wrapped in cloth. The way the dead man held the bundle gave the impression that he was presenting a gift. Froan touched the wrapping and it disintegrated into dust, revealing a leather scabbard. When Froan gently pulled at it, the skeletal hands fell apart and tumbled to the crevice floor. Projecting from the newly freed scabbard was the hilt of a dagger with a brass pommel resembling the head of a snarling beast. Then the scabbard, like the cloth that had wrapped it, fell to pieces in Froan’s hand to reveal a polished blade that had remained keen despite its long hiding. Reflecting the dim light, it shone like moonlit water.
The dagger’s preservation seemed an omen, as well as the crumbling of its scabbard, which prevented the blade from being sheathed again. “I, too, have been hidden from the world,” Froan said. He held the blade aloft. “But no more. My destiny has been revealed! I’m to take up this blade and claim my place!” The words rang within the narrow space, sounding grand and forceful to him—something a great lord would say. The weapon felt natural in his hand, less an extension of his arm than its completion. It seemed as if the blade always had been meant for him, and the thought gave him a heady sense of power. Already, the dagger was precious to him as both a token of his future and a means to achieve it.
Upon further examination of the corpse, Froan found a sword. Unlike the dagger, it had lain in a wet place and its scabbard had rotted away to expose a blade pitted with rust. Nevertheless, Froan decided to take it also. The upper portion of the dead man’s cloak remained sound, and Froan cut two pieces from it to wrap the sword and dagger.
Then he cut long strips of cloth and used them to tie the pair of bundles to his back. Descending the crack with reckless haste, Froan reached the reed boat with his treasures. He held out the largest bundle to Telk. “The Mother has sent us signs,” he said. “This one’s for you.”
Telk seldom questioned his friend’s pronouncements, and he didn’t on this occasion either. Instead, he seemed swept up by Froan’s excitement as he pulled the aged cloth from the token of his fate. Froan caught the disappointment on Telk’s face at the sight of the rusty blade, and he quickly spoke to ease it. “Yes, the sword’s rusty. That’s to test your resolve. Take a stone to the blade and make it gleam.”
“I will, Froan. ’Twill sparkle like tha sun.”
“Be quick with your work, for our time draws nigh. You must be ready.”
“For what?”
“Adventure. Riches. Renown. Now pole us back so we might prepare. Gather your things in readiness for a quick departure.”
Yim went through the motions of her morning routine with her mind elsewhere. Her thoughts dwelt solely on her son and what she would say to him when he returned. She could only guess about the nature of Froan’s “vision” and what Lord Bahl had told him. She didn’t even know if Bahl was alive or dead. Her only certainty was that her son hadn’t been told the whole truth.
Would he choose to lose his soul for the sake of power and riches?
Froan’s father had, but Yim wondered if he had had any choice in the matter.
Does Froan?
Yim worried that her son might have been doomed upon the moment of his conception.
But if that’s true, then the world’s doomed also
.
Hoping her sacrifices hadn’t been pointless, Yim tried to devise an argument that would sway her son from following Lord Bahl’s footsteps. After she came up with one, she rehearsed it out loud during the morning’s tasks. “I hid the
truth for your sake,” she said for the dozenth time as she curdled milk to make cheese, “waiting until you gained the strength to hear it. Yes, your father was a lord with a great palace and a mighty army, but that power wasn’t truly his. Its source was an evil being that possessed and consumed him. By the time I met your father, he was only a husk of a man. When you were conceived, that evil passed to you. It’s the cause of your rages and unnatural urges. I know something of its power, for a trace lingers in me. It’s a terrible legacy, and if you fail to master it, it will master you.
“Your father would have you become its slave, as he was. Heed him and you’ll be doomed to a vile and bloody life. Do you wish to become a monster whose name evokes only fear? I brought you here so you might avoid that fate.”
As Yim squeezed the water from the curds, she refined her argument. She also wondered if she should tell Froan that she was the Chosen, whose life’s task was to bear Lord Bahl’s child.
Should I recount my degradation while in Bahl’s power? Reveal the nature of the Devourer? What tone should I take? Stern? Loving?
Yim wavered on those points before concluding that Froan’s state of mind would determine the best approach. All she could do was wait for his return, then gauge his mood and decide how best to proceed.
It was midmorning when Yim was seized by the sudden fear that Froan might try to sneak away. Abruptly halting her cheese making, she ran back to their tiny home in a state of panic that eased only when she found Froan’s things undisturbed. Yim realized that she had been lucky and that Froan could have easily slipped away forever. She resolved not to give him another opportunity and remained indoors.
The day passed slowly until it was time for the second milking. Froan had yet to come home. Still waiting for him, Yim heard the does grow distressed when no one emptied their swollen udders. Their bleating sounded ever more urgent until Yim knew that she must do something. Taking the
goats to the milking shed was out of the question, so she led the head doe to a dense thicket near her home, knowing the herd would follow. Yim settled in a place where she could view her doorway and began to milk the does simply to relieve them. Their milk spurted on the ground and was wasted, but that seemed of no consequence. Yim was milking her fifth goat, when she saw Froan approach the doorway. His stealthy manner made her think that he had timed his arrival to avoid her. Froan appeared unaware of Yim’s presence, so she waited until he entered their home. Then she followed him inside.
As Yim suspected, her son was hastily preparing to depart. Already, his winter boots and most of his clothing lay piled inside his spread-out cloak. Yim also spied house hold goods among them—a small cooking pot, a water skin, and some utensils along with a flint and iron. “Going on a journey?” she asked.
Froan started and whirled to regard her with a haughty gaze that reminded Yim of Lord Bahl. “That’s not your concern,” he said.
Yim struggled to keep her voice calm, and she even forced a smile. “Of course it is. I’m your mother.”
“I had a father, too. What of him?”
“I hid the truth for your sake, waiting until …”
Froan appeared not to be listening. Instead, he reached into the pile upon his cloak and pulled out something wrapped in an ancient scrap of cloth. “My father gave me a sign,” he said. “A token of my future.” His right hand disappeared into the cloth and emerged holding a dagger.
At the sight of the blade, Yim’s carefully reasoned arguments vanished from her mind. Her entire focus centered on the dagger. The weapon seemed to have transformed her son, as if it were some evil talisman. Seeing Froan brandish it stirred grim memories of soldiers’ bloody deeds, and with those memories came rage. “How dare you?” shouted Yim. “How dare you bring that thing into our home?”
Without forethought, Yim grabbed Froan’s wrist with both hands and twisted it. He gave a startled cry as his arm was wrenched into an awkward and painful position. His fingers flew open, and the dagger fell to the dirt floor. Both Yim and Froan lunged for it, but Froan grabbed the hilt first. Yim saw the blade move upward just as she was falling toward it. There was a burning sensation across her throat as she struck the floor. Then she quickly rose to a kneeling position and gazed up at her son.
Froan was backing away, dagger in hand, as he stared at her. His expression was unreadable, for it seemed that emotions were warring within him. Then one appeared to gain the upper hand—horror. Froan looked away, and Yim followed his gaze toward the blade. It was stained with blood. Then Yim understood why her throat burned.
It’s been cut
, she thought.
That blood is mine
. She glanced downward. Crimson stained her tunic and the dirt floor before her knees. Yim looked at her son again, wondering if she was still capable of speech. Though her eyes met his, she could no longer see him clearly, for the light seemed to be fading. She tried to say “I forgive you,” but growing darkness snuffed out her words. All Yim was able to do was gaze at her child as shadow enveloped him.
F
ROAN WATCHED
aghast as his mother fixed her eyes on him and attempted to speak. Her lips quivered, but instead of words, a single drop of blood passed her parted lips. The silence was terrible. The drop grew larger until it
rolled down her chin, leaving a crimson trail. Then his mother’s face turned deathly pale, and her eyes rolled upward. She collapsed with a slight twisting motion to lie still upon the floor.
I’ve killed her!
Froan thought, unsure if the deed was accidental or not. It had happened so quickly that his memory of the event was incoherent. His most vivid recollections were of how easily her flesh had parted and of his opposing reactions of horror and exultation. It seemed as if two persons had watched, each with feelings totally alien to the other’s. Froan struggled to reconcile that he was both those persons, but it was impossible. He felt that he could be only one of them. He had either done something horrendous and abominable or he had avenged his father’s murder and liberated himself in the process.
Torn between those two conceptions, Froan was unable to decide which was true. His emotions were too powerful and immediate for that. Then he felt an urge that was as appalling as his mother’s death—a craving to taste her blood. The compulsion was so strong that Froan was bending toward his mother’s gashed neck before revulsion made him shrink back. He quickly wiped the blood from the dagger with the scrap of cloth that had wrapped it, fighting the urge to lick the blade instead. The effort left him trembling. Fearing that if he didn’t flee immediately he would succumb to his unnatural compulsion, he grabbed his cloak. In his haste, he was unmindful that many of the items he had gathered tumbled from his makeshift bundle. Taking it up, he turned to leave the only home he had ever known.
Froan took one last remorseful glance at the crumpled woman who had nurtured him all his life. Then he dashed outside. As he ran, his vision blurred with tears and his stomach churned. Soon he began retching and was forced to halt and vomit. Because he had eaten nothing since breakfast, only a thin stream of sour liquid issued forth. Nonetheless, his stomach convulsed for a long while. When it finally
settled, he was thoroughly miserable. The future that had seemed so alluring felt tainted by his mother’s death.