The Iron Palace Page 8

  Gorm scrutinized the runes that the bones exposed and spied a word spelled out in an ancient tongue. It meant “frost.” He also found the symbols for “north” and “water.” Other signs led him to conclude that all those things concerned the heir. Gorm was puzzled by the word “frost,” though he was confident its significance would be revealed in time. “North” and “water” doubtlessly concerned the heir’s whereabouts. As such, they were the first clues to the lad’s location that Gorm had received. The force that has been concealing him is weakening, he concluded. It was a promising development.

  Wanting to learn more about his opponent, Gorm looked for the vertebra that represented the enemy. At first, it seemed to be missing. Then the priest saw where it had bounced. It had landed far from the other bones, exactly on the edge of a shadow. Gorm blinked, uncertain that he was seeing correctly, for the vertebra was precariously balanced on the narrow, flat tip that projected from its rear. It was a highly improbable position, as unlikely as a flipped coin landing on its edge and remaining there. Obviously, the bone would tip over and fall either into light or shadow. Gorm waited to see which, convinced that the outcome would be a meaningful portent. However, the bone remained balanced until he grew impatient and blew in its direction. A single puff of air was all that was necessary to send it tumbling into darkness.

  THIRTEEN

  AT DAYBREAK, Yim didn’t so much awake as drift into consciousness. She was feverish, and the pain in her throat had spread. Her entire neck felt on fire, as did her jaw and upper chest. Yim was also slightly delirious, but she had enough clarity of mind to know that the spreading pain was a bad sign.

  I’ll die if I stay here, Yim thought. The idea of seeking help was daunting, but fear spurred her to rise from her bed. It was a struggle to get to her feet and remain standing. Nevertheless, certain that her condition would only worsen, Yim realized that she should leave immediately. She paused only to grab her healer’s kit, so that with her guidance, Rappali might prepare curative brews and stitch up her wound.

  As soon as Yim staggered outside, bleating does surrounded her. All were frantic to be milked. Pained by their swollen udders, they jostled and butted their mistress. Yim understood their distress, but she was in no condition to relieve it. She pushed onward, hampered by the herd until one doe butted her hard enough to send her sprawling. Yim’s hard landing tore the crusts on her wound and fresh blood flowed from it. Pain and frustration drove Yim to weep. “I can’t!” she cried between sobs. “I can’t help you! I’m not sure I can help myself.”

  Yim rose shakily to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the doe that had butted her. Fortunately, the other does pressed around her, and their massed bodies prevented another assault. They also hampered Yim’s progress. Only when she reached the bog did the herd hang back, wary of stepping on unfirm ground.

  There was but a single way to and from Far Hite, and it was so convoluted and treacherous that only Yim and Froan used it. Since the route altered with shifts in the floating vegetation, Yim found the firmest footing largely by feel, her bare feet detecting subtle changes better than her eyes. This was especially true on a stretch where the winding route was submerged by black, stagnant water.

  Yim’s pain and fever dulled her senses just when they were needed most, and she was well aware of the risk she was taking by entering the bog. Convinced that she had no other choice, Yim moved onward, blinking her eyes to clear her vision. It was daylight, but everything seemed blurry and dark. Blinking didn’t change that. Nonetheless, she continued to advance, hoping that memory and feel would get her through.

  For a while, they did. But when Yim reached the submerged part of the route, she got into trouble. In her fevered state, she couldn’t follow the ridge beneath the fetid water and quickly found herself waist-deep in the bog. Yim halted. Standing on one foot, she groped with the other to feel the incline. Her toes proved too numb for the task.

  Yim planted both feet in the muck and stood still. If she slipped, stagnant water would contaminate her open wound. Such mishaps could make even a small cut fatal; as a healer, Yim had seen it happen. Yet standing didn’t help matters. She was dizzy and disoriented. Furthermore, her feet were sinking ever deeper into the muck. Inaction wouldn’t save her, so Yim stepped in the direction that she hoped would take her to shallower water. Weak from fever and impeded by the muck that gripped her feet, Yim pitched face-first into the murky water. Immersion in the foul liquid shocked her into frantic action. Clawing with both hands and feet, she found the submerged slope and scrambled up it to emerge gasping for air.

  Yim felt doomed. Not only was she drenched with bog water and its thick decay, she had lost her healer’s kit. Regardless, she struggled onward toward Tararc Hite. She had passed through the most treacherous stretch of the journey, and while the way ahead was long, it was also easier. When Yim reached the solid ground of the neighboring hite, she was totally spent. She staggered up the path, barely aware of her surroundings. When Yim encountered Rappali, she didn’t recognize her.

  Rappali dropped the basket of fish she was carrying when she saw the bloody and bedraggled figure on the path. For a terrified instant, she thought it was a boghaunt, for it looked and moved like a dead thing. Then Rappali’s terror changed to horror and concern as she recognized her friend. “Yim! By tha Mother, what’s happened ta ya?”

  Yim answered with a single moan, then all her limbs went slack. Rappali was barely able to catch her as she fell. That’s when she saw the ugly gash in Yim’s neck. It was a gruesome sight, and Rappali’s breakfast rose in her throat. That didn’t keep her from holding on to her friend. Gripping Yim’s torso with her left hand, Rappali slipped her right under Yim’s knee to heft her up and cradle her. Then she staggered up the path with her unconscious burden.

  When Rappali reached home, she placed Yim on the table. Roarc stirred from his morning rest and stared. “What did ya bring here, woman?”

  “Yim. Someone’s cut her throat.”

  “Is she dead?”

  “Nay, not yet. Go fetch tha healwife.”

  Roarc yawned. “Have Telk do it. I need my rest.”

  “Telk hasn’t been home since yestermorn.”

  Roarc grinned. “Probably seeing some lass. High time, too.”

  “So ya’ll have ta go.”

  Roarc peered at Yim. “Pah! There’s no point ta it. She’s good as dead.”

  Rappali fixed her husband with a sharp look. “Mayhap so, but if ya want me ta share yar bed, ya’ll go and go now! And don’t tell tha healwife who ya’re fetching her ta mend.”

  “I’ll go,” said Roarc, “but for yar sake, not hers.”

  After her husband left, Rappali used a damp rag to clean Yim as best she could. She wept while she did so, for her friend was a terrible sight. The entire front of her tunic was stained with blood that no amount of rubbing could remove, and her limbs were covered in muck, bog rot, and bloodstains. Cleaning around the gash distressed Rappali most, and it caused her to worry that whoever attacked Yim might have also attacked Telk. Mayhap he’s not with a lass at all but lying slain in tha bog! The thought made Rappali frantic, and she began to gently shake Yim in hope that she could tell her something about the attack. Yim only moaned softly, as someone in a deep sleep. Seeing that shaking her friend was pointless, Rappali let her lie undisturbed.

  * * *

  Roarc didn’t return with the healwife until late afternoon, and Yim had remained unconscious the entire time. The healwife was an elderly but vigorous woman with sharp features and dark, clever eyes. She glared at Roarc when she saw Yim lying on the table. “Ya said I was ta mend yar son, not this outsider!”

  “Rappali told me ta say that.”

  The healer fixed her eyes on Rappali. “Did ya think I would not come if I knew tha truth?”

  “It crossed my mind. But I only told my husband not ta say who ya’d be mending.”

  The healwife walked over to Yim and felt her brow. When she prodded the wound wi
th her fingers, Rappali looked away, but she heard Yim moan. Then the healwife spoke. “I’ll not mend anyone taday. She’s beyond hope.”

  “At least sew up tha wound.”

  “Why? Ya’ll only have a more comely corpse.”

  “Sew her up anyway.”

  “Is it worth a basket of dried fish? That’s my fee.”

  “Ya’ll have it,” said Rappali. “Is there nothing more ta be done for her?”

  “See tha flesh ’bout tha wound?” said the healwife. “ ’Tis fiery red, and like fire ’twill spread ta consume her spirit.”

  “Mayhap ya’re letting her die from spite, though Yim was never yar rival.”

  “She tended births, births I should’ve tended.”

  “Only when begged ta do so, and then she never took a fee.”

  “Which was all tha worse for me!”

  “So folk will be right when they say ya killed her,” said Rappali.

  “Nay, ’twasn’t I who cut her throat.”

  “Aye, ’tis a grievous wound, and if ya cured it, folk would say ’twas truly a miracle. Pity tha deed’s beyond ya.”

  The healwife thought a moment before she spoke. “I do know of a draught that will either cure or kill her. ’Tis poison—poison that fights a wound’s poison. If I give it ta her and she dies, will ya say I slew her?”

  “Nay. I swear by tha Mother.”

  “Then set two pots of water ta boil,” said the healwife, “and I’ll do what I can.”

  Roarc, who had silently watched the exchange, approached the healwife. “My wife said we’ll pay for tha sewing, and so we shall. But ’twouldn’t it be fairer if Yim paid for tha draught?”

  The healwife gave the fish trapper a cold look. “And what if she dies?”

  “Then she’ll have paid ya with her life,” replied Roarc with a grin. “A steep fee by my reckoning.”

  The old woman didn’t reply, but searched her healer’s pouch for what she needed. She withdrew some herbs, three small dried mushrooms the color of dried blood, and a sewing kit containing a length of gut and a curved needle. Then she waited for the water to boil. When it did, she placed the herbs in one pot and the mushrooms in the other and then let them steep. Afterward, she cleansed Yim’s wound with the herbal solution and neatly sewed it close. Yim lay perfectly silent and still throughout the entire process, an ill omen according to the healwife.

  After Yim’s wound was stitched, the healwife took the leg bone of a small animal from her pouch. It had been cut in half and the marrow removed to form a small, hollow tube that was closed at one end. Then she filled the bone with the mushroom brew. “Give her one bone full at sunrise and noon, and then two bones full at sunset,” said the healwife. “I’ll show ya how.” She lifted Yim into a sitting position and eased her head back so that her mouth gaped open. Then she emptied the bone’s contents directly down Yim’s throat. “Ya can feed her clear broth tha same way.”

  “And how long should I give her tha draught?” asked Rappali.

  “Till she wakes or dies,” said the healwife. “Most like, ’twill take a while either way. She might last like this for days.”

  Rappali saw her husband roll his eyes at that news. “Yim’s a strong one,” she said. “She crossed tha fens by herself and gave birth alone. If anyone could live, ’twould be her. Thank ya for yar help. Only praise of ya will come from my lips, however this turns out.”

  Roarc gave the healwife her fee, then took her home. Rappali kept a vigil over her friend. The fiery red that marked much of Yim’s throat remained, but it ceased spreading. Rappali was pleased by this until she noticed that Yim’s color was fading also. Her lips turned almost white, and her skin took on a bluish pallor. Rappali would have thought that Yim had died except for the slight rise and fall of her chest. For a long while, Rappali simply watched Yim breathe. When she became convinced that her friend wasn’t about to expire, she set about making fish broth for her.

  It was dusk when Roarc returned home to find his wife still tending Yim, who lay in a corner upon a makeshift bed of cut reeds. “Too dark ta check tha traps,” he grumbled. “A whole day gone ta waste.” He walked over to look at Yim. “She looks dead.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Well, not yet. Is Telk home?”

  “Nay,” said Rappali. “Roarc, do ya think—think that whoever did this ta Yim also hurt our boy?”

  “Nay, he’s with some lass,” replied Roarc without conviction.

  “ ’Twould be tha first time.”

  “Then mayhap he’s with Froan, larking about.”

  Though Rappali assumed that Roarc meant to comfort her, his words had the opposite effect. She had been wondering why Froan hadn’t shown up, for she was certain that he would have missed his mother by then. Yim never leaves him for long, Rappali thought. She’s so devoted ta him. Too devoted, mayhap. Rappali worried that Froan’s absence was an ominous sign. She feared that her husband might be right; Telk could very well be with Froan. If he was, she doubted their activities would be described as “larking.” She eyed the stitched-up gash across Yim’s throat, increasingly convinced that it was connected with Telk’s disappearance.

  FOURTEEN

  FROAN AND Telk’s second day upon the river had been much like their first, and the third day followed the pattern of the previous two. The tiny craft remained a captive of the current, which pulled it ever farther from the shore. They were ignored by the other boats they spotted. The river was so broad that the boats often appeared as mere specks on the water. The only noticeable changes occurred in the surrounding landscape. The fens still covered the southern shore, but no hites could be seen in the seemingly endless expanse of reeds.

  To the north, islands began to appear. They reminded Froan of hites in the way they jutted from the water. As the day progressed, they became more numerous. Most were small and rocky, but some were larger. Those were often wooded. Froan sometimes spotted dwellings on their shores. Occasionally, the boat drifted quite close to an island; but being unable to steer, they could only gaze at it as they glided by.

  They still had an ample supply of cheese and smoked goat, but Froan’s concern over the boat riding low in the water had been valid. Continuous submersion in a fast-moving current was waterlogging the reeds, and the craft was becoming less buoyant. Froan feared that in a day or two they would be wallowing in the river. Telk seemed oblivious of the threat as he stared listlessly at the passing scenery and boats.

  Toward the end of the third day, a low, sleek boat passed them. It had a mast, but its sail was furled and oars moved the craft against the current. Froan waved to it, as he had waved to all the other boats. At first, there was no response. Then the boat slowed and a man climbed over its side into a rowboat in tow. He untied it and rowed toward Froan and Telk.

  As the stranger approached, Froan became wary. He slid the dagger tucked in his waistband toward his rear so his goatskin cloak hid it. Then he whispered to Telk, telling him to have his sword ready. Showing some animation at last, Telk grabbed his sword and laid it across his lap, hilt in hand. Then the pair anxiously waited as the man approached. He was short but burly, with a dark, tangled beard and a deeply tanned, sun-creased face. He rowed until his boat was three paces away, then pulled in his oars to drift close by. Gazing at Telk’s sword he grinned. “Ye lads pirates?”

  “Nay,” replied Telk.

  “Ah thought not. More like fensmen, by the look o’ ye. Why are ye out here?”

  “To make our way in the world,” said Froan.

  The man’s grin broadened. “In a sinkin’ boat with nary a paddle? Ye’re none too smart, but mayhap yer clever enough to pull an oar.”

  “We can do that,” said Froan.

  “Then swim on over, and Ah’ll take ye aboard.”

  “We can’t swim,” said Telk.

  “Well, ’tis a pity,” said the man. “But Ah’ll pull alongside, so ye can board.” He gazed at Telk as if sizing him up. “Ye go first, but afore ye do,
hand me that sword. Those vittles, too.”

  Telk turned to Froan, silently asking his permission. As Froan nodded, the man maneuvered his craft until its side nestled against the reed boat. As Telk handed over his sword, Froan nimbly hopped into the other craft. The man appeared annoyed, but he attempted to hide it. “Whoa, young hare!” he said as his boat rocked from Froan’s quick boarding. “Ye’ll capsize us. Then yer way in the world will be straight to the river bottom. What’s the big fella’s name?”

  “Telk.”

  “Now Telk, no hoppin’. Hand me the vittles, then step over easy.”

  Froan caught the man’s eyes with his gaze. “After you take the food,” he said, “don’t leave him behind.”

  The stranger looked startled. Then he forced a smile as Froan continued to stare at him. “Why would ye say that?”

  “Because you intended to leave me behind.”

  An uneasy silence followed. After Telk boarded the boat, Froan released the man from his gaze. The stranger looked away and said in a husky voice, “Ah don’t know what ye’re talkin’ ’bout.” Afterward, he picked up the oars and began to row.

  As they neared the waiting boat, Froan steeled himself for what would happen next. One glimpse into his “rescuer’s” eyes left him no doubt that his life was in danger and a single misstep would prove fatal. Yet instead of fear, he felt rage. His hatred for the man who had intended to take his food and abandon him was visceral. He was tempted to kill him on the spot, but he knew that would be foolish. Thus he put on a bland face to hide his feelings.