The Dark God: Servant Part 44

"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 greedy men."

She sighed. "If you were a little less n.o.ble, 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. He only needed Matiga to deliver the weaves so he could face the Skir Master, and then everything would be different. He'd start anew.

"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 his 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 or intercepted his messenger. Or killed Matiga herself.

But 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, the stars shining above.

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 quant.i.ties. 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.

Out in the darkness, 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 to the front door and entered. When Argoth shut the door behind them, he turned to his son. "Did the Creek Widow send you?"

"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."

"River led away the monster from Whitecliff?" Argoth asked.

"Yes."

Argoth's heart fell. 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. Nettle slid past, and then he followed him in and barred the door behind him.

"Da," said Nettle, his voice full of intensity, "Are we soul-eaters?"

Argoth sighed and looked about the room 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. He looked 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 murderous 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.

"In, to your right one step, then take the ladder down."

Nettle looked at Argoth with disbelief.

"Hurry now."

Nettle crouched, then twisted through the opening and disappeared into the darkness. Argoth followed. It was a tight squeeze, but just big enough for him. He stood in the oversized s.p.a.ce between the walls and shut the narrow flagstone door. Then he descended the ladder in perfect blackness to the hidden cellar below.

n.o.body knew about this place. Not even Hogan. This is where he kept his secret books, his weaves, and the implements of his life before the Order.

"Da," Nettle said in the darkness. "What is this?"

Next to the ladder stood a case with many shelves. He felt for the lamp and flint striker, then worked the striker until a spark ignited the lamp's wick. He blew on the spark, and when the flame burned brightly, he set the lamp down on the small table and motioned for Nettle to take the one chair.

Nettle sat, looking about the room with puzzlement.

Argoth had used good timbers and brick to build this room. All had been sealed over with a thick layer of white, lime render. This kept the room bright. Furthermore, Argoth made sure to lay drainage tiles into the soil all around this part of the house so that all the runoff was taken down the hill and away from this dry room.

There was not much in this close room: a stack of wood next to a small, smoke-blackened hearth; a long, but narrow table; a chair; and two cases for his books and the implements of the lore.

"Son, tell me what River told you."

"It's true, isn't it?" Nettle said, looking at the plates of inscribed tin that lay on one of the shelves.

"That depends on what you've been told."

Nettle turned back to his father and related everything River had said about the Order, about Talen's days pouring forth, and what happened afterwards with the creature.

When he finished, Argoth did not immediately respond. River had taken upon her a right that was his. He had looked forward to testing Nettle and bringing him into the Order. He had planned it for so many years. She had taken that antic.i.p.ated joy from him, but he couldn't be angry with her.

"I am a root in the Order of Hismayas," said Argoth. "And we are not soul-eaters." Although that's exactly what he once had been. Bless the Six, but the memory of his years before the Order still pained him. "You will never apply that term to us again."

Nettle didn't speak for a moment. When he did his expression and voice were full of desperate relief. "So we do not prey on others. We haven't stolen Fire?" He was almost pleading to hear that his father wasn't a monster.

But what struck Argoth was that Nettle used "we." He'd expected his son to fight against this idea. The Order had to be so careful. They had to teach their children the propaganda of the Divines just as any common parent might teach their children so that no one would suspect them. And Argoth had done his job well. But here his son, his loyal boy, had already decided to follow him, come what may.

Argoth would not betray that trust with prevarications. "I was once a nightmare," he said. "But then I was brought into the light."

"I don't understand," said Nettle.

"You won't," said Argoth. "Just know that I found the right path. And that I do not steal and haven't since before you were born. And know too that you have a choice. Not all are brought into the Order. Your mother, for example, does not know."

"Why not?"

"Your mother is trustworthy and fit in every aspect except her inability to keep anything from her sisters. But that will change. I was going to introduce you to everything later, but now that you know the secret, you must make a decision. I'm going to need some help."

"Father," said Nettle. "I would never betray you."

"Hear me first," said Argoth. "If you join, you will be bound by oaths of loyalty. Oaths that cannot be broken." And when Nettle took them, they would go and administer the poison to the family. Better poison than a long and tortured death in the hands of the Mokaddian Seekers.

Argoth thought of the position he'd put his family in. He hoped they would forgive him. "There is so much to say, but we have no time. We believe the creature was sent by this Skir Master and Lumen to destroy us."

"Lumen? He isn't dead?"

"We do not think so."

Shock shone on Nettle's face. "But why wouldn't they muster a ma.s.sive hunt?"

"A hunt is like beating the bushes in a great ring. If you have enough people to ensure none of the game escapes, then you can close the ring and slaughter the game within the ring at will. But what if most of the game is outside the ring you've formed? What if there are well-concealed bolt holes?"

"Are we going to attempt to escape?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Argoth. "We were going to attack them. Enthrall the Divine."

Astonishment shone on Nettle's face.

"Bold, eh? Then we would have hunted down those who could threaten us one by one. But I misjudged. I don't have the Fire I need. I have no weapon to take to battle, which means there will be no fight."

"Fire?" Nettle asked. "That's all you need?"

He smiled at his son's statement. Fire was not so easy to obtain. "Yes, that's all," Argoth said. "A man, any man, can learn to speed, slow, give, and receive the days of his Fire. I am old, Nettle. Far older than you can imagine. I have secretly given my last days out to the dreadmen of this land. My Fire gutters low. And I cannot accomplish the task at hand as a normal man."

"Then teach me how to release my Fire to you," said Nettle.

"That won't work. To learn that very elementary skill can take a very long time. Weeks. Sometimes months."

"But Talen sat at the table with River doing just that, opening and closing his doors, Fire pouring off him."

"Talen is not what he seems," said Argoth. "Besides, even if I could teach you in a matter of hours, it would be too late. It takes too long to transfer the quant.i.ty I need."

Nettle pointed at a pine rod lying in the case. "That's a filtering rod, isn't it?"

"It is," said Argoth. "Something from before." He'd kept all the old implements around to remind him of those former days, to remind him what he was so that he could never forget how the Order had changed him.

"Do you know how to use it?"

"It has been a very long time."

"Then take the Fire from me."

"Son," Argoth said. "You don't know what you're asking."

"Do I have enough Fire to supply your need?"

"Yes, but that's not-"

"Then use it, Da. The Divines do this, don't they?"

He was so brash. He had gotten his clan wrists this year, but he was still a boy. "Nettle, I swore never to take Fire again. Only to receive it from those who freely give. If I take your Fire, you will be changed. When you forcibly take Fire, you cannot avoid also taking portions of the person's soul. You take their memories. You take the force that controls the very nature of their bodies."

He continued, "This is why many who go to the temple to make an offering claim to feel as if they've lost something. But it is not an effect of being touched by holiness as is claimed. It is the effect of having your Fire ripped from you. The Divines are no better than soul-eaters-both are thieves. Do you understand?"

"I understand."

"Do you? Do you know why some die on the altars? When the Divines take a great quant.i.ty of Fire, they will simply drain a man until he dies. Because if they were to stop short, we'd all see the effects of having so very much of their soul leached away into the rod. You might become a drooling invalid or a wild man to be roped and chained. You might lose all memory of us. No one can predict the full effects of taking the quant.i.ty of Fire I need. And once the soul is caught in the filter it cannot be returned. At least, none know that lore."

"But we can predict the effects if I don't, can't we?"

Argoth said nothing. Such courage and trust-Nettle did not know what he was saying. Argoth had seen that ardent desire so many times in the eyes of youth going off to their first battle. None of them knew the sacrifice that lay ahead.

"Da," he said. He held up his wrists with their tattoos. "Do you, even you, mock me? Was I tattooed a man for nothing?"