“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 a bring soul into the world . . . something about that seemed significant, but Talen couldn’t see the connection.
“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?”
“Are you still talking?” she asked. “Or are you listening?”
“Listening,” he said.
“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 saddle bags 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,” the Creek Widow said. “Three were destroyed. One was taken by the Witch of Cath. 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 just reminded me of my da,” he said.
She considered him for a moment, but 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. Nor is it a weave you pick up lightly. It must be used with great care—and not until it’s absolutely necessary because 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 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 disc
overed 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—the comparison doesn’t matter. 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 that 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. “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 said. “They’re chopped up for kindling.”
“Trust your mother,” she said and gently stroked his cheek. “Trust her. If she had thought your abilities posed some great danger to you, would she have died to save you?”
He supposed not, but he had so many questions. He glanced at Sugar and 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 waken 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.”
42
Like a Spider
HUNGER HAD BEEN right: the female’s trail was easy enough to pick up again. She’d gained a few hours on him, but he’d made most of that up. More importantly, the Mother was pleased with his performance.
He’d followed the trail of the Koramite up and out of the riverbed and into the buttery of an old Fir-Noy hunting lodge. The Koramite had tried to burn his magic, but the King’s Collar about his neck only shunted it off like a fat stove pipe. It had been easy to take him. Almost all the Fir-Noy guarding him had run. The one in the cellar had tried to kill the Koramite, but Hunger had wrenched the guard’s arm loose and left him screaming.
Unlike the guards, the Koramite did not run. He rose and stood before Hunger, the King’s Collar about his neck glinting in the light. This time the collar did not tempt Hunger. It only brought to his mind the pain of losing his son. So he took the Koramite, who was now safely stowed in the Mother’s cave. And Hunger was on the trail of the female. He’d find her and the others and the Mother would release the remaining members of his family.
Hunger tracked the female up one hill and around another. He tracked her past a farm he recognized as belonging to a woman called Matiga, yet another member of the Order. He’d searched the place. Pockets of stink hung here and there, but he found nothing but a dog and a few chickens. So Hunger continued on.
The female had joined up with others, one of which had to be Matiga, for he’d smelled her all over the farm. The whole lot was moving south. In the back of his mind he knew that was significant, but not until he entered a small kidney-shaped vale did he know why. He recognized this vale from the memories he’d obtained by eating Larther, and the memory made Hunger tremble with delight.
He was in the finger of hills that ended at Boar’s Point. And not far from that point, in a small, narrow valley hidden in the crook of the finger, lay the Order’s refuge. It was a cave located at the foot of a large, steep hillside. He could see it in his mind’s eye: less than a mile away, through this small vale, up over the saddle between the two hills, and then down into the next valley.
That is where the female and Matiga were going. There the Order would have chambers and rooms, barrels of beans and grainy honey, water from the mountain, and an immense stone to cover the mouth of the cave. It had a place for horses. The Order could live there for weeks on end. Of course, this is where they’d go; why hadn’t he thought of this before?
His heart leapt within him. He would find them there. He would find all the rest of them there.
Up ahead he heard sounds. Voices. The female and her group were only a few hundred yards away.
Hunger thanked the Creators—his opportunity to free his family had come.
There was a trail that wound through the vale, an animal trail that broke off of the one that ran along by the creek. It would take him to the refuge, but he knew another way. A faster way along the cliff. He would hasten to the refuge. And when they arrived, he would be waiting for them.
* * *
The refuge had two ways in and out. The mouth, at the base of the hill, and a small bolt hole some distance up the slope. The Order covered both entrances with large stones. Doing so kept it tight and hidden from man and beast.
Hunger approached the upper exit from above, carrying an enormous log. This he carefully placed on top of the stone already covering the bolt hole. It would take two or three of them, multiplied, to push that off.
Then he quietly descended the slope. When he reached the base, he caught the faint scent of wood smoke.
The best place to catch one of the Order was in the cave, all bottled up like a fly. Let them out, and they’d flee. So he’d pen them in the cave, roll the large stone over the entrance behind him, then bind them one-by-one.
He stood for a long time looking for the watch they’d surely posted, but nobody stood on watch.
Hunger approached, picking his way around the brush and trees, avoiding the spots where Zu Hogan had pointed out the cleverly concealed trip lines, and soon stood before the mouth of the cave. A man was burning a small cook fire inside; Hunger could smell it.
Something moved in the brush behind him. He turned, expecting the watch, but instead saw a small herd of deer moving through the trees off to the right.
Hunger looked about once more, then silently slipped into the cave.
The first chamber was where they kept livestock. It was large enough to hold a dozen horses, but there were no horses, no goats, nothing but a large pile of hay by the stalls. He looked up the corridor that led to the second and third chambers. The far chamber was dark, but the flickering orange light of a fire spilled out of the door to the second chamber and playe
d on the rock wall of the corridor.
Hunger went back to the entrance, took hold of the large squarish covering stone, and pushed it back into place.
“Who’s there?” Ke said from the second chamber.
Hunger walked to the entrance of that chamber.
Ke, Zu Hogan’s son, stood above a small fire over which he roasted three rabbits. He held a knife in one hand, a staff in the other. Hunger, as Larther, had been clouted by that staff more than once in weapon’s practice. Ke was powerful and fast. Deadly.
“Who are you?”
Hunger could not answer. He simply stepped out of the shadow into the light of the small fire.
Surprise flashed across Ke’s features, but he just as quickly recovered and with blinding speed threw his knife.
It buried itself in Hunger’s eye. He did not expect the pain that shot through him. He thought he was beyond pain. Yet this did not debilitate him. It was strong, but dull, and he shrugged it off.
Ke took advantage of his hesitation and darted past him toward the mouth of the cave.
Ke was fast, but not as fast as River. Hunger ran after him and caught him at the entrance by the shoulder and whipped him around.
Hunger expected Ke to try to free himself, but Ke grabbed Hunger by the crotch instead. He lifted Hunger and hurled him against the wall of the cave.
Ke was always the one to try something surprising. And it had always worked. But not this time.
Ke pushed the stone covering the entrance.
Hunger lunged forward and latched onto Ke with both hands. Then he swept Ke’s feet out from under him, dropping Ke like a stone.
Hunger landed atop Ke and knocked out his breath.
There is no escape, thought Hunger. Not for you, brother. Not for me.
Ke struggled mightily, but Hunger held him tight, then tied him up with a rope kept over by the stable. He laid Ke in the third chamber where they kept the beans and water, then went back to the mouth of the cave and shoved the rock aside to open it for the others.
He looked about, considering the best place to hide. Then he looked up. Hunger climbed up the high, sloped ceiling above the mouth of the cave, up into the inky dark. And there he clung, waiting like a spider for the others to enter his trap.
Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Page 46