Part 55 (1/2)

”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,”