[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers (8 page)

“Why does a slave bother with such questions?”

“Men took my body and sold it. A mind is more difficult to snare. Do you think only Karm’s Bearers ponder such things?”

“Apparently not.”

“I see such cruelty in the world and wonder why Karm allows it.”

“I’m unfit to answer such a question,” said Honus. “But Theodus thought much upon it.”

“And what did he conclude?”

“He believed something struggles against the goddess.”

“The evil you spoke of?”

“Perhaps.”

“But how can anything fight the goddess?”

“By corrupting the human heart.”

“A thoughtful answer,” said Yim. “Theodus sounds wise.”

“He was.”

“What happened to him?”

There was something in the tone of Yim’s voice that made Honus glance at her. She walked bent under the weight of his pack, sweating despite the day’s chill. Her eyes gazed into the distance, avoiding his. “Evil defeated him,” said Honus.

When he uttered those words, Honus imagined a change in Yim. He felt he saw a different person—one who struggled under a terrible burden. Then the impression left him, and Yim was only a slave wearied by a heavy pack.

NINE

T
HE FARTHER
Yim and Honus traveled, more silent the land became. Birds ceased calling, the air stilled, and the only voices were their own. Speech seemed out of place, as though they were disturbing a funeral. Nor was the quiet peaceful, for it was the result of tragedy. It oppressed Yim like the echoes of a thunderclap and felt as equally real. The day dragged on, and by afternoon, even Honus seemed fatigued. Yim trudged in senseless exhaustion.

“We must rest,” said Honus at last. “Luvein is a wearisome place.”

Yim slumped by the roadside without removing the pack. Honus drank from the water skin and held it out for Yim. She only stared blankly at the road, too tired to react. Honus began to put the skin away, halted, and knelt before Yim to bring the water skin to her lips. Yim drank, then looked at Honus with mute gratitude. Afterward, she closed her eyes.

When Yim awoke, it was early afternoon. She was surprised to discover that she was wrapped in her cloak and lying on the ground with the pack beside her. Honus was in the middle of the roadway, moving in what seemed to be a graceful yet savage dance. He kicked, swirled, and sliced the air with his feet and fists. There were moments of stillness followed by dazzling quickness that reminded Yim of the previous night’s deadly encounter. Honus spun, and suddenly his sword was in his hand. It flashed to sever a leaf from a bough. The leaf fluttered toward the ground. The sword sliced; then two parts fell. The blade whispered again, and the leaf was three, then four, then five pieces before it touched the earth. As suddenly as the sword appeared, it was sheathed and the dance continued. Yim was so mesmerized by the elegance of Honus’s movements that she nearly forgot their lethal application.

Honus continued his exercises long after Yim tired of watching them. She was rubbing her sore feet when he came over, dripping with sweat, to drink from the water skin. “We must resume our journey,” he said, “if we’re to reach the foothills by nightfall.”

Yim gazed down the road. Ahead, the land seemed to ripple, forming a succession of earthen waves that rose ever higher until they reached mountains. The peaks were hazy, but the nearer landscape was equally monochrome. It was merely a darker shade of gray. “What’s in the foothills, Master?”

“A few poor farmers. Some may hold yet to the old customs.”

“What customs?”

“Once, a Bearer or a Sarf could expect hospitality wherever they traveled. Now it is less so, especially in Luvein.”

Yim saw that the sky threatened rain. “It’d be good to sleep under a roof.” She put on the pack and felt as if it had never left her shoulders. Honus set out immediately. After a while, cold drizzle began to fall. Yim donned her cloak and was glad for its warmth. The drizzle changed to rain. As Yim trudged on, she looked for a homestead, but the empty land grew wilder and the hills still looked distant. When daylight faded, Yim began to despair of finding shelter.

“If we reach a farm, surely they’ll take us in,” said Yim. “Who would dare to defy a Sarf?”

“Food and shelter must be given freely,” said Honus. “Otherwise, Karm’s dishonored. Even if we find a farm, it’s not unlikely we’ll spend the night outside.”

As if to further discourage Yim, the rain began to fall harder. Soon she was treading through cold, viscous mud. Night arrived without any sign of habitation.

“It’s too wet for a fire,” said Honus, “and walking will keep us warm. We’ll travel as long as we can.”

Yim said nothing, but her thoughts dwelt upon how it was she, not Honus, who carried the pack. She trudged quietly through the gloomy rain until she spotted a faint glimmer in the darkness. “Master! A light!”

Away from the road was the ruin of a large stone house, black against a dark hillside. It appeared roofless, but from one of the lowest windows came the pale light of a fire reflected off stone walls. “Don’t get your hopes up,” said Honus as he headed toward the light. Yim followed him through a small, muddy field. The entrance to the house was doorless and the steps leading up to it had rotted away, stranding the doorway high on the wall. At the base of this wall, a man-sized hole had been smashed through the stones. It also lacked a door. Out of this cavity stepped a man bearing an ax.

“Ya stop thar!” he called out in a voice that mingled anger with fear. “What be ya wantin’?”

In the dim light, it was hard to make out the man’s age, but he appeared ill-treated by life. His large frame looked gaunt and his face was lined and worn. Yet his tangled hair and beard were black, and he moved with wiry strength.

Honus bowed his head politely. “We’re servants of Karm, Father.”

The man spit. “Father, my arse! So it be Karmish beggars. Do ya na come in pairs? Ah see just one…an’ his slut.”

Honus replied in a calm voice, “We request shelter and food in respect for the goddess.”

“Aye, an’ if she ever respected
me,
maybe thar’d be some ta give.” The man eyed Honus suspiciously and tensely held his ax at the ready.

“I’ll take nothing you don’t give freely, be it only a corner in your stable.”

“Then take yar whore an’ go rut in the woods,” replied the man.

“Come, Yim,” said Honus. “The goddess is not honored here.”

Honus had turned to walk back to the road when a ragged woman with wild, white hair hobbled out of the doorway. “Karmamatus!” she called in a thin, quavering voice. “Karmamatus, do na leave us.”

“Mam, go inside,” said the man. “It be too cold an’ wet fer ya.”

The old woman ignored her son and struggled through the mud until she reached Honus. She grasped his cloak with dirty, gnarled fingers. “Please, Karmamatus, please…”

“Mam,” said the man more gently than Yim expected, “they just be beggars.”

The woman looked about in confusion and saw Yim for the first time. Her eyes widened, and she let out a long wail that seemed to combine both deep sorrow and joy. She sank to her knees, buried her face in Honus’s cloak, and wept. The man dropped his ax and came over to lift his mother from the mud.

“Thank ya, Karmamatus,” she said between sobs. “Thank ya.” She turned to the man and said triumphantly, “Ah told ya, Gan! Ah told ya they’d bring her back!” She broke free from her son and embraced Yim with more strength than her frail frame seemed capable of mustering. Yim felt hot tears against her cold cheek as the woman sobbed softly into her ear. Gradually, the sobs changed to a whispered name. “Mirien…Mirien…Mirien…”

Gan sighed, his breath steaming in the damp air. “Come inside,” he said to Honus and Yim, not bothering to hide his irritation. “She will na abide ta see ya go.”

Yim walked through the opening with the old woman still clutching her. Inside the shell of the derelict house, an abode had been constructed by roofing over its basement. The stone walls were rough, but, unlike the chambers above them, they had withstood the assaults of time and man. The low, uneven ceiling was made of branches covered with slabs of bark and thatch. Rain leaked from it onto the dirty stone floor.

Gan’s mother led them through three dark rooms to one lit by a meager fire. The room smelled of the smoke that drifted out of a hole in the ceiling and of the pig kept in an adjacent chamber. The sow watched them from behind a barricade of thorny woven branches. The room was furnished with a crude table, a single bench, and a chest. The rest of the household’s few possessions were piled near one of the walls. Despite its rudeness, the room was mostly dry and the fire gave a bit of warmth.

As the old woman stroked Yim’s cheek and kissed it occasionally, Yim gave Gan a puzzled look.

“She be havin’ one o’ her fits,” said Gan in answer to Yim’s unspoken question. “She thinks ya be my older sister, stolen as a child.”

In the firelight, it was clear that Gan was at least forty and that his mother’s eyes shone with madness. At the moment, they also shone with love.

“Mirien,” said the old woman with a breath that smelled of rotted teeth, “ya have been gone overlong. Tell me,” she whispered, glancing toward Honus, “be he yar husband?”

“Tell her what she wants ta hear,” said Gan heavily. “It will make na difference.”

“Yes, Mommy,” replied Yim, “he is.”

The old woman beamed, displaying a single yellow tooth. “A Sarf, too. What a fine husband, though Ah do na like his face.”

“There’s a tender face beneath the fierce one.”

Mam squinted at Honus. “Aye, Ah think Ah ken see it.” Her face grew sad and her mouth began to quiver. “Why? Why did ya na invite us ta the wedding feast?”

“We wed in Bremven, Mommy. You were there. Don’t you remember?”

“Ah…Ah think…” replied Mam, growing confused. “It be hard ta recall. Aye. Ah remember now.”

“I wore flowers in my hair and Honus frightened you before you learned how gentle he was.”

A gleam came to Mam’s wet eyes. “Aye…flowers.”

“White roses.”

Mam breathed in deeply. “Oh, the smell o’ them. Did…did Ah dance?”

“Dance? You danced all night! You wore me out.”

“Ah did! Ah did! Ah beed strong then. An’ young!”

Gan, who had been watching this exchange with a melancholy expression, started to leave the room. “Ah’ll get some more roots fer the pot,” he said.

“An’ ale,” called out his mother. “Ale fer yar sister an’ her fine new husband.”

Gan scowled, but returned with an earthenware jug along with two roots. He threw the latter, unwashed, into a pot sitting on the fire. Then he took four rough wooden bowls from the floor near the wall and poured ale into them. The flat brew was sour and skunky, but Yim drank it all in hopes of a bit of warmth. Honus took one polite sip, then pushed his bowl away. Gan grabbed Honus’s bowl and drained it before refilling his own. Mam raised her bowl in a silent toast and slurped down its contents. Afterward, she turned quiet and smiled blankly as she swayed to music only she could hear.

Gan downed the third bowl of ale and some color came to his face. “Yar woman,” he said to Honus with a sneer, “be full o’ tricks.”

“Yes. She’s surprising,” said Honus. He fixed his eyes on Yim. “How did you know to call her ‘Mommy’?”

Yim looked away to avoid his gaze. “That’s what I called my own mother.”

“Then it was a clever guess,” said Honus.

“’Twill make na difference,” said Gan, glancing at his swaying mother. “She’ll ferget all this by morning. Then, maybe, she’ll have a new fit…” He grinned at Yim with jagged teeth. “…an’ slit yar throat.”

Yim didn’t react to Gan’s remark, but quietly asked, “What happened to Mirien?”

“Ah beed young, but Ah ken na ferget,” said Gan. “It be like yesterday. Mam an’ me came back from gatherin’ mushrooms. My da be slain an’ Mirien be gone.”

“Was your sister young?” asked Yim.

“Aye,” replied Gan, “but old enough fer some men. We found her in the road…” He poured and gulped down another bowl. “Mam went daft. Day after day, she prayed ta the goddess!” he said. “The goddess that took her child, then took her mind! Honor Karm? Ah’d sooner honor a whore! Ah’ll tell ya ’bout yar Balance. A strong man pushes down on it, till the scale favors him!”

“Like the strong men who took your sister?” asked Honus.

“Ya ken na fool me with yar Karmish talk. Ah found a true god! A strong god, na some sluttish woman.” He pulled at a cord around his neck to reveal an iron pendant in the form of a circle. “The Eater!”

Honus coldly eyed the rusty symbol. “The Devourer of Souls.”

“Ta become one with his strength! My hate becomes his hate!”

TEN

G
AN’S SHOUTING
broke his mother’s reverie, and she looked about in confusion. If she noticed Yim or Honus, she made no sign of it. “Gan,” she said in a whiny voice, “Ah’m hungry.”

Gan gathered up the bowls and went over to the pot. With a wooden spoon, he fished out one root for each bowl and poured in some of the cooking water for broth. He brought Mam’s and his bowls over to the table, leaving Honus and Yim to get theirs. Taking out a knife, he peeled Mam’s root and mashed it into mush with the spoon. He placed the bowl and spoon before her, then picked up his own dinner and began to eat.

Yim served Honus and herself. The roots in the muddy broth were small and partly rotted. She placed the largest one in front of Honus and sat at the end of the bench to eat. Before she could do so, Honus wordlessly switched their bowls. “Thank you, Master,” said Yim. Honus didn’t reply.

The meager meal was eaten in silence. The only sounds were Mam’s slurping and the falling rain. Yim was so hungry she ate the root unpeeled and drank all the gritty broth. As she ate, the fire died down to embers and the room grew darker. When the meal was consumed, Gan rose. “There be some hay in the room closest ta the outer door,” he said. He went over to the wall and dragged two large, lumpy sacks that served as beds closer to the dying embers. Mam hobbled over to one and lay down. Gan took the ale jug and a bowl over to the other sack and sat upon it.