“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. 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 gods. A few texts talk of dark foes, of creatures with a bloody thirst, which the cultivated lords battled. The old records are not clear. But the point is, 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 quantities 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. “Besides, 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 thought. Crooked arrows were chopped up for kindling.

“Talen,” she said and gently stroked his cheek. “Trust your mother. Trust her. If she had thought your abilities posed some great danger, would she have died to save you?”

That gave him reason to pause. Would his mother have killed him? Or would she have saved him, unwilling to see his flaws? He had so many questions. So many he wished he could ask Mother. He glanced at Sugar. He 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 awaken this crown. And when it awakens and covers your da in its mantle, then we shall go hunting.”

“And if we cannot rescue him?”

“Then we shall work around our limitations.”

42

Hunger had been right: the female’s trail was easy enough to pick up again. She’d gained a few hours on him, but he’d made most of that up. More important, the Mother was pleased with him.

Hunger had found the Koramite in the buttery of an old Fir-Noy hunting lodge. The Koramite had been burning his magic, but the king’s collar about his neck only shunted it off like a fat stovepipe.

It had been easy to take him. Almost all the Fir-Noy guarding him had run. One guard in the cellar had tried to kill the Koramite, but Hunger had wrenched the guard’s arm loose and left him screaming.

Unlike the guards, the Koramite had not run. He had risen and stood before Hunger, the king’s collar about his neck glinting in the light. The collar had not tempted him. It only brought to his mind the pain of losing his son. But the Koramite was now safely stowed in the Mother’s cave. And Hunger was on the trail of the female. He’d find the others and the remaining members of his family would be released.

Hunger tracked her up one hill and around another. He tracked her past a farm he recognized as belonging to a woman called Matiga, yet another member of the Order. He’d searched the place. Pockets of stink hung here and there, but he found nothing but a dog and a few chickens. So Hunger continued on.

The female had joined up with others, one of which had to be Matiga, for he’d smelled her all over the farm. The whole lot were moving south. In the back of his mind he knew that was significant, but not until he entered a small kidney-shaped vale did he know why. He recognized this vale from the memories he’d obtained by eating Larther, and the memory made Hunger tremble with delight.

He was in the finger of hills that ended at Boar’s Point. And not far from that point, in a small, narrow valley hidden in the finger, lay the Order’s refuge. It was a cave located at the foot of a large, steep hillside. He could see it in his mind’s eye: less than a mile away, through this small vale, up over the saddle between the two hills, and then down into the next valley.

That is where the female and Matiga were going. There the Order would have chambers and rooms, barrels of beans and grainy honey, water from the mountain, and an immense stone to cover the mouth of the cave. It had a place for horses. The Order could live there for weeks on end. Why hadn’t he thought of this before? Of course this is where they’d go.

He would find them there. He would find all of them there.

Up ahead he heard sounds. Voices. The female and her group were only a few hundred yards away.

Hunger thanked the Creators-his opportunity to free his family had come.

There was a trail that wound through the vale, an animal trail that broke off of the one that ran along by the creek. It would take him to the refuge, but he knew another way. A faster way along the cliff. He would hasten to the refuge. And when they arrived, he would be waiting for them.

The refuge had two ways in and out. The mouth, at the base of the hill, and a bolt-hole dozens of yards above on the slope. The Order covered both entrances with large stones. Doing so kept it tight and hidden from man and beast.

Hunger approached the upper exit from above, carrying an enormous log. This he carefully placed on top of the stone already covering the bolt-hole. It would take two or three of them, multiplied, to push that off.

Then he quietly descended the slope. When he reached the base, he caught the faint scent of wood smoke.

The best place to catch one of the Order was in the cave, all bottled up like flies. He stood for a long time looking for the watch they’d surely posted. But he saw nobody on watch.

Hunger approached, picking his way around the brush and trees, avoiding the spots where Zu Hogan had pointed out the cleverly concealed trip lines, and soon stood before the mouth of the cave. A man was burning a small fire inside, Hunger could smell it.