He took a porcelain crock on the shelf and placed it on the table. He unstopped the crock, removed a pinch of the small wizardsmeet leaves, measured a small amount into the cup of his palm, then put the rest back.
“Wizardsmeet has a stench that makes many gag. And not only does it smell, but it will leave a taste in your mouth that will take a day to fade. But you need this, for your first response will be to fight me.”
Nettle picked up the cup. “How old are you?”
“I am in my ninety-sixth year,” said Argoth.
Nettle’s mouth hung open in shock.
“Nobody here knows because we emigrated from the old lands. Back there, before I joined the Order, I did what the Divines do—consumed Fire harvested from others to renew my body and extend my days. I was more than eighty when I joined the Order and swore to live by the Fire I possessed or that which was freely given.”
“Then I have brothers who could be my father.”
“No,” said Argoth, and he did not expect it to hurt so much to remember. “They were all murdered. But that’s another story.” He motioned at the cup. “It doesn’t need to steep long. You can drink it now.”
Nettle drank it with a grimace. Then he handed the cup back. Argoth took the cup and set it aside. It would take a few minutes for the herb to work.
Argoth motioned for Nettle to take the other end of the table, and they moved it close to the hearth. “Take off your tunic, then lie here.” He went to the case and retrieved the draw collar, tongue, filtering rod, and stomach. “You’re going to feel a relaxing comfort come upon you. Next, you’ll find you can’t move, not without great effort. Do not panic.”
Arogth laid the harvesting weaves onto the table beside Nettle. He covered Nettle’s lower torso with his tunic, leaving his chest bared. Argoth picked up the draw collar. “Do you know why weaves are so often made of gold?”
“Because it’s a noble metal?”
“Yes, but why is it noble?”
Nettle shrugged.
“You can make a fine, powerful weave out of willow. In fact, in some ways it’s better than gold, but only if the branches are still green. Still, over time it begins to leak. Gold, on the other hand, holds it tight as a drum. Gold can also be wrought into many shapes. You can pattern a weave with gold wire that’s impossible with plant materials or harder metals. Now I want you to look at this”—he held up the collar—“such things are woven by Kains. And they would have you believe only they possess the secrets. But you see here that it is a lie.”
He paused. This was the moment where his words became deeds. One last time he considered giving up and killing them all with a quick poison. But he looked at Nettle again. He thought about the girls and their eventual children. He thought upon grandchildren and great grandchildren. Sometimes the choices of one father or mother affected generations. Nettle’s might be the sacrifice that opened the way to thousands throwing off the yokes of the Divines.
And if he and Nettle failed? Then they did so in struggle, not by choice.
“You,” said Argoth, “are a lodestar shining in our bright heaven.” He loved him, loved him with all his heart.
He lifted Nettle’s head and placed the collar around his neck. Into a lock on the collar he fitted the end of the rod of pine.
“The collar is woven to draw the Fire forth. The rod will catch your soul. But we shall not burn it as the Divines do. No, we shall keep it as the testament of your sacrifice. We shall keep it in hopes of restoring you one day.”
He stroked Nettle’s hair. “Can you move your arm?”
Nettle just looked up at him. The wizardsmeet was taking effect.
“In reality any wood might do as a filter. But it was found long ago that pine held onto soul better than any other wood. I will not suffer one particle of you to be lost. The varnish adds a layer of protection.”
Argoth picked up the tongue. He inserted one end into the pine rod, the other fitted into the stomach, a weave of gold, shaped like a grip.
Collar, filter, tongue, stomach—all was ready. It was said that those who stole Fire opened themselves up to invisible influences from the unseen world. Evil Skir or even Regret himself. Perhaps what Argoth did now was evil, but the cause was just.
“The collar will grow cold,” he said. “Very cold. Can you blink?”
Nettle did nothing at first, but then he blinked once very slowly.
“I’m going to begin,” said Argoth. “We should have heated blankets, but that cannot be helped. I’ll just have to keep the hearth stoked.”
He hesitated. Nettle looked up at him with such serenity. He knew it was from the wizardsmeet, but he couldn’t help but see the trust in his gaze. “I’m proud of you, son. I will not disappoint you.”
He took a breath, and the whole world seemed to hang on that moment, and then he began to sing the ancient forms.
After a time a grayness seeped into the collar like a thin wash of paint. Argoth continued singing, and the grayness slowly darkened and turned black.
Minutes sped by and the blackness entered the filter and slowly rose up toward the stomach.
Without tasting the Fire, there was no way to tell if it was polluted with soul. But this unused filter had been cut from a thick, long branch. It was three feet long, more than enough for the souls of a dozen men.
He continued to sing and soon was sweating with the effort. Water condensed on the collar and rod, then the tongue. He threw more wood on the fire, and continued. The fire grew, but the water did not evaporate. Despite his efforts, a fine frost began to form along the collar.
He continued to feed the fire and sing. An hour passed. He was drenched with sweat, his voice hoarse. He stopped to take a long drink.
Argoth smoothed Nettle’s hair back. Tears sprang to his eyes again, tears full of sorrow and pride. “We’re halfway there, son. You’re doing fine.” He raised the pitcher for another drink, then set it down, and continued.
The Fire flowed up the rod into the stomach. He lost track of time, but estimated he was taking not mere days, but years. The frost spread from collar to the rod, then extended up Nettle’s neck and down his chest. Argoth took off his tunic and spread it over Nettle’s chest, hoping to warm him. Then he started again.
It was so much, but he had to both quicken the thrall and take enough for himself.
A tear ran down the side of Nettle’s face. Argoth pulled back his tunic and touched the collar. The tip of his finger froze to it.
He winced. So much. Too much. The frosted skin would die and leave a scar. He was sorry, so sorry, but he couldn’t stop yet; he didn’t have enough. “Just a little more,” he said and began to sing again.
A soft moan escaped Nettle’s lips. Pain wrenched his face, and then he raised his hand, the one with the clan wrist, and grasped the filtering rod.
The wizardsmeet was wearing off.
Argoth felt Nettle’s wrist and sought to gauge how much Fire was left in his boy.
Enough to continue, but less than he’d thought. He’d drained so many of Nettle’s days away. But if he didn’t get enough the weave would never quicken and it would all be for naught. He saw the pleading in his son’s eyes.
“Courage,” he said. He could not stop now. To do so would be to waste all that Nettle had given. He gently pried Nettle’s fingers off the rod, and began again to sing.
Nettle tensed; his back arched.
Argoth chanted, grief welling up inside him. Perhaps they should have just run, the whole family. But he ground that idea into the dirt like he would a spider. He’d made his decision. He would see it through. Second-guessing, questioning, would only poison his resolve.
He continued to pull, watching his son’s slow writhe.
Then Nettle spoke one word in a broken voice. “Father.”
Argoth closed his eyes. “Lords,” he said. “Forgive me.” He could not continue. He would have to succeed or fail with what he had.
“It is at an end,” he said, hi
s voice faltering with emotion. “We’re done. Your test is past.”
He quickly removed the rod from the collar and began to chant the form of emptiness, and the blackness in the rod quickly leached up into the stomach. When he could see no blackness in the tongue or rod, he set the rod, tongue, and stomach aside.
Nettle lay upon the table laboring to breathe, then his breathing calmed, and he fell asleep.
Sometimes people died during the rite, but if they made it to this point, they usually lived. Argoth left the collar around Nettle’s neck. It was still black, but if he left it there, the body would quickly draw back any remaining soul captured within.
Argoth’s mouth tasted like a bitter cucumber, a side effect he’d forgotten about. He put his hands to Nettle’s chest, trying to warm it, then added more wood to the fire. When he’d finally cleared the frost, he saw the skin underneath was dead and white, blackened in spots.
Argoth pulled his own tunic off and stretched himself along Nettle’s side, warming him with the heat of his own body. He held Nettle close until he could no longer feel the cold of his skin.
When he was satisfied, he clothed Nettle, then sat with the stomach and Thrall and pulled his son’s Fire into himself. Then he directed it to the Thrall. Just when he began to worry that he would not have enough for the Thrall and himself, he felt the weave quicken in his hands and thrum to life. It was metal, nothing more, but it felt like a living thing, like a snake in his hands.
With the thrall quickened, it was now time to replenish the stores of his own Fire, but he did not know what time it was and feared dawn had come, so he put the Stomach in his pocket and clambered up to the library. It was still dark outside, but he knew morning was close. He would have to wait to eat the Fire he’d need.
Argoth returned to the cellar and carried Nettle up to the study and laid him upon the couch as if he’d fallen asleep there. Then he realized he needed to get something to cover that neck.
He stroked Nettle’s hair again. Such a fine, strong young man. What would he have become?
Argoth would never know, and the pang of that loss stretched as wide as the sea.
He kissed Nettle’s brow, then someone knocked at the door. He crossed the room to the door and unbarred it. Uram stood there in the darkness holding a pry bar.
“Forgive me, Zu, but we thought something had happened. I’ve been knocking for quite some time. We need to be going; the Skir Master likes an early start.”
“It’s been a long night, Captain. My son has fallen ill.”
Uram looked beyond Argoth into the room. “I’m sorry to hear that, Zu.”
“Captain, if you’ll step aside, I shall call my family and bid them farewell. Then I will join you outside.”
“Yes, Zu. Of course,” Uram said and stepped back.
Argoth retrieved a lap blanket to pull up around Nettle’s neck. Serah and the children were already roused, standing with blankets around their shoulders. He hugged each, knowing he might not come back, then bid them farewell and walked out to join Uram and the other dreadmen outside.
He mounted his horse, gave his family a wave, and rode into the night. When he reached the road, he turned to survey his family and lands one last time. But the night still lay thick and dark.
35
Crossroad
TALEN SQUATTED WITH Legs behind a tangle of blackberry brambles that grew at the wood’s edge. In front of them a small orchard of pear trees glistened in the moonlight. At the end of one of the rows and across a path stood Uncle Argoth’s home, and patrolling the grounds about the house were three Lions of Mokad, dreadmen all.
Talen had his bow and more than twenty arrows. He might be able to pin three regular soldiers down for a minute or two, might even be able to take out one of these Lions if his aim was true and the arrow took the man in a vital part, but the others would not stay put. And once they entered the woods, his arrows would be worth nothing.
So Talen sat and waited, and while he waited he practiced what River had taught him. He opened himself. He closed himself. He opened. He closed. Over and over. It still wasn’t easy, but he figured it would become as natural as swimming soon enough, which wasn’t a hopeful thought. He still couldn’t believe what she’d told him. Rotted sleth—that’s what his family was! And here he was himself most assuredly practicing some form of the abomination.
“He’s not coming,” whispered Legs. “It’s past time.”
What did this boy do—count the seconds? “Since when do the blind know what time it is?” asked Talen.
“The mosquitoes have begun to rise. The mice and deer are moving. Morning’s coming.”
Mice and mosquitoes? Then Talen realized he had indeed just shooed away a mosquito. He looked to the eastern horizon and saw the faintest lightening of the sky over the peaks of the mountains. The boy was right.
“So you’re not blind?” asked Talen.
“I’m blind. I just pay attention.”
Talen grunted. What had happened to Nettle? Was he sleeping peacefully, knowing that coming out would only reveal them, or was he on some table being put to the question?
Talen whispered, “What else have you been paying attention to besides deer and mice?”
“Nothing,” said Legs. “If the dreadmen know we’re here, then they don’t care.”
“Or they’re waiting for daylight to get a good look at us. Give me your hand,” said Talen. “It’s time for us to go.”
“You’re just going to leave him?”
“I don’t see that we have much choice,” said Talen. “Besides, Uncle Argoth’s with him.”
“Maybe they have him too,” whispered Legs.
“Then our only hope is to muster the rest of this . . . Order.”
“Nest” is what he had wanted to say, but he just could not apply that term to Da, River, and Ke. He didn’t know what terms to use. Sleth, good soul-eaters, bad Divines—it was all a bewildering mess.
Legs held his hand out. Talen took it, and then they picked their way carefully down the line of brambles. The forest canopy here was thick, and as a result, squelched almost all growth on the forest floor. Still, he had to keep an eye out for branches that would crack under foot and give them away.
They passed a fat chestnut and Legs yanked on Talen’s hand.
“What?”
“There’s something dead here.”
Talen paused and smelled the air. Some carcass was indeed rotting nearby. The leaves off to their left suddenly rustled.
Talen froze. His heart began to palpitate. The last thing he wanted was to stumble upon some bear’s or wildcat’s kill. But then, Argoth had dogs, and they would have smelled this out long ago. They would have chased off any cat or bear.
The leaves rustled again.
Whatever made the noise, it was something smaller than a bear or wildcat: a weasel or badger perhaps. Talen’s heart calmed.
He realized he hadn’t seen Nettle’s dogs. Nor had he seen Blue or Queen back at home. They’d often go hunting in the evenings, but they never stayed away. They always came home before it got too late. Had that beast gotten them?
He thought of River running out to draw that thing away, and a gloom descended upon him. Da had fought it to no avail. It had eluded the cohorts of the fortress. Surely, one girl, even with River’s talents, could not best it. He wanted more than ever to get to the Creek Widow’s to see if River had arrived. They needed to move faster.
“This way,” he whispered to Legs and pulled on his hand. “We’re going to take the roads.”
“Won’t that be risky?” asked Legs.
“Yes, but I don’t know the woods in these parts like I do at home. We’ll be stumbling about. If we’re going to sneak, I want to do it quickly.”
They left the line of bramble and, as carefully as they could, took a direct route to the road. Not too much later he saw the road cutting like a pale ribbon through the dark woods. When they came to the road’s edge, they stood in the
darkness of the forest for some time watching and listening. When Talen was satisfied they were alone, he led Legs out onto the moonlit road, and hand-in-hand they went, Legs keeping his other hand out in front of him so something didn’t smack him in the face. Down the hill they walked, to the first crossroads, a left, over a muddy brook, around the bend where a woodikin had been spotted last year, and along the Misty Falls trail.
Their grip became wet with sweat. “Change hands,” said Talen. He released his grip and switched his bow to the other hand.
“We’ll go faster if you just give me a stick,” said Legs.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Talen. “But the last thing we need is for someone to hear you rattling along. Change hands.”
And it wasn’t just hunters he was worried about. What if that beast was out here? The whole incident with that thing back at the house was unreal. But River’s comments about him were more disturbing. So he could handle astonishing amounts of Fire, so what? She’d made it sound like he’d been put together by some carpenter. And the whole business about Mother pouring out her life into him and her odd comment about him needing a flaw. What did it all mean? A hundred questions coursed through his mind. But all of them came back to the fact that he was walking a lonely road in the middle of the night, holding hands with this hatchling like a lover.
“So did your mother teach you anything about the black arts?”
“They’re not black,” said Legs.
“No, of course not. There’s just that ragged dirt and grass monster killing people left and right and chasing down our women. But other than that, I’m sure the whole business is as pure as the morning’s dew. So, did she teach you anything?”
“She taught me that some people are idiots,” said Legs.
Talen looked down at the boy and his wild hair. “You’ve got a lot of squeak for a little man. Look, you and I are in the same boat, heading down the same river toward the same rapids. Besides, having been worked on by not only my father and my mother, but now also my loving sister, I suppose I’m more hatchling than you.”
Servant: The Dark God Book 1 Page 38
