Talen buckled the second loin strap about Iron Boy, their mule. Nettle was gathering food because, despite the current turmoils, Da said there were families needing supplies. And now, according to Da, was just as good a time to deliver what they needed as any other. Talen suspected it was only to cover something else, but he could not guess what that was. He didn’t understand his father.

Talen stroked Iron Boy’s neck. He almost wished he could trade places with the mule.

“I’m not oblivious to all the dangers about us,” said Da.

Talen turned. Da had walked up to the wagon. He secured the Hog under the seat. When he finished there, he came to stand before Talen, an unusually dark braid of godsweed in his hand. Despite Da’s protestations, River had wrapped his neck with a poultice. “I want you to wear this for protection.”

Godsweed was used to ward off things not wholly of this world. Its smoke was potent. But even having it upon you was supposed to have an effect. “Why are you giving me that? This isn’t about malevolent souls.”

“Oh, but it is,” said Da. “Did you not listen to what I said about the creature at the fortress? It was full of the dead. Now, hold out your arm.”

Talen pulled back the sleeve of his tunic and let Da tie the braid about his upper arm. The braid was thicker than most, woven in an odd pattern. But he’d never seen Da or River braid it.

“Where did you get this?”

Da said nothing. When he finished tying the braid, he pulled the sleeve of Talen’s tunic back down over it, nodded, then reached out, cupped the back of Talen’s neck with his large hand, and looked deep into his eyes. “Courage, son.”

This was Da’s habit since Talen was a boy. He’d look him in the eyes and make him focus on a word.

Talen felt stupid. Annoyed. He wasn’t a little boy anymore. He tried to shrug out of his father’s grasp, but Da’s grip was even stronger than Ke’s. Da waited for Talen’s response.

“Courage,” said Talen.

Da smiled. “See, you feel better already.”

“All I felt was your hand, cold as the tomb.” Talen hated that little ritual, and he swore at that moment he would never subject his sons to anything like it.

Da nodded. “We’re almost done here. I just need a bit of barley.”

Nettle returned shortly with what looked like most of what had been hanging in the smoke shed, including the salmon Talen had caught just last week. Nettle placed it next to a basket of cabbages and another of carrots resting in the wagon bed. Then Da came out of the house rolling a medium-sized barrel of barley.

“Goh,” said Talen. “How many are we to visit?”

“Not enough,” said Da.

Every two weeks Da went to Whitecliff and delivered supplies to struggling families along the way. Most were widows whose Koramite husbands had died or been maimed in the battles with the Bone Faces. One of the families had lost both mother and father, and the oldest son had sold himself to one of the clans to pay their debts.

Talen didn’t know how Da knew who to visit. He supposed they discussed such things in the Koramite council Da attended. All the Koramites in the area were supposed to donate their surplus to help the affected families. But it seemed a large portion of what Talen delivered came from his family’s own larder and garden. This time was no different.

Da drove the wagon and made Talen and Nettle walk alongside to spare Iron Boy. They traveled in silence for a time. Then Da tied the reins to the wooden hook under the seat and began undoing the thin, black leather strips holding his beard braids and combing the the hair out with an old bone comb. Iron Boy plodded along. When Da began to retie the first braid, Talen figured he’d had enough time for his temper to die down. He looked up at his father on the wagon seat and said, “So have you got some godsweed for Nettle?”

“Not today,” said Da. He held the braid with one hand and brought up the leather tie. “That’s his father’s office.”

“That’s the second time you’ve said that.”

“I’m glad you can count,” said Da.

“It never does any good to hold on to your anger,” said Talen.

“You’re absolutely right,” said Da.

Talen walked in silence for a few more yards waiting for more. When Da didn’t respond, he decided to take another tack. “So what are all these facts you were going to bestow on me?”

“What?” asked Da in mock amazement. “An idiot like myself attempt to explain anything to you? I wouldn’t presume.”

“Oh, come,” said Talen.

“You’ll get your facts,” said Da. “Both of you. Just a little patience is all you need.”

“We shall bind her first,” said the Mother. Hunger approached the woman with a weave the Mother had directed him to make, but the woman scrambled back, and before he could reach her, she rose and, with what only could have been multiplied might and speed, ran headlong at the wall of the chamber, crashing into a rock.

The woman fell to the floor.

“You careless fool,” the Mother said. She delivered a blow of pain that sent Hunger to his knees.

The Mother turned back to the woman. She bent to her and began singing the odd music of hers, pressing herself into the world of men. Soon the scent of her clean magic filled the room. But the woman did not move.

“She’s dead,” said Hunger.

“Quiet,” commanded the Mother.

He didn’t deserve the reproach. He hadn’t been careless. It was the woman, the wily woman. How could Hunger know she would try to break her head like a squash? He did not know how the woman could survive such a blow. But then she spoke.

“No,” she said.

“It is time,” said the Mother.

“Nightmare,” said the woman, “depart.” She was still unsteady from her injury and slurred her words.

“Your son,” said the Mother. “Where has he gone?”

“Dead,” she said.

“No,” said the Mother. “I can feel him through the weave. He is not dead.”

“He is dead,” said the woman. “My son is mingled with a stork.”

The Mother paused, agitated. “Do not try to deceive me.” Then she did something and the woman groaned. “Where is the one with the weave?”

“Why do you torment my dreams?” asked the woman.

“The weave.”

The woman was silent again. But again the Mother did something that pained the woman.

“With horse,” she said.

“Where did he go with the horse?”

“You can’t have him. You will not sacrifice him for his Fire.”

“I would never do such a thing,” said the Mother. “He is precious to me.”

The woman hesitated. “They’re looking for him.”

“I will protect him. Where is he?”

The woman paused, and the Mother asked again.

“To horse,” said the woman weakly.

It made no sense. The woman was babbling. She was not going to live. Not here in the dark, not with that injury.

“Who is horse?” asked the Mother, but the woman closed her eyes. The Mother tried to bring her back with pain, but the woman fell limp in her hands.

“She’s dead,” said Hunger.

“Her heart is still beating,” said the Mother. “But what’s this?” She sniffed. The Mother put a finger to the woman’s bloody head and licked the blood off. “Sickness.” She savored the blood. “And something else. She’d been eating something. But I’ve tasted worse. I can fix this one. She’s going to live and lead us to others.”

Hunger had wanted to watch the Mother as she attempted to heal the woman, but he’d caught a whiff of magic and she’d sent him out into the night to track it. It was odd how often he’d smelled the magic of late. Perhaps the woman was bringing the Sleth out of hiding, drawing the nest to her. Or perhaps he was simply maturing in his powers. One thing was for sure, he could smell a male in this magic.

Hunger thought of the two men who had attacked him in the tower only a few hours ago. He knew the Mokaddian. It was Argoth, a captain of the Shoka. Perhaps this was his stink.