The Dark God: Servant Part 55

"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 never would 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 measured him. "Even death can be turned to victory."

Talen did not see how that could be.

"Your mother did that," she said.

"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. She died saving you, boy."

He sighed. "I know. You're right. Still, my mother doesn't matter. 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 Hogan as 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."

"I don't mean to be disrespectful, but that doesn't sound like a plan," Talen said.

"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.

The Creek Widow said, "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 the codex about a beast made from the thin branches of a willow, a wickerman, if you will. But it was only mentioned in pa.s.sing. I think it was a copy of a fragment long forgotten."

"But this thing was covered in gra.s.s."

"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 fas.h.i.+on."

"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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 fas.h.i.+oned. 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 c.o.c.ked an eyebrow, but did not answer him. Goh, he thought. n.o.body, 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 G.o.ds. When the Divines stamped out the old ways, they targeted the Victors first. With them out of the way, their battles with the old G.o.ds 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 a.s.sured 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 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-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 G.o.ds. A few texts talk of dark foes, of creatures with a b.l.o.o.d.y 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 quant.i.ties 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?"