The Iron Palace (26 page)

Spurred by a heightened sense of urgency, Yim began another bout with her inner darkness. This time, she didn’t bother to sit on her heels but remained standing to go through the meditations. The vigor of her assault allowed her to trap the darkness quickly. Then she opened her eyes. One hand felt icy. Yim peered at her sunlit palm and spied a dark spot there. It was small, nebulous, and blacker than the darkest shadow. Instinctively, she tried to fling it away as if it were a glob of excrement or something equally foul. The effort was futile. As the spot quickly faded into her hand, Yim conceded that it was bound to her.

Although Yim felt discouraged, her experiments led to some positive conclusions. First of all, she and the Devourer were separate, despite the intimacy of their association. Furthermore, she possessed some control over it. She believed that the same would be true for Froan. It gave her hope that he could fight the thing that afflicted him and avoid succumbing to it.
This is the message I must take to Froan
, she thought.
The goodness in him can triumph!

Desperate for any scrap of hope, Yim didn’t try to figure how that triumph might be achieved. For the moment, its mere possibility was enough to sustain her. She had a long journey ahead and ample time to delve into that problem. Moreover, Yim felt it was likely that her instincts would guide her in the end. Meanwhile, she could prepare for that future confrontation by occasionally sparring with her shadowy inner foe.

Yim’s struggles left her hungry, and she searched the grove for anything edible. All she found were a few woody mushrooms growing on a tree trunk and several large grasshoppers. After she plucked the wings and barbed legs
from the latter, she gobbled them down with the mushrooms. The insects’ chitinous shells stuck between her teeth, but they were quite satisfactory otherwise. Yim smiled to herself as she imagined how Honus would have reacted to her meal.
He was always squeamish when it came to food
.

Having eaten, Yim began to walk south, keeping an eye out for grasshoppers as she did. She hiked all day, except for brief pauses to rest. Along the way, she found streams to drink from and refill her water skin. She also encountered the tumbled stones of former dwellings. Usually they were fire blackened. In the late afternoon, she stumbled across the ruins of an entire village. It, also, seemed to have been razed by fire.

When the sun neared the horizon, she found the shell of a hut. Since it would provide shelter from the wind, she decided to spend the night there. The partial stone walls were the only evidence that people had ever occupied the spot. The roofless interior of the hut looked no different from the surrounding grassland, and it didn’t contain a single scrap of metal, shard of pottery, or anything else made by human hands. Yim couldn’t tell if time or looters had scoured the structure. Either way, its air of desolation was the same. There was no wood for a fire, so Yim simply leaned against a wall, opened her small bundle of wingless and legless insects, and ate her crunchy evemeal.

The next several days were much the same. Yim continued walking south through a landscape empty of people. She continued her bouts with her inner foe. Sometimes, it seemed to her that her chill had lessened. Other times, she thought that she merely had grown accustomed to it. Having finished the last of the smoked goat, Yim subsisted on what ever she could forage, which was insects and a few wild plants.

The weather turned sharply colder on the fourth day of travel, giving Yim a foretaste of autumn. She donned her cloak, but kept her thin-soled goatskin boots in her pack.
The sudden cold made insects scarce, and that scarcity persisted even after the weather turned mild again. By then, Yim’s empty belly ached from hunger.

The land had become hilly, and Yim saw the territory ahead only when she crested a hilltop. She was heading up a slope when she heard a sound that stopped her short—the bleating of a goat. Following her ears, Yim discovered a solitary doe in a nearby hollow. The doe’s udder was swollen with milk, indicating she was probably someone’s dairy goat. Yim glanced about but saw no sign of a herder or human presence of any kind.
Perhaps she’s a stray
, thought Yim.

Mindful that goats were often wary of strangers, Yim approached the animal calmly and gradually, all the while speaking in a gentle, cooing voice. With every step, Yim’s stomach pangs grew more intense as she thought of the doe’s rich milk. When Yim reached the doe, she gently stroked the animal’s back. While approaching a strange doe was difficult, Yim knew that milking one was virtually impossible. Goats liked a fixed routine with the same person milking them. Moreover, a milking stand and treats were considered essential. With the odds so stacked against success, only desperation caused Yim to bother trying.

While continuing to stroke the doe and talk to her, Yim knelt down by the doe’s rear flank and pressed her head against it. Then Yim gently grasped a teat. The doe started, then calmed. Yim always had a way with animals, and she was especially experienced with goats. Nonetheless, she was astonished when the doe submitted to being milked. Yim kneaded a teat with her right hand to spurt warm milk into the cupped palm of her left, which she then pressed to her lips to slurp down its contents. Each small taste was exquisite, providing not only the nourishment Yim craved but also evoking memories of her life at Far Hite.

It was an extremely slow way to milk a goat, and one that required Yim’s total concentration. Her focus was further increased
by her near-starving state. Thus the first time Yim was aware of the man’s approach was when he shouted, “Thief!” She turned in the direction of the shout as the goat scampered off. A man in peasant garb was striding toward her. Already, he was only a few paces away. Before Yim could rise, he closed the distance to within striking range of his staff. It was a stout piece of wood, and he held it ready to deliver a blow.

D
ESPITE HER
fear, Yim was too exhausted to run. Furthermore, she thought it would be futile. The man was ready to strike, and any attempt at flight was likely to provoke him. Hoping to avoid serious injury, Yim sought to protect her head by covering it with her arms and hands. Then she bent down, curled into a ball, and tensed for a beating. No blows fell. “Ah called ye thief,” said the man. “What do ye say ta that?”

Yim peeked up. The man was watching her intently, his large, gnarled hands still holding his staff high. “I was starving, so I took the milk out of need,” she said. “I’ll repay you for it.”

“How? Have ye any coin?”

“No, but I’ll work off my debt.”

“Pah! Ye’re like ta eat more than yer labor’s worth.”

Yim continued to observe the man, who looked old but hardy. His grizzled face was sun-darkened and lined, a match for the gray hair that fell in tangles from the edge of his bald pate. Gazing into his dark eyes, she perceived that
the raised staff was only a bluff. “I’ve experience with goats,” Yim said. “I kept a herd.”

“Where?”

“The Grey Fens.”

“Ye’ve journeyed far,” said the man. “Why?”

“To find my son. He ran off.”

“He wouldn’t have come this way. No one does.” The man lowered his staff as he squinted at Yim. “Someone’s cut yer throat,” he said. “Not long ago, by tha looks o’ it.”

“It was an accident.”

“Pah!” The man continued to scrutinize Yim. “Ah think yer son did it.”

“No.”

“Yer face tells a different tale.” The man shook his head in sympathy, as if he understood far more than he said. “Ye’re too tired ta hide tha truth, so tell me if Ah was seein’ right: Were ye really milkin’ that doe?”

“Yes.” Yim held out her left hand, which was sticky with goat milk. “Take a sniff, and you’ll know I speak true.”

The man grasped Yim’s extended hand and smelled her palm. “Aye, it smells o’ milk, but Ah still don’t know how. Only mah wife ken milk that doe.”

“I understand goats,” Yim said. “I herded them for seventeen winters.”

The man gazed hard at Yim as if he was trying to come to a decision. “What have ye et o’ late?” he asked at last. “Other than my goat’s milk.”

“Roots and seeds. A few grasshoppers.”

“We eat plain fare, but ’tis better than that. Ye said ye’re willin’ ta work. Did ye mean it?”

“Yes.”

The man pulled a short length of rope from a pocket and handed it to Yim. “Then ye ken fetch tha doe ye milked.”

Yim took the rope, then looked about. The doe was still in sight, grazing at the far side of the hollow. “Does she have a name?” Yim asked.

“Aye. Muka, and she’s a contrary beast.”

“Muka,” called Yim in the same calming tone she had used before. “Muka, come with me.” She walked slowly toward the goat, talking all the while. Muka continued grazing, and when Yim reached her, she didn’t resist the rope being tied about her neck. “Good girl, Muka! Now come. You’re going home.”

Yim led Muka back to the waiting man, who stood watching in amazement. “Ye saved me half o’ day o’ trampin’, and earned yerself a meal,” he said. “Ah’m Hewt and mah wife is Witha.”

Still somewhat wary, Yim thought a moment before she replied. “I’m Mirien,” she said.

“Well, Mirien, ye look wore out. Ye sure yer boy’s worth such trouble?”

Hewt took the rope from Yim and then guided her and his goat to his hut. It proved to be a long hike. He crested the hill, descended into the narrow valley beyond, which he crossed to climb the ridge on its far side. The ridge overlooked another valley that was wider than the previous one. Directly below lay Hewt’s hut, nestled in a fold at the ridge’s base. Yim’s guide was silent during their walk, allowing Yim to ponder the unexpected turn of events. She felt apprehensive, and as she followed Hewt, she wondered if she would regret her offer to work for him.

Hewt’s hut was a low building made of sod with brambles planted upon its roof, probably to discourage goats from grazing on it. Yim was surprised to see that a ring of half-buried cobblestones surrounded the hut, marking it as a Wise Woman’s dwelling. Its facade featured a single door and several small square holes that served as windows. The door was open and a voice emerged from it. “Hewt, do Ah hear someone with ye?”

“Aye, ’tis a lass. She found Muka. Her name’s Mirien.”

Hewt’s reply drew Witha outside. Her tangled white hair,
deeply lined face, and bent posture made her look older than her spouse and more infirm. Witha’s blue eyes were filmed over, and she moved as one who was nearly blind.

“She’s offered ta work fer a while,” said Hewt.

“Why?”

“ ’Cause she’s wore out and hungry after lookin’ fer her son. She has a way with goats and could help with tha milkin’ and other chores.”

“ ’Twould be as when Rowena—”

“Nay, love,” said Hewt quickly. “Mirien don’t plan ta stay.”

“Mayhap, but that ken change,” answered Witha. “Come inside, Mirien.”

As Hewt led the goat away, Witha went back into the hut. Yim followed her. The room was dark, for the thick turf walls prevented the windows from scattering much light. The dim interior smelled of herbs and woodsmoke, reminding Yim of her guardian’s hut. The floor was hard-packed earth, but the walls were paneled with boards that bristled with wooden pegs. Dried herbs dangled from most of them. “You’re a Wise Woman,” Yim said.

“Aye, but a blind one, so few have faith in mah skills.” Witha gestured to a small table with benches on either side. “Please sit.”

As Yim sat on a bench, Witha went into a side room and returned with a hunk of bread, a small earthenware bowl of yogurt, and a wooden spoon. Next she brought out a cup of goat milk. After placing these before Yim, Witha sat down on the opposite bench and let her guest eat undisturbed. She spoke only after the bread, milk, and yogurt were gone. “Ken Ah touch yer face? Mah fingers are like eyes ta me.”

“Of course,” said Yim, guiding the old woman’s hand to her cheek.

Witha’s fingers softly brushed over Yim’s features. “Yer young.”

“Not so young. I’ve thirty-six winters.”

“Ye feel younger.” Witha’s fingertips rounded Yim’s chin and traveled down her neck until they touched her scar. Then the old woman’s expression became agitated, and after she traced the raised mark left by Yim’s wound, she burst out sobbing.

“What’s the matter?” asked Yim.

“They cut her throat, too. Our daughter … our Rowena.”

“I’m sorry to remind you of your grief. Perhaps I should g—”

Witha gripped Yim’s wrist. “Nay, nay. Don’t leave. Stay as long as ye wish.” Yim’s host lowered her voice to a whisper. “Ah knew ye’d come.”

“How could you know that?”

“After Karm took mah sight, she spoke ta me.” Witha fixed her milky eyes on Yim as though they could still see clearly. “Don’t feed tha dark. ’Tis stronger than ye think.”

“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Neither do Ah, Mirien. But that’s what tha goddess said.”

“Then I guess I should be mindful at night,” said Yim, trying hard to keep her voice calm. “Did Karm have any other advice?”

“Nay, dear, but Ah have some o’ mah own. Ye need ta rest and build yer strength. Ah don’t know fer what, but Ah ken feel weariness in yer face and hear it in yer voice.”

Yim ended up taking Witha’s advice. She did so warily at first, not because she distrusted the couple, but because she had ceased to believe in the possibility of good fortune. Nevertheless, after a lonely and arduous journey, she had a roof over her head, sufficient food, a dry and warm place to sleep, and the company of two kindly people. Having assumed a slain girl’s name, Yim found herself assuming a slain daughter’s role. She performed Rowena’s chores, slept in her bed, and at Witha’s insistence, inherited Rowena’s clothes.

Yim’s new clothing was less outlandish than her goatskin outfit, which was why she accepted the gift. It was peasant garb, plain and durable, consisting of a sleeveless linen shift that was worn under a woolen skirt and blouse. The rust-colored skirt reached midcalf and had a pouchlike pocket in the front. The blouse was collarless, with baggy sleeves that ended high above Yim’s wrists. It was gray and laced up in the front. She also received a hooded cloak and a pair of sturdy boots that were only slightly larger than her feet.