“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.

“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 a codex about a beast made from the thin branches of a willow, a wickerman, if you will. But it was only mentioned in passing. I think it was a copy of a fragment long forgotten.”

“But this thing was covered in grass.”

“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 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 bring a soul into the world…

“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?”

“What are you going to do?” she asked. “Talk or listen?”

“Listen,” he said. Of course, that was if she could get to the point.

“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 saddlebags 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. Three were destroyed. One taken by the Witch of Cathay. 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 doesn’t feel like normal metal,” he said.

She considered him for a moment, then 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. This is not a weave you pick up lightly. It must be used with great care-and not until it’s absolutely necessary. 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 talking 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.”