"Hunger?" the Mother called.

He tried to unravel the collar at that point, but he could not. It resisted him. So he pulled; he mustered all his strength, and when he thought he'd failed, the collar snapped.

Fire and stink billowed up around him and into the sky.

"What is that?" the Mother asked.

He could not resist her question. "Fire," he said. "Fire, from the pretty collar about the sleth woman's neck."

She pushed into his mind, and he feared she would discover his secret.

"This is the one?" asked the Mother.

"Yes."

"She's weak."

"The men beat her. They do not like ones that stink."

"Fool," she said. "They worship them."

"Not this one," said Hunger.

The Mother directed her attention to the collar, and Hunger held very still.

"A King's Collar," she said.

"Yes," said Hunger. "I broke it."

"You did indeed," she said. And then she laughed.

Hunger ran through the woods like a dark wind, carrying the sleth woman to the Mother. He held her like he had held his bonny girl when she was only a pint. He ran through the dark, piney forest, keeping the branches from the sleth woman. And the movement of the trees and the feel of the woman in his arms brought forth the memories of his littlest, his Rose-for that was her name. The memories rose before him-her little, dark, shining eyes; her little hands, and he had danced with her held close to his chest, and she had squealed like a piglet for joy. Around and around he had gone with her, dancing his jig on the banks of the stream in a piney forest, his fine wife singing her ballad for the fifth time, the boys clapping the beat, impatiently waiting their turn to whirl in the arms of their Da. Around and around until his head spun and he fell into the gra.s.s. And little Rose climbing upon his chest to look down at him with those dark, sparkling eyes, the blue sky at her back.

A man of dirt does not weep. He cannot sob. Hunger knew this all too well. But in his deepest parts he felt a longing, an emptiness, a something so vast and lonely and bleak that he stumbled with the sleth woman and fell to one knee.

The Green Beggar had taught that if a soul escaped the creatures that waited to devour them; if it managed the long trail in the world of the dead with all its perils; if it were wise, it would find that great Brightness that awaited even the most plain and rude of creatures. It would find the everlasting burnings of joy prepared by the Creators for those who sought true wisdom, who saw with the heart.

He, obviously, had not had much wisdom, for the Mother had caught him and devoured great portions of his soul almost as he was born into the other world. And he, in turn, had devoured others. Surely, the Six would destroy him should he ever win his freedom. But Rose, the boys, his good wife. They had done nothing.

The Mother called. She wanted this woman so strongly that her compulsion made him stand.

He held the broken collar in one hand and looked at it.

The Mother had laughed at him. At that moment he'd seen that it was indeed broken. Dead. His hope was nothing more than a sc.r.a.p of metal, its stink carried away by the wind. But he had the woman. He'd found her just as the Mother had commanded, and she had promised to release his family.

No, she hadn't said that exactly, had she? She'd never promised to release them.

The Mother called again, and he could not resist her. He ran across a meadow and down to the rocks where one of the mouths of the Mother's caves lay.

This kidney-shaped entrance to the warrens sat hidden in the folds of the ravines and cliffs along the sea. He climbed up to it and eased himself in. It was almost too small for him by himself, so he held the woman close to his chest and belly with one arm and scrabbled along.

Again, he met the Mother in the warm room, the one that smelled of what he now knew was sulfur.

"Here," said Hunger. "This is the one that will lead us to the others."

"Yes," said the Mother. And she took the woman from him and laid her on a soft bed of gra.s.s and furs. "We will need to keep her for a number of days. That will be your task."

"She'll die down here," he said. "They need light."

"Then you fetch it. If you want those pitiful souls you call your family, you keep her alive."

"Yes," he said. He would keep her. She would need food. She would need someone else to be with her. But someone else who would not run away.

He did not want to ask the Mother the question, but he had to. He had to know. "Will you release one of the souls to me now?"

"Perhaps," she said.

"You said-"

"Quiet!" she commanded.

She wouldn't do it. She was a liar.

But a thought had been forming. All was not lost. No, he had an idea buried deep down. If the collar could be made, then it could be remade. He didn't know how. But those men- He cut himself off in the thought and turned to leave.

The Mother stopped him. "I want the others as well," she said.

"What others?" he asked.

"You'll bring them here, those two men, and keep them as well."

She'd heard his thoughts, knew who she spoke of. And his inability to hide from her filled him with dismay. "Even you don't have the appet.i.te for three," he said.

"I'm not going to eat them," she said. Then she sighed. "It is unfortunate that, when I found you, your soul was bound to the Mother of Mokad. I could only recover pieces." She shook her head. "Understand: the human wizards, those that stink, must swear allegiance to me. All of them."

A memory rose in Hunger's mind. Before, when he was not in this body, he had been searching for something in her caves. Something dangerous. He had been under orders from a different master then who had yet another master. And the Mother had stolen him away from them. "I had a name," he said.

"That name doesn't matter," she said. "You are no longer that creature."

"Lumen," he said, and knew it was true. "That was my name." He himself had been a master. A Divine.

And a thrall. The realization of this crashed upon him-the Divines, the Glories, the rulers of men were nothing more than servants to creatures like herself.

But that wasn't right. He was Barg. He was many names. Confusion clouded his mind.

"You are mine now," said the Mother.

That also was true, but it didn't mean he was hers willingly. "The sleth will fight you. They will not serve you."

"They will all serve me, one way or the other. I will find my human to lead the harvest. And those that rebel will be put to another purpose."

"They will die here in the dark."

"Not before we use them to quicken the children."

"Children?"

Hunger tried to probe her mind to find out what she was talking about, for there were no children here.

"Come," she said and led him down a pa.s.sageway he did not know to a large room.

The Mother sang and suddenly the ribbons of light that wove their way about her ranged out into the room and illuminated it. Half-a-dozen bodies lay slumbering in the dirt. They were not human or animal. And they were not small, not the bodies of children. They were bodies like his, made of earth, but they weren't exact matches-one had multiple arms, another had a vicious snout and head, another was tall and thin. One had a head shaped like an onion.

"These," said the Mother, "are your brethren."

Hunger knew she'd formed these bodies just as she'd formed his. And he knew when they were ready, she'd call them forth just as she had called him.

"There will be more. We shall quicken them, you and I. And the master of the harvest shall lead them."

"You're going to make war on us?"

"War?" she said. "You weren't listening."

But then what were these for?

"War is the last thing I want. This land and people have been neglected. Koram is ours. It always has been, even far-flung fields like this one. We could not stop the Mother of Mokad from taking them before, but we have recovered some of the old ways. The Mother of Mokad is failing. Soon all her human herds will be mine, and I shall make them fruitful. They will become the envy of the earth and yield a rich harvest for many, many years to come. And these"-she gestured at the children-"will be the first of those that will protect them."

Hunger stared at the Mother. Memories tumbled in, stories of time when there were many minor beings with power. The old G.o.ds-this one ruling a valley, that one a small village, this one living on her own in the woods, that one farming with his people. Some protected and blessed. Some, like the Goat King, did not. "You're one of the old G.o.ds," he said, "aren't you?"

The Mother shook her head. "What you call the old G.o.ds were humans and, sometimes, other creatures who knew the lore. They were like wild animals. They fought us, but in the end, we tamed them and put them to the use intended by the Creators."

Hunger looked at the children. He knew the powers the Mother had taught him: how to separate Fire from body, how to shuck a soul. He'd known what she ate. But he'd never seen the implications, probably because until he'd eaten Barg he'd never had the mind of a man to grasp them.

He was stunned. Horrified.

The Mother smiled. "You need not worry about facing the wrath of the Creators," she said. "Did they not make us? And is it not the nature of creation for one thing to master and devour another? Humans feed on cattle, cattle on gra.s.s, gra.s.s on the earth. It is only natural that something should feed on humans."

It was natural, Hunger realized. And there were creatures that did so-bears, lions, sharks. But something about her logic was wrong. It took him a moment. "It's natural to devour a body maybe. But not a soul."

"That's not true," she said. "There are all manner of creatures that feed on the soul."

"I don't believe you," said Hunger. But he knew about the perilous journey after this life. She spoke the truth. "There may be predators," he said, "but the prey sometimes turns and fights."

"Your cattle and chickens do not fight you, do they? They do not flee, but come to you, depend on you. And that's what humans have been doing for ages-they've been depending on us. And just as it's easier for you to manage your cattle, it's easier to manage humans when they don't know they're mastered."

Hunger thought on her words. Thought of the many things he'd eaten. Thought of how delicious humans were compared to other creatures. She would eat his family. She had never planned on doing anything different.

"I've made you a promise, and I keep my promises. An obedient servant deserves a reward. That is the best way. Do you not sometimes pa.s.s over a favorite cow or goat when it's time for slaughter and instead let it die from old age? This is no different. Fulfill your duty. I will let them free, and you, not your family, will be the first fruits of the harvest. Now make me a weave to bind the woman you've brought to me."

Hunger turned to take the woman and bind her, 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 the Mother placed her hands upon the woman, and a moment later the woman moved her head.

"No," she said.

"It is time," said the Mother.

"Nightmare," said the woman, slurring the word. "Depart."

"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?"

"Sparrow!" the woman called. "Sparrow!"

"The weave," the Mother demanded.

The woman tried to roll over and get up, but she was unsteady, dizzy, and slumped back down.

A flat ribbon thin eel emerged from the mother's wrist and burrowed a bit into the woman. Hunger had felt those parts of the Mother bite into him. He hated them.

The woman cried out in pain and dismay.

"Where?" the Mother said.

"With horse," the woman said.

"Where did he go with the horse?"

"You can't have him. You will not sacrifice him for his Fire."