Talen lugged Legs until his collarbone felt like it was going to break. He rested. Picked him up again. Rested. He carried him across the two creeks, hid him in a canoe they’d found on the side of the river, and lugged him through the woods downstream and on the other side.
He’d scuttled their trail as best he knew how from any dogs that might be following. But that didn’t keep them from having to skirt around two more groups of men on the watch, nor did it help them avoid the farms and wooden shacks that stood in their path. In the end, they’d used a whole day to do what should have taken, at most, two hours.
At last, they crested a hill that led down to the Widow’s valley. They were both bloody-footed, but they’d made it.
Talen didn’t dare climb a tree to get a look below. The branches would shake too much as he ascended. But he knew a spot on the hill that opened to a good view. He and Legs sat there for some time watching. He saw nothing but vultures circling in the updrafts, the horse the Creek Widow called the Tailor eating away at the grass in the apple orchard, and the Creek Widow digging herself a new cesspit for the privy.
He was satisfied nobody waited for them there, but nevertheless, he waited until the sun set to descend the hill and enter the Creek Widow’s yard. He wasn’t more than a dozen paces from the front door, when someone spoke from behind. “That will be far enough.”
Talen froze.
“State who you are and what business you have sneaking about my yard at night.”
It was the Creek Widow herself. But where had she come from?
Talen turned. She held a pitchfork out in front of her with a fair amount of menace. Warrior, her ancient dog, stood at her side. He mustered one woof and fell silent.
“I told you before,” said Talen, “one old woman out here on her own-you’ve got to have a dog that will chase more than biscuits.”
“Talen,” she said. “Lights, you’re lucky you haven’t got the tines of my pitchfork in your back.” She turned to Legs. “It’s good to see you, Purity’s son.”
She looked out into the yard, across the pasture. “Now, both of you, get in the house.”
“I hope you’ve got something to eat,” said Talen, “because we’re starving.”
“Food?” She stabbed the pitchfork at him. “I think I promised a beating the last time you were here. Now get.” She eyed the woods behind them. Perhaps the valley wasn’t as peaceful as it had appeared from the top of the hill. Talen turned with Legs and hurried into the house. A Creator’s wreath hung above the widow’s door. The Festival of Gifts was coming, and everyone wanted to thank the Creators and invite their blessings. The wreaths would soon be everywhere-above the gates of each city, on the bows of ships, over the windows of barns.
The Creek Widow came hard on their heels and shut the door behind them. Then she turned on Talen. The fire from the hearth was the only light in the house. Something delicious cooked on the stove and filled the room with the smell of beef and onions.
“What are you two doing?” she said.
“Is River here?”
“River?”
Talen’s heart sank.
“You tell me what’s happened,” she said.
Talen did. He told her about going into Whitecliff, the weave, and the little creature at the window. He told her about packing up to leave, about the monster, River and Sugar going after it, and his encounters with Fabbis and the hunt.
His tale elicited a running commentary of grunts from her. When he finished, she put her hands on her hips. “Men,” she said in disgust. “I told them it was time when Purity was first caught. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Men,” she said again. “Always leaving the woman to clean up.” She looked at Talen and Legs. “And you can be sure I will clean up. We must leave, this house isn’t safe.”
“Where are we going?”
“The refuge, my boy. The refuge.” she sighed. “I knew it was fraying apart when your da sent his letter. I told him. I told your da. I told him, I told him, I told him. But no. That man won’t listen. Now if I were his wife, I would have made him listen. River, bless her heart, I know she tries. But a daughter can’t hold her own like a wife can. Men get stupid when they run on their own, Talen. That’s just how it is. And your father’s gotten stupider than most. Your mother kept the beef out of his brain. But she’s too long gone. Too long without a good woman. And that’s the truth.” She grunted again and looked to the rafters for answers. “May the Six bless him. He’s going to need it.” She directed her attention to Talen. “Fetch the Tailor from the field.”
“Will the others be there?” asked Talen.
“Others?”
“Aren’t there a number of other people in the Order?” asked Talen. “Won’t we need them to attempt a rescue?”
“Son,” said the Creek Widow, “your uncle’s on a ship headed for Mokad, your da’s who knows where in the custody of Lord Shim and the Fir-Noy, we’ve got some creature from the tales taking us down one by one. I don’t know where your brother is. We weren’t many to begin with. You want others?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m afraid you’re looking at them.”
“But-”
“If anybody has survived, we will find them at the refuge. I was waiting for the final word. I cannot wait anymore. We must leave immediately.”
Talen saddled the Tailor and brought him around the front of the house, worrying the whole time that someone was spying on them. The Tailor was named after a man the Creek Widow had loved once. Talen had never gotten the full story and didn’t know if the man died or simply jilted her.
He helped Legs up and then held the horse as the Creek Widow filled the saddlebags with a few necessities and what she said were her three most prized possessions-a fat codex of lore she’d been hiding in a stone box under the floor, two yards of bright yellow silk she had not yet been able to bring herself to wear and probably never would, and an ancient cooking pot her great-grandmother had given her.
When she finished tying everything off, the Creek Widow walked to the well, drew a bucket of water, then carried it to the south side of her home where her almond tree starts stood in a single straight line of pots on a narrow table. She watered them, gently brushed each with her hand, then stood back and addressed the group. “I cannot promise I’ll return, lovelies. And there’s no time to put you where you belong.” She grunted over that fact and shook her head.
“No, I just can’t,” she said. She turned to Talen. “Bring me a spade.”
“But-”
“Cha!” she said.
Talen fetched a spade from the barn and brought it to her. “I thought we had to leave immediately.”
“Hush,” she said. “Gather an armful and follow me. Those pots will dry out in a day.”
They carried the nine starts to the garden and hastily planted them between two rows of cabbage.
“I know you’ll be a bit crowded,” she said to them. “But it will have to do.” Then she stood and said good-bye to her apple trees and the two walnuts she prized the most. She walked to the chicken coop, opened the door, and bid her birds farewell. Then she walked to Warrior lying on the porch.
“My lovely old man,” she said, giving him an affectionate rub about the neck. “Keep a good watch on the ladies. I’m counting on you.”
A branch cracked in the woods that started just on the other side of the road running by the house. All three of them froze. The crack was followed by the sound of someone pushing through brush.
The Creek Widow pointed at the barn. “Hide,” she whispered.
Talen took Legs by the hand and walked as quickly as he dared to the barn door. It squeaked, even though he only opened it wide enough for the two of them to slip inside.
There was more cracking and sweeping of limbs, then a “Hoy. Anyone?”
“Sugar!” Legs called. He let go of Talen’s grip and darted out of the barn, almost running toward the sound, one hand high, one low in front of him. “Sugar!”
“Hush,” said the Creek Widow.
Sugar ran to her brother and wrapped him in a hug. “Thank the Creators,” she said.
“Thank Talen,” said Legs.
Sugar looked over at him.
“Oh, we’ve become bosom buddies,” said Talen.
“Have you been followed?” asked the Creek Widow.
“No,” said Sugar. “Well, I don’t know.”
“There was no way you were coming back from chasing that monster,” said Talen.
“Well,” she whispered. “I guess you underestimated me.”
“Quickly,” said the Creek Widow, “give me the facts.”
Sugar related her tale of following River. She ended by saying, “I trailed the monster to its lair. But I did not go far. It returned. I was close enough to almost reach out and touch it. It chased me for a time, but I haven’t seen sign of it since this afternoon.”
“You’re a brave one,” said the Creek Widow. She looked at Talen. “That’s something to mark.”
He couldn’t tell if that meant Sugar was to be lauded, or that he was cowardly in comparison and should learn from his betters. Or was she suggesting he should consider Sugar as a potential quality mate.
“Are we going to help my mother?” asked Sugar.
“What happened to River?” Talen asked.
“Everything in its time,” said the Creek Widow. “And now is not a time to chat in the yard. You three will follow me. And not a word until I say so.”
Talen looked at Sugar for his answer.
“It took her,” she whispered. “I saw it, in the morning light, carrying her like a baby.”
“Sst,” said the Creek Widow to silence them. She pointed at Legs. “Get him up on the horse.”
Then she walked out into the road.
“Was she alive?” Talen asked.
Sugar hesitated. “I couldn’t tell.”
Talen nodded, then he lifted Legs onto the Tailor’s back. At least River wasn’t twisted in a broken heap like the Shoka they called Gid. He took the reins and followed the Creek Widow into the night.
At their departure, Warrior hauled himself up, padded over to the chicken coop, and dropped his bones squarely in front of the door. Talen considered the dog. Perhaps liveliness wasn’t the only asset a hound might possess.
Sugar walked alongside the Tailor, holding her brother’s ankle. She had been brave to follow that creature. Braver than he. The thought had never occurred to him to follow River. It was true that she’d ordered him away. But he hadn’t given it a second thought.
They walked in silence, the Creek Widow in the lead, Talen coming behind, leading the Tailor and Legs. Talen whispered a prayer to the ancestors to protect River.
The moon rose and moved across the starry heaven. Talen’s weariness threatened to overwhelm him. He tried walking with his eyes closed, but stumbled over a rock and upset the Tailor.
The old stallion jerked his head back and lurched to the side. Legs, who had drifted asleep, fell to the ground, and only cried out when he landed with a thump. Obviously, Sugar herself had been too tired to react swiftly enough to catch him. Talen steadied the horse and moved him away from Legs. Sugar moved to her brother’s side, feeling for breaks and cuts.
“I’m fine,” he said and got to his feet.
“Tie him in the saddle this time,” said the Creek Widow.
Talen moved to the saddlebags to find the rope the Creek Widow had put there.
“Look at the three of you,” the Creek Widow said. “Bone-tired.” She produced three sticks of horehound from a pocket and gave one to each of them. “A bit of sweet should help.” Then she cupped each of them in turn about the neck just as Da had cupped him about the neck when he’d tied the godsweed charm about his arm before they’d gone to Whitecliff. Just like Da’s, the Creek Widow’s hand was icy cold.
She smiled at him. “We cannot afford to be caught sleeping.”
In moments, his fatigue lessened, and he knew she’d just worked some Sleth business on him.
Talen sucked on his horehound. “What else have you got in those pockets?” he asked her.
She smiled. “That’s my secret.”
They continued on around hills, through black ravines, always traveling the smaller roads. Twice they took disused trails that had surrendered to weeds and thin saplings. Sucking the horehound did help keep him awake, but it disappeared too quickly. Even the effects of the Creek Widow’s magic eventually faded. The fatigue returned, and he plodded, wanting nothing more than to lie down in the dirt. He looked back at Sugar walking alongside the Tailor. The effect didn’t seem to be wearing off on her. She smiled at Talen and he turned back around. When they finally branched off onto what could be no more than an animal trail, the Creek Widow spoke. “I think we’re safe. The refuge is only a mile or so away.”
“This is by Boar’s Point, isn’t it?” asked Sugar.
On the south end of the settled lands, at the edge of a vast, fertile valley, a line of hills ran like a great crooked finger down toward the sea. At the tip of that finger two rivers converged. Sometimes, in the heat of the summer, you could see hundreds of boar there. They came to wallow in the mud on the banks of the shallow, wide river, not only to cool themselves, but also to protect their hides from insects.
“It is,” said the Creek Widow.
“Does this refuge have a bed?” asked Talen.
“Beds, baths, and dancing girls,” said the Creek Widow.
“You can watch the girls,” said Talen. “I’m going to sleep.”
“That’s a good boy.”
They walked a few more paces, then Talen asked, “And how will River know to come here?”
“Because it is the refuge.”
“And if she doesn’t come?”
The Creek Widow looked over at him. “What do you want me to say, Talen?”
He wanted her to say that everything would be all right, that this awful storm would blow over and they could go back to mowing hay in the autumn sun. But he knew that would never be. Everything was all wrong, and it would only get worse. “I don’t know,” he said. And suddenly the whole mess overwhelmed him. Da, River, the beast. It was too much, and his eyes began to sting.
A few paces more and the Creek Widow reached over and felt the tears on his cheek with the back of one finger.
When she pulled her hand away, she grunted. Then she turned and stopped them. “I want you three to listen to me.”
“I wasn’t weeping,” said Talen.
“Cha,” she said, cutting him off. “There is no shame in tears, especially when they’re motivated by love. But the strong do not wallow in bleakness. Until the very end, they look for leverage, for a way to make the best of the situation. They generate options and plans and act. Hope, we must never lose hope.”
“It’s not that easy,” said Talen.
“Of course not. That’s why it’s so powerful.” She pointed her finger at him. “Even death can be turned to victory.”
Talen did not see how that could be.
“Your mother did that,” she said.
“What was her victory?”
“You don’t believe me.”
“My mother was a soul-eater,” said Talen. He didn’t mean it that way, but that’s how it came out.
“Such words,” she said. “I should slap you down. Your mother was no soul-eater.”
“My mother doesn’t matter,” he said. “The question is what do we do about Da? What do we do about the creature and River?”
“We stop the creature,” she said. “As for your da, Ke will let us know the situation. We will slay him only as a last resort. Despite your da’s ardent wish for us to escape, I’m in command now. And I’m loath to leave that man behind.”
“That’s not a plan,” said Talen.
“Interrupting is not helpful,” she said.
“You’re right,” he said. “Let me begin again. What manner of creature is this?”
“That is a more fruitful question. We shall talk as we go.” They began walking the animal trail again.
She held a thin branch out of the way. Talen took it, made sure it didn’t smack the Tailor or Sugar, then joined her again.
“When Argoth told me about the fight in the tower with the beast, I began searching my memory. I remembered a small note on one of the sheets in a codex about a beast made from the thin branches of a willow, a wickerman, if you will. But it was only mentioned in passing. I think it was a copy of a fragment long forgotten.”
“But this thing was covered in grass.”
“Not quite wicker, is it? But I wonder.”
“So we don’t know what it is.”
“We have no name for the thing,” she said, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t know anything about it.”
“Do you think there are more? That this is some male claiming his territory? Or a female preparing to breed?”
“No. Not even the ancients knew the patterns that allow a creature to bring forth after its own kind. This thing was quickened by a lore master possessing breathtaking secrets. But the magic to breed was not one of them.”
“But every living thing breeds in some fashion.”
“No,” said the Creek Widow. “That’s not true. The armband your ridiculous father almost killed you with, that was a living thing. The weaves given to dreadmen-they live, after their fashion. You’d be surprised how many weaves of one kind and complexity or another there are in the world. But there’s a sharp dividing line between those that can bring a soul into the world and those that cannot.”
Those that can bring a soul into the world…
“People are weaves?” Sugar asked.
“Mark it,” she said. “A manifestation of the perceptive nature of females. I told your mother, may the Six keep her, you should have been brought inside the Grove last year.”
How could people be woven? It didn’t seem right. People, animals, even insects weren’t things to be fashioned. Of course, they could be bred, and wasn’t that a type of weaving? “So I’m a weave?” asked Talen.
“A bit shabby here and there, but yes, and with enough brilliant parts to capture the eye of those who can see it for what it is.”
But Talen wasn’t thinking about the compliment. He was thinking about the power to weave living things. And if this lore master could weave a wickerman, what other living things could he make?
“So,” continued the Creek Widow, “if this thing is akin to the creature I read about, then we have at least three options. We can kill it, bind it, or kill its master.”
“I don’t think the first is an option,” said Talen.
“Then it’s a good thing you’re not the one doing all the thinking.”
“How can you do what Da and Uncle Argoth and a whole cohort at the fortress could not?”
“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Talk or listen?”
“Listen,” he said. Of course, that was if she could get to the point.
“That’s better,” she said. “I’m telling you this because you’re now part of the Grove, do you understand? Whether you like it or not, you’re one of us. You’re in an inch, you’re in a mile.”
Indeed, Talen thought.
“We are not without hope. There is lore, very old lore. The Divines have their dreadmen: we have something else. I’m not saying their weaves are evil. They can be used for much good. But what I am saying is that there yet exists lore that is older than dreadmen, older than the Divines themselves.” She reached into one of the Tailor’s saddlebags and withdrew something wrapped in dark cloth.
“We need some light,” she said and stepped into a patch of ground fully lit by the moon. She motioned to him and Sugar. “Come here, both of you.”
Talen and Sugar stepped to the Widow’s side. Sugar stood so close their arms touched. He found it amazing that one day earlier he had been prepared to kill her.
The Creek Widow unwrapped the cloth. In it lay a square of gold half the size of his palm. “Look at it closely,” she said.
Talen leaned in close, but not so close that he obscured the moonlight. The face of the square was covered in an exceedingly intricate design. A leather strap dangled from each of two opposite sides. It looked like something you might tie around your arm. Even so, it was nothing impressive. He’d seen gold medallions and brooches far more intricate and weighty on the hats of fat town wives.
“We only know of five of these that survived the ancient wars. Three were destroyed. One taken by the Witch of Cathay. The final was lost.” She took the object over to Legs on the Tailor and let him feel it.
Legs picked it up. His head was turned as if he were looking off in the distance. Suddenly, he held the crown out, a look of surprise on his face. “Take it,” he said.
“What is it?” the Creek Widow asked.
“It’s,” he said, “nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like nothing.”
“It doesn’t feel like normal metal,” he said.
She considered him for a moment, then took the crown back.
Talen recounted the numbers she’d just recited. “You said only five survived?”
“Only five.”
“So how did you get this one?” he asked.
“Something lost can be found, can’t it? Especially if a thief is the one who caused it to be lost in the first place.”
“You stole this from a Divine?”
The Creek Widow cocked an eyebrow, but did not answer him. Goh, he thought. Nobody, not even the Widow, was what they seemed.
Talen looked at the object again. He picked it up as Legs had, but couldn’t feel anything special in it. It was crude-too simple to be a crown. “I’ve never seen a lord tie anything like this to his head.”
“Perhaps there’s a message in its simplicity,” she said. “But it’s a weave nonetheless. An immensely powerful one.”
Talen put it back.
“What does it do?” asked Sugar.
“There are three great powers in the world-Fire, Earth, and soul. This harnesses Earth and soul in a way that gives its wearer the power to cut through illusion and keep a clear heart. Of course, it also bestows incredible might.”
Talen had never heard of such a thing.
“What you’re looking at,” she said, “is a victor’s crown.”
“A dreadman’s weave?” asked Talen.
“No, I told you. This isn’t the work of Divines. This is the work of the old gods. When the Divines stamped out the old ways, they targeted the victors first. With them out of the way, their battles with the old gods went much easier.”
“But if they were so easily overcome, doesn’t that mean the Divines had a better way?”
“Were they overcome because the Divines overpowered them? Or did they fall because of the treachery of those who were close to them?”
Talen couldn’t guess. He’d never heard of the victors.
The Creek Widow smiled. “I can’t relate the whole history of the world in one night. Neither can I explain this. I-none of us-totally understand the old lore. Much has been lost. But you can be assured that we will deal with the creature and its master.”
Talen examined the square again. It was gold, not black. “But it’s empty. How can you use it?”
“I told you this wasn’t the work of Kains and dreadmen. This isn’t a weave just anybody can wear. This is not a weave you pick up lightly. It must be used with great care-and not until it’s absolutely necessary. Not all can survive such a thing-it will kill the wearer if there isn’t enough strength to draw upon.”
She folded the crown back up in its cloth. “There are few men I know with the might to wear this. Maybe only one in our Grove.”
Talen thought of all those he knew were in this Order. “Uncle Argoth is an incredible warrior.”
“He is,” she said. “But I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about your father, Talen.”
Da?
“Physical strength and skill are important. But the strength I speak of is something else. You have to be bred to it. For the most part, the ability runs in family lines. Ke is close in strength. In fact, he might be able to wield the crown as well. But he hasn’t been tested. River is not able. That’s why we were so interested in you.”
“I don’t understand.”
The Creek Widow paused. She took a deep breath through her nose. “Everyone has some gift. Part of the joy of the lore is watching what gifts are made manifest in each person. Sugar and Legs will have theirs. Ke has his. Your mother discovered things about you.”
Talen thought about the revelations of the previous night. “Yes, I’m some accident, some freak of nature. River already told me.”
“No. You are not an accident of nature. You grew under the influence of a design. A pattern, if you will. Born a grub, like the rest of us, but blessed, from the moment of conception, in your growth. And what you’ll be when you’ve fully matured is anyone’s guess. You’re not some common worm.”
“I don’t know that I want to be a worm at all.”
“Oh, worm, flower, seedling. You’ve been pruned and grafted for a great purpose-that is the truth of it. We all are.”
“Pruned by whom?” asked Talen.
“Well, think: who would want that? There are stories, very old stories, of cultivated lords, but there’s no agreement on the source. Most say this cultivating was one of the lost arts of the old gods. A few texts talk of dark foes, of creatures with a bloody thirst, which the cultivated lords battled. The old records are not clear. But the point is, your mother discovered, worked into your very being, strange and intricate patterns of power.”
“But to what purpose?”
“So impatient. Think! A child born to one of those in the Order. My dear boy, could it be the Creators have seen it’s time for a new crop to be planted? A special generation that will bear forth a new kingdom? We’ve all been waiting expectantly to see the blessing you’d become. Who knows, Talen: you yourself might one day be more than a victor.”
More? He could not deny that a thrill ran along his skin, even if it was foolish. He wondered: if he could handle the quantities of Fire River said he could, did that mean he might be able to multiply himself more than other men? A supreme dreadman.
“I think you are overly expectant,” Talen said. “Whatever these patterns are, they are flawed in me.” That had to be what Mother meant. Not that he needed a flaw, but that he was broken by them.
“Who is ever without blemish?” she asked.
“It wasn’t a blemish,” said Talen. “River used the word ‘twisted.’ ”
“Indeed,” said the Creek Widow. “When talking about a weave, twists are very specific patterns of power.” She grasped him gently by the chin and forced him to look at her. “Besides, all of us, lad, are broken. Don’t worry about your limits. Worry about what you choose to do or not do despite those limits. You are Hogan’s and Rose’s boy. You have been bred to power and packaged with a few surprises. And if you turn out to be a crooked arrow”-she grinned-“well, they have their uses as well.”
Yeah, he thought. Crooked arrows were chopped up for kindling.
“Talen,” she said and gently stroked his cheek. “Trust your mother. Trust her. If she had thought your abilities posed some great danger, would she have died to save you?”
That gave him reason to pause. Would his mother have killed him? Or would she have saved him, unwilling to see his flaws? He had so many questions. So many he wished he could ask Mother. He glanced at Sugar. He wondered if her mother had worked magic on her as well.
The Creek Widow placed the wrapped crown back in the saddlebag. “We’ll find the others at the refuge. It requires a trio to awaken this crown. And when it awakens and covers your da in its mantle, then we shall go hunting.”
“And if we cannot rescue him?”
“Then we shall work around our limitations.”