The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  THE WOVEN RING

  Sol’s Harvest: Book I

  by

  M. D. Presley

  To my wonderful wife, both the beauty and the brains behind the crime-fighting duo Baby and Baby.

  Table of Contents

  Maps

  Seasons of Ayr

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Maps

  The West

  The East

  Seasons of Ayr

  Spring

  Marz

  Avril

  Maia

  Summer

  Iunius

  Iulius

  Weodmonad

  Autumn

  Septembris

  Winterfylled

  Blotmonad

  Winter

  Decembris

  Jenvier

  Solmonad

  Prologue

  Solmonad 9, 561 (Six Years Ago)

  In the beginning there was Sol.

  Ed Oldham cared little for the scriptures, but he could not escape them. In his eight and twenty years, he had not found a use for a single line in the Biba Sacara, yet the words followed him everywhere and refused to leave him be.

  His hands tightened on the grip of his musket, a weapon Ed never expected to handle. The steel was cold to the touch, the wooden stock not much warmer. Only the spark box gave off any heat, and Ed refused to touch it, lest he misalign the mechanism. The situation was dire enough that he dared not taunt fate further by even chancing to render his weapon inert.

  Ed pulled his planters hat lower against the winter chill. Compared to his other compatriots, Ed was well-prepared. His wife had made sure he was outfitted with thick mittens and woolen long johns before stuffing his work boots with scraps of cotton cloth. Despite her forethought, his sack coat proved insufficient against the elements.

  And Sol wandered the void, the black spaces between the stars, until His wanderings led Him to the empty Ayr. And upon finding Ayr Sol was pleased and marveled at its beauty.

  Ed did not believe a single word of the scriptures, but the hardbound Biba Sacara was the crown jewel in his father’s little library of three books. So it was the one his mother taught him and his siblings to read from, Ed forced to recite the scriptures each day before breakfast. The words were therefore indelibly linked with food and comfort in Ed’s mind, the man unconsciously reciting them to invoke better times when he was worried.

  And he certainly had reason to worry now that the nation of Newfield teetered at the brink of civil war.

  No, he was no longer a citizen of Newfield. Not any longer, Ed reminded himself. Two weeks past his home state of Karlwych seceded from Newfield, the states Meskon, Rhea, and Mimas soon joining Karlwych to form their own country: the Covenant. With their defection the nation of Newfield fell into disarray, the newspapers declaring that the states of Yuta and Nahuat would soon join these rebels in their insurrection.

  Their secession made sense to Ed. In a way it was a natural progression, the religious Weavers of the East demanding their own government separate from the Render dominion far to the West. The Eastern Weavers now just wanted from the Renders what the Renders desired in the first place when they fled religious persecution in the Auld Lands, and Ed saw no reason why they should not be allowed to worship however they saw fit. Not that Ed did much worshiping himself. Renders were known to hold solemn services in their kirks in the West, whereas the Weavers preferred to search for Sol in nature in the East. Ed did neither, and until this day had not met either a Render or a Weaver before. Yet he still found himself swept up in the eternal enmity of these two Blessed orders. Because they could not agree on the will of Sol, the nation of Newfield had split in two, Ed now awaiting the arrival of invaders that would have been his countrymen two weeks ago.

  The Karlwych militia, of which Ed was now a member, numbered no more than forty men spread out on the edges of the main road into Karlwych, which was five miles from the border with the state of Neider. Some of the men were interspersed within the tree line, but the majority took up posts behind the Johnson’s stone wall with their recently issued muskets. General Loree instructed them to hold this position and swear not to advance under any circumstance. Their purpose was to defend their new nation, he told them, not spark a war.

  Ed should be among his fellow militia men, mostly farmers and toilers of the soil like him. He too should be hidden safely behind that sturdy stone wall. Instead he had been selected to wait far ahead of their defensive line in a gully off to the side of the road. Though concealed from sight by the earthen indentation, they would be in the middle of the battle. That alone was bad enough, but then Loree added insult to Ed’s potential injury with the inclusion of his three Weaver companions. The four of them were the linchpin to Loree’s strategy, the score of luz jars at their feet brimming with Breath and sure to turn the tide in their favor if called upon.

  For eons Sol wandered the empty Ayr, enraptured at the land and waters so unlike the void He had known before. And so Sol knew He had found His home.

  Ed did not adhere to either the Render or Weaver way, but were he forced to choose between them, he would certainly side with the more dignified Renders over the capricious Weavers. All three of the Weavers sharing his space in the gully were decked out in bright mismatched clothing. It was garish as Dobra garb and nothing any self-respecting man would wear. The woman was the worst. Disdaining a bonnet, she did not even bother to dress in a skirt like a proper lady would instead wearing woolen trousers similar to Ed’s.

  He must have stared too long at the woman, the Weaver gracing him with a grin. It was probably a friendly gesture, but Ed felt there was a willful edge to it as he turned to gaze back to the militia men. Again he wished he was with his fellow patriots behind the stone wall, but Loree had picked Ed personally because of his skill with the musket.

  Most of the militia volunteers were woefully inaccurate, Ed barely above average himself. But Ed’s fingers were dexterous, his hands steady, and for that reason he was fastest at reloading during their meager training. Though the process was new to him, it made sense to Ed. He found the tamping of the powder and wadding followed by the musket ball prior to setting the spark box to be a rhythmic activity somewhat similar to shucking corn. There on the training field, it was almost calming in its repetitive nature, but now that he found himself on the battlefield, he worried his hands might stray for his sword.

  Ed felt far more comfortable with a saber, a real gentleman’s weapon. Like all Eastern children, he grew up practicing swordplay with sticks, the boys imagining themselves knights, like in the tales of the Auld Lands. Ten years ago when Ed struck out to claim his own homestead, his father had gifted him with a saber to defend his property. That sa
me saber sat in its scabbard beside him now, Ed tempted to set his musket down and claim it.

  But nothing breathed upon the land or waters, nothing with life to share Ayr with Him. And so Sol despaired.

  Again Ed mentally bemoaned the situation, one he should not even be a part of. Tensions between the Renders and the Weavers had been building for years, mostly over the treatment of Sol’s Breath in the form of the festations that worked the plantations in the East. Only aristocrats were wealthy enough to commission a Weaver to create a festation, a mindless servant that would slavishly obey its owners until their death. The Renders swore this act of taking Breath out of Sol’s flow for years at a time was blasphemy. For that reason each of the Western states made the owning of a festation illegal, but the practice remained common in the East, where the majority of the Weavers resided. The festation issue proved so thorny that eventually the high court was forced to declare the Weaver constructions to be a matter decided state by state.

  President Ruhl did his best to ensure the matter was settled as he preached his peace between the two factions. They were all the Children of Sol, Ruhl reminded them, all made up of Sol’s Breath be they followers of the Render or Weaver way. The Biba Sacara declared as much in the first book, stating:

  The Children of Sol awoke to behold the beauty of Ayr and thanked Sol for His sacrifice. And they knew they were Sol’s chosen because they reflected their creator and took dominion over the plants and animals, over all that swam in the sea, flew through the sky, or walked upon the land.

  Ruhl was quick to quote the scriptures, always with another verse close at hand: And it came to pass that the children of Sol multiplied across the face of Ayr, daughters and sons born unto them, each according to type. And the children of Sol became numerous, living together in peace in one great tribe that covered the land.

  Ed did not care much for Ruhl, had voted against him during the election, in fact, but he could not question the man’s knowledge of the scriptures or his ability to lessen the tensions between the two factions. Because of Ruhl’s tireless work crisscrossing the nation on the train network so the Newfield citizens could hear his pleas for peace personally, the uneasy truce over the festations held for nearly a year.

  But then that damn Render Aloysius Pulley ruined it all. As brazen as a crow among carrion, Pulley marched right up to the emet in the city of Creightonville, the state capital of Karlwych, and severed its Breath with his glass blade.

  For the life of him, Ed could not understand why Pulley would do such a thing. He had visited Creightonville several times to purchase supplies and had seen the emet there with his own eyes. It was benevolent, an engel if ever there was one, and so Pulley was arrested for its slaughter. Within a matter of days, the Karlwych court declared that because the emet contained a Soul Breath like a man, the Render’s act was tantamount to murder. And so Pulley was sentenced to death.

  It should have been settled then and there: Pulley tried and sentenced in the state he committed his crime in; however, then President Ruhl overstepped himself, ceding to the demands of the Renders by giving a presidential pardon to Pulley. Such an affront to justice was something the Easterners could not abide, and so the state of Karlwych seceded from Newfield. They were the first, but the other Eastern states soon joined them in forming their own Covenant nation. Backed into a corner by these breakaway states, Ruhl faltered again by sending federal troops to reclaim Pulley.

  Ed racked his mind for another scripture, but all the words fled his head as soon as he heard the tattoo of the snare drums. The rhythm was that of a march and it approached beat by steady beat. He strained his ears, but Ed could not catch the trod of boots hidden beneath the drums, though he was sure they were there. Even the feckless Weavers in the gully with him seemed more somber as they ceased their chatter to listen. Finally, the stamp of feet reached them, Ed chancing another glance over the edge of the indentation to spy the Western soldiers.

  There must have been a hundred of the Western troops, a sea of blue uniforms flowing slowly down the road behind their blue flag with its six white vertical bars divided by the single star. The sabermen came first, two rows of them with their long swords slung at their waists. But it was the squads behind them, six men in each, which stole Ed’s breath. Every soldier carried a rifle, at least sixty of them and more muskets than the Karlwych militia possessed by at least twofold. Ed was sure the fear he felt was also flicking through the rest of the Eastern militia as they laid eyes on their enemies.

  General Loree showed no fear as he rode out to meet them. Alone, he trotted down the road, all the Western forces coming to a sudden halt at his appearance. Their drums falling silent, forty sabers scraped against their scabbards, and all the muskets set to awaiting shoulders.

  “At ease, boys,” Loree called out in a clear voice. And some of the Western soldiers obeyed their former commander’s words, lowering their weapons only to realize their mistake and returning them to the ready.

  In his gully Ed was close enough to see the amused expression on Loree’s face. “Send out your commander and hopefully we can have everyone home for supper,” Loree quipped. “Should be hominy and hardtack tonight if I’m not mistaken. Personally, I’d rather chew my boot than those teeth-dullers, but I’ll not keep you from your meals. So save your shoulders the effort while we hash this out.”

  Ed could see the indecision among the Western ranks, as could Loree as he smirked. “If it will allay your fears, I personally promise I won’t hurt you boys. See for yourselves,” he said, opening his suit coat to prove he was unarmed.

  Loree’s bravado in the face of such a superior force received its desired effect, as guffaws sounded from both sides of the Johnson’s stone wall. Many of the Western soldiers had previously served under Loree, and he was well-liked among the men, as their squads split to allow their current commander to ride forth.

  Ed recognized General Davis Underhill from his picture in the papers and could not hide his shock at seeing the head of the entire Western armies here in Karlwych. Underhill was every bit the preening peacock in his freshly pressed uniform with his insignia flashing in the sun. Shining brightest was the silver pistol at his waist, the ceremonial gift given a Newfield general when bestowing the rank upon him.

  General Loree carried neither a silver pistol nor even a uniform to call his own. Having left his Newfield uniform behind when he fled the West, Loree instead wore his best Solday suit. Yet he seemed much more regal than the gussied Underhill as they came face to face.

  “Davis,” Loree nodded to his guest.

  “Clyde,” Underhill answered with far less warmth. “You disgrace yourself out of uniform.”

  Even at this distance, Ed could see Loree flinch, though his voice remained civil. “It’s less a disgrace than seeing your grubby hands sully that pistol. Did you know they offered it to me first?”

  From the look on Underhill’s face, this was news to him as Loree continued, “A waster is a wastrel they say, so that might even be the same pistol. If you’d care to be sure, you can check inside the barrel. I carved my initials there before I decided I couldn’t keep it.”

  “Before you deserted, you mean.”

  Loree was taken aback by Underhill’s words, and Ed swore the man looked chastened when he spoke again. “You’re here for the Render, eh?”

  “As the vested agent of the government of Newfield—”

  “Pulley was tried by the Covenant and found guilty. He committed his crime in our nation and—”

  “He is a citizen of Newfield and I will return him home!” Underhill bellowed. “President Ruhl gave me this order personally!”

  “Well, I’d hate to disappoint your president,” Loree curtly replied before raising his voice. “Bring him out, boys.”

  Four men stepped forth from behind the stone wall and approached the two generals. Between them the Easterners carried the wooden box by its rope handles. It was not until they unceremoniously dropped it at the fee
t of Underhill’s horse and scampered back for their cover that Underhill recognized the coffin for what it was. At the realization Underhill’s mouth opened, though it was Loree who spoke first.

  “Aloysius Pulley was executed today at dawn, hung by the neck until his Breath left him in accordance to the laws of the Covenant. But as we are not unkind men, we now return his body for a proper burial. So do as your president ordered and take Pulley home. But you best hurry because, as of five miles ago, you’ve encroached upon sovereign Covenant ground. If you do not retreat immediately, I will be forced to remove you.”

  Ed could not help but feel Eastern pride at the righteousness of Loree’s words, said loud enough that all the men on both sides could hear them. Underhill’s face flushed as Loree finished, his jowls blazing purple as he sputtered. Before he could speak, Loree leaned in close, his voice so soft Ed could barely catch it as he said, “Choose your next words very carefully, Davis. You don’t and it will be war.”

  Underhill considered, his face finally returning to its usual pallor. He opened his mouth, but Ed never heard the words because the musket shot cut them off.

  It was a single report that shattered the silence, Loree and Underhill staring stupidly at the other a moment. Then the second shot sounded, followed by another almost immediately. The first few were like single drops of rain heralding the thunderstorm, joined seconds later as both sides added their musket balls to the deluge and chaos commenced.

  Both Loree and Underhill raced back to their respective side through the gunfire. Underhill’s distance was significantly shorter, the ranks of his sabermen opening to allow him entrance before snapping shut behind his galloping horse.

  Loree’s journey back to the stone wall was much farther and cut short when his horse was shot out from under him. The sight of it caught Ed’s breath, but Loree miraculously kept to his feet, instantly shifting course to head straight for their gully. Crashing into the earthen indentation, Loree slumped beside Ed to watch the battle.