41

Talen lugged Legs until his collarbone felt like it was going to break. He rested. Picked him up again. Rested. He carried him across the two creeks, hid him in a canoe they’d found on the side of the river, and lugged him through the woods downstream and on the other side.

He’d scuttled their trail as best he knew how from any dogs that might be following. But that didn’t keep them from having to skirt around two more groups of men on the watch, nor did it help them avoid the farms and wooden shacks that stood in their path. In the end, they’d used a whole day to do what should have taken, at most, two hours.

At last, they crested a hill that led down to the Widow’s valley. They were both bloody-footed, but they’d made it.

Talen didn’t dare climb a tree to get a look below. The branches would shake too much as he ascended. But he knew a spot on the hill that opened to a good view. He and Legs sat there for some time watching. He saw nothing but vultures circling in the updrafts, the horse the Creek Widow called the Tailor eating away at the grass in the apple orchard, and the Creek Widow digging herself a new cesspit for the privy.

He was satisfied nobody waited for them there, but nevertheless, he waited until the sun set to descend the hill and enter the Creek Widow’s yard. He wasn’t more than a dozen paces from the front door, when someone spoke from behind. “That will be far enough.”

Talen froze.

“State who you are and what business you have sneaking about my yard at night.”

It was the Creek Widow herself. But where had she come from?

Talen turned. She held a pitchfork out in front of her with a fair amount of menace. Warrior, her ancient dog, stood at her side. He mustered one woof and fell silent.

“I told you before,” said Talen, “one old woman out here on her own-you’ve got to have a dog that will chase more than biscuits.”

“Talen,” she said. “Lights, you’re lucky you haven’t got the tines of my pitchfork in your back.” She turned to Legs. “It’s good to see you, Purity’s son.”

She looked out into the yard, across the pasture. “Now, both of you, get in the house.”

“I hope you’ve got something to eat,” said Talen, “because we’re starving.”

“Food?” She stabbed the pitchfork at him. “I think I promised a beating the last time you were here. Now get.” She eyed the woods behind them. Perhaps the valley wasn’t as peaceful as it had appeared from the top of the hill. Talen turned with Legs and hurried into the house. A Creator’s wreath hung above the widow’s door. The Festival of Gifts was coming, and everyone wanted to thank the Creators and invite their blessings. The wreaths would soon be everywhere-above the gates of each city, on the bows of ships, over the windows of barns.

The Creek Widow came hard on their heels and shut the door behind them. Then she turned on Talen. The fire from the hearth was the only light in the house. Something delicious cooked on the stove and filled the room with the smell of beef and onions.

“What are you two doing?” she said.

“Is River here?”

“River?”

Talen’s heart sank.

“You tell me what’s happened,” she said.

Talen did. He told her about going into Whitecliff, the weave, and the little creature at the window. He told her about packing up to leave, about the monster, River and Sugar going after it, and his encounters with Fabbis and the hunt.

His tale elicited a running commentary of grunts from her. When he finished, she put her hands on her hips. “Men,” she said in disgust. “I told them it was time when Purity was first caught. I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Men,” she said again. “Always leaving the woman to clean up.” She looked at Talen and Legs. “And you can be sure I will clean up. We must leave, this house isn’t safe.”

“Where are we going?”

“The refuge, my boy. The refuge.” she sighed. “I knew it was fraying apart when your da sent his letter. I told him. I told your da. I told him, I told him, I told him. But no. That man won’t listen. Now if I were his wife, I would have made him listen. River, bless her heart, I know she tries. But a daughter can’t hold her own like a wife can. Men get stupid when they run on their own, Talen. That’s just how it is. And your father’s gotten stupider than most. Your mother kept the beef out of his brain. But she’s too long gone. Too long without a good woman. And that’s the truth.” She grunted again and looked to the rafters for answers. “May the Six bless him. He’s going to need it.” She directed her attention to Talen. “Fetch the Tailor from the field.”

“Will the others be there?” asked Talen.

“Others?”

“Aren’t there a number of other people in the Order?” asked Talen. “Won’t we need them to attempt a rescue?”

“Son,” said the Creek Widow, “your uncle’s on a ship headed for Mokad, your da’s who knows where in the custody of Lord Shim and the Fir-Noy, we’ve got some creature from the tales taking us down one by one. I don’t know where your brother is. We weren’t many to begin with. You want others?” She spread her arms wide. “I’m afraid you’re looking at them.”

“But-”

“If anybody has survived, we will find them at the refuge. I was waiting for the final word. I cannot wait anymore. We must leave immediately.”

Talen saddled the Tailor and brought him around the front of the house, worrying the whole time that someone was spying on them. The Tailor was named after a man the Creek Widow had loved once. Talen had never gotten the full story and didn’t know if the man died or simply jilted her.

He helped Legs up and then held the horse as the Creek Widow filled the saddlebags with a few necessities and what she said were her three most prized possessions-a fat codex of lore she’d been hiding in a stone box under the floor, two yards of bright yellow silk she had not yet been able to bring herself to wear and probably never would, and an ancient cooking pot her great-grandmother had given her.

When she finished tying everything off, the Creek Widow walked to the well, drew a bucket of water, then carried it to the south side of her home where her almond tree starts stood in a single straight line of pots on a narrow table. She watered them, gently brushed each with her hand, then stood back and addressed the group. “I cannot promise I’ll return, lovelies. And there’s no time to put you where you belong.” She grunted over that fact and shook her head.

“No, I just can’t,” she said. She turned to Talen. “Bring me a spade.”

“But-”

“Cha!” she said.

Talen fetched a spade from the barn and brought it to her. “I thought we had to leave immediately.”

“Hush,” she said. “Gather an armful and follow me. Those pots will dry out in a day.”

They carried the nine starts to the garden and hastily planted them between two rows of cabbage.

“I know you’ll be a bit crowded,” she said to them. “But it will have to do.” Then she stood and said good-bye to her apple trees and the two walnuts she prized the most. She walked to the chicken coop, opened the door, and bid her birds farewell. Then she walked to Warrior lying on the porch.

“My lovely old man,” she said, giving him an affectionate rub about the neck. “Keep a good watch on the ladies. I’m counting on you.”

A branch cracked in the woods that started just on the other side of the road running by the house. All three of them froze. The crack was followed by the sound of someone pushing through brush.

The Creek Widow pointed at the barn. “Hide,” she whispered.

Talen took Legs by the hand and walked as quickly as he dared to the barn door. It squeaked, even though he only opened it wide enough for the two of them to slip inside.