“Listen to me. You and the children must disappear tomorrow before noon. Go into the wilderness, book passage on a ship under another name to another nation-I don’t care. In fact, I must not know how you do it.”

“Why would we need to-”

“Do not contact your sisters. In three days I will either return whole, or your world will begin to fray like a cheap rope. I am sorry, Serah. I never wanted this. But it has come upon us. Do not wait. You will not be able to flee in the moment of your crisis.”

Serah’s face turned from confusion to disbelief. “Mokad has made some treaty with those blackheart Bone Faces, haven’t they? Giving these lands away like Koram did when they lost the wars with Mokad.”

Argoth shook his head. “No. Nothing to do with the Bone Faces. I cannot explain it to you now.” He held his hand out to her. “Trust me. As soon as the Lions depart with me, you must go. Pack light. You will have only a short time.”

Serah did not take his hand. “This isn’t just another battle you’re riding off to, is it? You’ve plunged into some idiot’s plot.”

“My love,” he said and reached out for her again.

She took his hand this time, but did not embrace him.

“You will come back to me,” said Serah.

He hoped that would indeed be the case.

He thought of his children, of his girls begging him to take them on his hunting trips. Of Serenity’s growls and bites and Grace’s affinity for dogs, training his proud coursers to jump through hoops and wear bright ribbons in their collars. He thought of Joy leaving messy clay puppets in his pockets and Nettle who wanted so much to be a man. He thought of Serah’s contagious laughter.

But he always knew his joys in this life might suddenly end. Any man of war knew that. If that happened, he was prepared, and he’d wait for them in the world of souls.

“Husband,” said Serah, more tears brimming in her eyes. “I am weary of worry.”

“I would rather you eat that bitter bread than feast on the bleakness that comes with oppression and slavery.”

She looked down, and he stepped toward her, enfolding her in his embrace. Her hair smelled of the lager she used to bring forth its brilliance.

This time she yielded to him. “I know you must go. But sometimes I wonder if you love war more than flesh and blood.”

“My capable and sweet wife. I love our life so much I cannot see it ruined or stolen by wicket men.”

She sighed. “If you were a little less noble, I think we’d find a little more peace.”

He did not respond. How could he?

“Come back to us,” she said. “Come back and put down the sword.”

“And what would I do?”

“Grow vegetables, race your dogs, and sit in the sun. When our children are grown, you can dote upon your grandchildren with figs and cakes. And when you die, you will be old, shriveled, and happy.”

The vision of it tugged at his heart. “Will you be shriveled by my side?”

She looked up at him, her smile full of weariness, pain, and love. “Women do not shrivel.”

Argoth laughed. And in that moment he realized he’d made a huge mistake. He should have never kept the Grove from her despite the risk her blabbermouth sisters posed. If he survived, he would never keep another thing from her.

“When I return,” he said, “I’m going to tell you a story about a man who held too many secrets and the woman he loved. And then you will tell me what the woman did when she found out she married a monster.”

It was well past midnight. Argoth stood outside the house in the dark, his chances of ever returning to his wife and children slipping between his fingers like sand.

There had been no word from Matiga. He wondered if perhaps the Skir Master had killed the messenger. Had he killed Matiga?

No, the Skir Master wouldn’t be so foolish. He wanted to only give them a scare so they would run and he could follow.

Perhaps the messenger delivered the coded requests, but Matiga felt it too risky to send him the weave he needed so desperately. Or perhaps she had already gone to the Grove’s refuge to prepare to bear the Grove off and the messenger found her house empty. Whatever the reason, dinner had come and gone. And now it was late, exceedingly late.

Argoth did not have the Fire to battle a Divine. And even if the weave arrived this very minute, he suspected it was too late. Fire could be poured out in great quantities. But to swallow such a flood would be the death of any man. Fire could only be accepted in a trickle. It took time. And time had slipped away.

Half of the Lions patrolled the border of his yard. One stood just a stone’s throw away, his bright helm gleaming in the moonlight.

Argoth thought of Shim. He could send word to him. And what? Have him arrive here only to be slaughtered by this troop of dreadmen?

No. This was his burden. His mind raced for other options. But all of them ended in death. And then he heard the Lion below him call out for someone to identify themselves. Nettle’s voice came in reply.

Argoth’s hopes soared. Perhaps Matiga was sending the weave with Nettle.

Argoth left the side of the house and went to greet his handsome boy. He found the dreadman holding him at the point of a spear. Nettle’s face was anxious. And there was no sign of his horse. Something was wrong.

“He’s mine,” said Argoth.

“Yes, Zu,” said the dreadman, raising his spear out of the way.

Argoth put his arm around Nettle and began walking him back to the house.

Nettle looked up at his father with urgency. “Da,” he said.

Argoth shook his head. “When we get in the house.”

They walked in silence until the front door of the sleeping house was shut behind them.

“Have you been to the Creek Widow’s?” asked Argoth.

“No,” said Nettle. “We’re on the way there.”

Argoth’s heart fell. Without a weave he could do nothing. Nothing. “Who’s we?” he asked.

Nettle spoke in barely a whisper. “River told me everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“I know, Da,” he said. “I know what we are. River sent us to the Creek Widow’s. The hatchlings were at Uncle Hogan’s. Then the creature came, and River led it away. Talen and the boy are waiting in the woods.”

“You mean the monster from Whitecliff?” Argoth asked.

“Yes.”

Argoth’s groaned. This confirmed his previous guess-it was the Divine’s creature. And that meant the Divine would be watching his family. It meant Serah and the children would be caught when they ran. Caught and questioned and tortured. In the end, they would die horrible deaths. The picture of Serenity being flayed to make Serah speak rose in his mind.

“Da?” asked Nettle.

He couldn’t believe the end had come like this. He was caught. His family was caught with him. There was only one way out. He still had the tin of poison he’d given to Purity. He looked down at Nettle. He had enough for all of them.

“Come with me,” he said, motioning to his library. He opened the door, the comforting smell of the two well-oiled sets of armor that sat in either corner filling the room. He followed Nettle in, then barred the door behind him.

“Da,” said Nettle, his voice full of intensity, “are we Soul-eaters?”

Argoth looked down at his son. He’d never wanted it to happen this way. He looked about the room collecting his thoughts, at the smudged maps he’d used on campaigns in other lands, at the feather-festooned spear he’d broken in the leg of a Black Hill giant and the lock of hair from that giant’s head, at the necklaces of teeth. Years of prowess at war, and he still had to hide. Still had to face his son as if he were some ignominious criminal.

Argoth walked to the hearth and grabbed one large flagstone set at the bottom of the face on the right. It was about four feet high and two wide. He caught the hidden ring that would release the catch and pulled. The stone swung inward to a dark compartment.