Part 44 (1/2)

”I would rather you eat that bitter bread than feast on the bleakness that comes with oppression and slavery.”

She looked down, and he stepped toward her, enfolding her in his embrace. Her hair smelled of the lager she used to bring forth its brilliance.

This time she yielded to him. ”I know you must go. But sometimes I wonder if you love war more than flesh and blood.”

”My capable and sweet wife. I love our life so much I cannot see it ruined or stolen by greedy men.”

She sighed. ”If you were a little less n.o.ble, I think we'd find a little more peace.”

He did not respond. How could he?

”Come back to us,” she said. ”Come back and put down the sword.”

”And what would I do?”

”Grow vegetables, race your dogs, and sit in the sun. When our children are grown, you can dote upon your grandchildren with figs and cakes. And when you die, you will be old, shriveled, and happy.”

The vision of it tugged at his heart. ”Will you be shriveled by my side?”

She looked up at him, her smile full of weariness, pain, and love. ”Women do not shrivel.”

Argoth laughed. And in that moment he realized he'd made a huge mistake. He should have never kept the Grove from her despite the risk her blabbermouth sisters posed. If he survived, he would never keep another thing from her. He only needed Matiga to deliver the weaves so he could face the Skir Master, and then everything would be different. He'd start anew.

”When I return,” he said, ”I'm going to tell you a story about a man who held too many secrets and the woman he loved. And then you will tell me what the woman did when she found out she married a monster.”

It was well past midnight. Argoth stood outside his house in the dark, his chances of ever returning to his wife and children slipping between his fingers like sand.

There had been no word from Matiga. He wondered if perhaps the Skir Master had killed or intercepted his messenger. Or killed Matiga herself.

But the Skir Master wouldn't be so foolish. He wanted to only give them a scare so they would run and he could follow.

Perhaps the messenger delivered the coded requests, but Matiga felt it too risky to send him the weave he needed so desperately. Or perhaps she had already gone to the Grove's refuge to prepare to bear the Grove off, and the messenger found her house empty. Whatever the reason, dinner had come and gone. And now it was late, exceedingly late, the stars s.h.i.+ning above.

Argoth did not have the Fire to battle a Divine. And even if the weave arrived this very minute, he suspected it was too late. Fire could be poured out in great quant.i.ties. But to swallow such a flood would be the death of any man. Fire could only be accepted in a trickle. It took time. And time had slipped away.

Out in the darkness, half of the Lions patrolled the border of his yard. One stood just a stone's throw away, his bright helm gleaming in the moonlight.

Argoth thought of s.h.i.+m. He could send word to him. And what? Have him arrive here only to be slaughtered by this troop of dreadmen?

No. This was his burden. His mind raced for other options, but all of them ended in death. And then he heard the Lion below him call out for someone to identify themselves. Nettle's voice came in reply.

Argoth's hopes soared. Perhaps Matiga was sending the weave with Nettle.

Argoth left the side of the house and went to greet his handsome boy. He found the dreadman holding him at the point of a spear. Nettle's face was anxious, and there was no sign of his horse. Something was wrong.

”He's mine,” said Argoth.

”Yes, Zu,” said the dreadman, raising his spear out of the way.

Argoth put his arm around Nettle and began walking him back to the house.

Nettle looked up at his father with urgency. ”Da,” he said.

Argoth shook his head. ”When we get in the house.”

They walked to the front door and entered. When Argoth shut the door behind them, he turned to his son. ”Did the Creek Widow send you?”

”No,” said Nettle. ”We're on the way there.”

Argoth's heart fell. Without a weave he could do nothing. Nothing. ”Who's we?” he asked.

Nettle spoke in barely a whisper. ”River told me everything.”

”What do you mean?”

”I know, Da,” he said. ”I know what we are. River sent us to the Creek Widow's. The hatchlings were at Uncle Hogan's. Then the creature came, and River led it away. Talen and the boy are waiting in the woods.”

”River led away the monster from Whitecliff?” Argoth asked.

”Yes.”

Argoth's heart fell. This confirmed his previous guess-it was the Divine's creature. And that meant the Divine would be watching his family. It meant Serah and the children would be caught when they ran. Caught and questioned and tortured. In the end, they would die horrible deaths. The picture of Serenity being flayed to make Serah speak rose in his mind.

”Da?” asked Nettle.

He couldn't believe the end had come like this. He was caught. His family was caught with him. There was only one way out. He still had the tin of poison he'd given to Purity. He looked down at Nettle. He had enough for all of them.

”Come with me,” he said, motioning to his library. He opened the door, the comforting smell of the two well-oiled sets of armor that sat in either corner filling the room. Nettle slid past, and then he followed him in and barred the door behind him.

”Da,” said Nettle, his voice full of intensity, ”Are we soul-eaters?”

Argoth sighed and looked about the room at the smudged maps he'd used on campaigns in other lands, at the feather-festooned spear he'd broken in the leg of a Black Hill giant and the lock of hair from that giant's head. He looked at the necklaces of teeth. Years of prowess at war, and he still had to hide. Still had to face his son as if he were some murderous criminal.

Argoth walked to the hearth and grabbed one large flagstone set at the bottom of the face on the right. It was about four feet high and two wide. He caught the hidden ring that would release the catch and pulled. The stone swung inward to a dark compartment.

”In, to your right one step, then take the ladder down.”

Nettle looked at Argoth with disbelief.

”Hurry now.”

Nettle crouched, then twisted through the opening and disappeared into the darkness. Argoth followed. It was a tight squeeze, but just big enough for him. He stood in the oversized s.p.a.ce between the walls and shut the narrow flagstone door. Then he descended the ladder in perfect blackness to the hidden cellar below.

n.o.body knew about this place. Not even Hogan. This is where he kept his secret books, his weaves, and the implements of his life before the Order.

”Da,” Nettle said in the darkness. ”What is this?”

Next to the ladder stood a case with many shelves. He felt for the lamp and flint striker, then worked the striker until a spark ignited the lamp's wick. He blew on the spark, and when the flame burned brightly, he set the lamp down on the small table and motioned for Nettle to take the one chair.