[Shadowed Path 02] - Candle in the Storm (14 page)

It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all he had. Daijen headed for the taverns in the Averen quarter. As he walked, he devised his story. It would be about a vision, a gift from the goddess. He would recount the disjointed images he had seen and say they hinted where he might find his long-lost child. A daughter named Yim.
 
With patience, I’ll find someone who’ll know of the place I seek 
. Already, Daijen envisioned himself astride a new steed and riding forth to regain his master’s favor.

FIFTEEN

IT WAS
tradition to feast after a Sarf’s final ceremony in order to celebrate his deeds. Honus saw the meal of roast pheasant as honoring the form—but not the substance—of that custom. He felt there was nothing to celebrate and couldn’t bring himself to forgive Gatt, even if Yim did. He knew it was a fault in him, but that knowledge didn’t sway his heart. Honus only pecked at his food, his appetite spoiled by discontent. Ill will toward Gatt wasn’t its source: That morning he had felt blessed, and that blessing had been withdrawn.

Honus was angry, but he was unsure where to direct his anger. Certainly not at Yim. She gazed at him with such love and sadness that it was painful to look into her eyes. She who had so handily deceived him had become unable to hide her feelings. They were raw, and Yim seemed tortured by them. Every time she glanced at his face, she acted like a bird stealing grain from a cat—stealthy and hesitant, yet driven by need. Her obvious torment was both pathetic and endearing. Honus wondered how he might soothe her misery but doubted it was possible.

Did Karm do this to her? Is this some trial? And who’s being tested? Yim or I?
Honus believed that Karm was the goddess of compassion; yet to inflict such an ordeal seemed cruel.
 
But when has Karm ever smoothed my way?
 
Honus recalled being taken from his parents, his rigid training, the pain of the tattoo needle, the hard road he traveled with Theodus, and his beloved Bearer’s gruesome death.
 
And now
 this!
 
Nevertheless, Honus couldn’t rage against the goddess. She was the well of holiness, the same holiness that drew him to Yim.

Honus wondered if he should be angry with himself. If he had caused Yim to love him, then he had also caused her torment. It pained him to think that, but the more he considered the notion, the truer it seemed. But if Yim was a victim of his love, he was also. Despite himself, Honus reached out to grasp Yim’s hand, which was greasy from eating pheasant. She didn’t pull away. “I’m sorry, Yim.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replied.

“Spoken by one who forgives her assassin.”

“He wasn’t my assassin. He didn’t kill me.” Yim squeezed Honus’s hand. “Thanks to you.”

“Still, I regret the pain love brings you.”

“That pain is Karm’s gift,” replied Yim, her voice laced with irony. “Most of her gifts are accompanied by pain. You know that yourself. Many times I’ve seen you trance and return stricken by another’s forgotten grief. Yet you still do it.”

“I trance to seek happy memories, not sorrowful ones.”

“Then you endure the bitter for the sake of the sweet.” Yim smiled. “Your touch gladdens me, though it stirs my yearning.”

Honus sighed and released Yim’s hand.

“Honus, I’ll learn to live with this. I must.”

In the Western Reach, the burning village lit the night. The peasant soldiers had finished their slaughter and withdrawn, leaving the Iron Guard to systematically loot and burn. Wearing a dead man’s helm and breastplate, Hendric sat close to a campfire and stared at his hand. The encampment was crowded, and the darkness was filled with the sounds of men pushed to extremity. Some cried in pain, while others laughed with a raucousness that bordered on hysteria. A few, still caught up in the battle frenzy, cursed and
 roared incoherently. Somewhere, a woman screamed. But Hendric shut out the din, fully engaged by the puzzle at the end of his wrist.

When did I lose those fingers?
he wondered. He had no recollection of the event. They had been there in the morning, and by night they were gone. The little finger on his sword hand was entirely missing and only parts of the next three fingers remained. The bloody stumps were painful, and it was pain that first alerted Hendric that something had happened to him. He assumed that the fingers had been severed in the assault, but when and how were mysteries to him.

Hendric had been in five battles so far, but he recalled none of them coherently. His recollections seemed like half-remembered dreams suffused with manic glee. Once he had been a tenderhearted man, a peasant who hated butchering his chickens. Nevertheless, Slasher had been right; Hendric had come to relish killing. When Bahl stirred his troops for battle, Hendric was swept up in exultant frenzy. Then nothing mattered except the task at hand. During those times, Hendric was capable of anything, and it was easy to disregard the loss of a few fingers.

The peasant never understood how Lord Bahl incited him. It seemed to be more than the power of words. He seldom recalled what was said; only that Bahl’s speech stirred him like music that echoed in his mind for ever-longer periods. While it did, Hendric was transported to an energetic form of oblivion that expunged his longing, misery, and fear. Afterward, he was always exhausted and bloody. Moreover, sickening images would haunt his waking thoughts and disturb his sleep. Hendric feared they were memories of things he had done. Regardless, he had come to crave those frantic spells as a drunkard craves ale. Though the aftermath was hard, forgetfulness was bliss.

The army had been on the march for days, leaving a swath of destruction and slaughter in its wake. Lord Bahl
 rode at its head, accompanied by the priest, the Most Holy Gorm, and Hendric’s own lord, Count Yaun. The peasant despised the count who had taken him from everyone he loved, but he felt differently about Lord Bahl. He feared his cruelty, but he also held him in awe. Lord Bahl seemed more than a man, and thus immune to men’s judgment. And with each new round of slaughter, his power over Hendric and the other men grew.

Already, there were men among the troops who were never free from Lord Bahl’s spell. They were always eager to kill and dangerous to be around. As the march progressed, their numbers increased, despite losses within the army. When Hendric reflected on it, the battle frenzy lingered ever longer in him also. Existence blurred. He had only a vague idea of where he was, other than far from home. He knew that they were headed for Averen, but he didn’t know when they’d get there. Hendric hoped it would be soon, for one thing Lord Bahl had said stuck in his mind: In Averen, misery would be washed from his soul in a bath of blood.

Yim slept wrapped in her cloak, apart from Honus. When she arose the next morning, she scattered Gatt’s ashes before resuming her journey to Cara’s. They were far enough from the highway that it seemed pointless to return to it, and since Honus knew the country from his travels with Theodus, he proposed another route. “Westward lie the lands of Clan Dolbane,” he said. “There we’ll find farmsteads and roads.”

“And will we be welcome?”

“Theodus and I were in the past,” replied Honus. “I don’t know how we’ll fare now.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” said Yim, hoping that when she reached Cara’s lands she wouldn’t find folk turned against her.

Honus led the way to where he had fought with Gatt and then headed west. For most of the morning, the land
 they traveled was wooded and wild. The rocky terrain was rugged, and though they walked within valleys, they usually hiked uphill. Until the midsummer sun rose high, the air had a crispness to it. They found a narrow pathway just before noon, and Yim was glad for some sign that people lived about. A short while later, they encountered a field on a sunny mountainside. At its edge was a dwelling that was half-buried into the slope. Smoke rose from a hole in its roof.

“Let’s see how we’ll be greeted,” said Yim. The two climbed the slope until they reached the house. It was made of stone where it touched the ground, and timber above that. The logs that formed its walls had been squared before they were fitted together, and the spaces between them were chinked with moss. The roof was made of broad wooden shakes, weighted with stones. At the rear of the house, the roof merged with the mountain’s slope. The smoke hole was there, surrounded by wide slabs of stone. The only windows were on the structure’s front. They were small and their shutters were flung open, as was the dwelling’s door. Yim approached the house without seeing anyone and peered inside.

The sunny day made the single room beyond the doorway seem all the darker. Yim saw a dirt floor, a table, benches, a loom, and lines that were strung between the walls. Various shades of twisted wool dangled from the lines. Some of the wool steamed and dripped from recent dyeing. At the far end of the room, Yim spied a fire and a large kettle. A small figure stirred the kettle. It took a moment for Yim’s eyes to adjust and discern that the figure was that of a girl, perhaps eleven winters old. Plaid homespun was wrapped about her thin waist to form a skirt that reached midcalf. A second length of plaid was tucked into the top of her skirt. It passed across her chest, over her left shoulder, and down her back to tuck into the skirt’s rear. These two items comprised her garments, for she wore no shirt and her feet were bare. Her long, light brown hair was tied back, exposing a face whose
 sootiness made the girl’s wide-eyed stare all the more conspicuous. Concerned that Honus’s face might have frightened the child, Yim bowed low and said, “Greetings, dear. We’re servants of Karm.”

The girl said nothing, but she dropped the wooden stirring paddle and slowly edged toward the table. Yim noted there was a knife upon it. “My companion’s face looks grim, but his heart is kind. You need not fear him or me. We bring Karm’s blessing.”

“Karm’s dead,” said the girl, laying her hand on the knife hilt, but not grasping it.

Yim smiled and spoke in a light, almost amused tone. “How can a goddess die?”

“Da said she did,” stated the girl, as if that assertion explained everything.

“Then I bring good news. Karm still watches over you.”

The girl simply stared at Yim with doubt and more than a hint of suspicion. Yim, sensing the futility of speaking further, motioned for Honus to back away. She bowed again and said, “Tell your da that we bestowed our blessing.” Then she turned and departed.

Trudging down the slope, Yim observed the girl dash from the house and disappear into the trees that surrounded the field. She wondered what the girl would tell her father and if they should fear another attack. After no one appeared, either friendly or hostile, Yim’s thoughts turned to the girl’s assertion that Karm was dead. She tried to dismiss it as foolishness, something an ignorant girl repeated without understanding. It might be a lie from a black priest or a mere misunderstanding. Nonetheless, the idea worked on Yim’s imagination. It matched her foreboding that something terrible loomed ahead. It also recalled her disturbing visions. The last two times Karm had appeared to her, the goddess had been covered with blood. She had seemed battered, not powerful. And Karm’s last visitation had been followed
 by a disturbing absence that intensified Yim’s feelings of abandonment.

Honus walked in front, so he was unaware of Yim’s musings. They returned to the trail, which gradually broadened into a narrow dirt road as it snaked through a high valley. There, the southward slopes were cleared wherever the stony ground was level enough to till or use for pasturage. Among the clearings, Yim spotted dwellings, but her encounter with the girl had made her reluctant to approach them. Occasionally, they met people on the road. Both the men and women wore costumes similar to the young girl’s, but their attire usually included long-sleeved shirts and boots or sandals. Since everyone greeted her politely—albeit tersely—as they passed, Yim began to think her first encounter was a fluke. Eventually, she decided that it was, and when dusk approached she sought hospitality.

Yim spotted a homestead built of timber and stone and told Honus to head for it. Like the first dwelling they visited, it was partly buried into the mountain’s slope. It was more expansive, however, appearing to have been enlarged by several additions. Yim noticed adults and children toiling in a nearby field. About the house, more children were driving sheep into a pen or doing other chores while two boys in their late teens sparred vigorously using wooden swords. Red welts upon their arms and chests proved the earnestness of their practice.

A woman, her blond hair streaked with gray, emerged from the house when Yim and Honus reached it. She was barefoot and her plaids and woolen blouse were soiled and threadbare, but she bore herself with dignity. Yim bowed to her. “Mother, we seek food and shelter in respect for the goddess.”

“My husband is lord here,” replied the woman. “‘tis his place to say aye or nay.” She pointed to the field. “He’s guiding the plow.”

Yim bowed to the woman and walked over to the field. There, a gray-haired man was plowing under the stubble of winter grain. A young couple pulled the plow, the woman round with child. Ragged, barefoot children walked behind to scatter grain in the freshly turned furrows. The plowman halted when he saw Yim approach. She bowed to him and repeated her request. The man regarded her with interest. “At first I thought I was seeing spirits,” he said without returning Yim’s bow, “but you seem solid enough. Aye, you can sup and sleep with us.”

Yim bowed. “Karm sees your generosity.”