Not that it would be much of a battle. As soon as their general was safely behind them, the Western onslaught began in earnest. They were already advancing, each rifleman firing his single shot and falling back to the last of their line to reload as a fresh rifleman took his place. The motion made the Newfield army look like a slowly churning wave with no intention of breaking upon the stone wall. True, some of the Western troops were cut down by Eastern shots, small holes opening in their ranks, but they did not falter in their advance. The trained soldiers’ number of shots dwarfed that of the militia, and already Ed could see many of his fellow Easterners slumped over the stone wall they swore to hold. They had planned this defense for many days, but now that the battle was unfolding, they would be routed in a matter of minutes.
Loree came to the same conclusion as he turned to the eager Weavers in the gully with him. “Ply your trade. Defend your homeland, and may Sol have mercy upon us.”
Loree looked distraught, but not so much the gleeful Weavers as they began smashing the luz jars at their feet. Each glass jar contained at least eight Breaths, all invisible in the daylight. It was only once all the jars were crushed and the Weavers began gesturing that the Breath came alive to glow with ethereal light.
Ed had very little poetry in his soul, but he inherently knew each Breath shone with colors a man was never meant to behold. They were like the strange shades left on the underside of his eyelids, an afterimage from staring at a bright light too long. They were the colors no one was meant to see straight-on, something eerie and breathtaking that was to be marveled after. But the Weavers did not pause to marvel as they did as Loree bid. Each of the three Weavers’ fingers flitted through the air, as if working an invisible loom, and with each gesture a separate Breath flared and obeyed. Silently the Weavers spun their selected Breaths into groups of three, entangling them into knots that would not come undone for a full day. With another flutter of the Weavers’ fingers, each new knot of Breath inflated, doubling in size, and then again as they made their manifestations.
The manifestations quickly took shape as four limbs sprouted from their trunks, pairs of luminous arms and legs materializing in seconds. Although each manifestation had the primitive outline of a human, the limbs were too thin and no more than rough approximations aping a man. Each new manifestation was no larger than a child, the tallest of them scarcely reaching Ed’s chest were he standing. But the child-like forms did not remain benign for long, as the Weavers added atrocious touches to their creations, including claws and fangs.
As soon as their first few were finished, the Weavers set their monstrous manifestations upon the Newfield army. The first wave only contained nine manifestations rolling over the edge of the gully to tear towards the Western ranks. Some of the riflemen spotted the manifestations immediately, instinctively firing their muskets at them. Their volleys proved futile though, the musket balls passing through the insubstantial manifestations as if the creatures were no more than smoke.
The manifestations were not insubstantial when they reached the Western soldiers though, their claws cleaving flesh from bone, their fangs silencing the screams of their victims. Like a scythe through wheat, those nine manifestations alone hewed through the Western rank, cutting down every living thing in their path. To these nine the Weavers added another nine, then a dozen joining the slaughter in a matter of moments. The Western dead soon littered the ground, and though he could not see their dying Breaths in the daylight, Ed knew their Breath must be filling the air, three for each man who fell.
The Western army was in disarray, the rallying Eastern musket shots winnowing their numbers further. Ed did not hear the Western cry to retreat, but the army suddenly broke apart, all semblance of order gone as they took to their heels. The manifestations did not pause in their relentless attack, pursuing the fleeing soldiers until Loree spoke.
“Call them off. Now!”
“Why?” the female Weaver asked. “We can end all those Render puppets here and now.”
“They’re not Renders and they’re not puppets. They’re men, good soldiers. Let them return home to tell everyone about this rout and perhaps Ruhl won’t make this mistake again.”
The Weaver’s face displayed her disagreement, but the manifestations on the road immediately halted their inhuman hunt. Her hands balling into fists, she then snapped both hands open and all her manifestations disappeared, dissipated back into the three separate Breaths that made them up. No longer under the Weavers’ influence, the Breath of the manifestations began to fade in the daylight, mingling with the already invisible Breath of the men they had killed.
Only then did Ed recognize that the battle was at an end, the bloodshed barely lasting as long as the two generals’ discussion preceding it. Looking at his hands, Ed realized he had not reached for his saber, as he had feared, but held his musket the whole time. Yet his finger had not touched the trigger, his musket remaining silent throughout the ordeal. Shame invaded Ed, but Loree granted him a sad smile.
“Not to worry, son. You’ll have other chances to prove yourself.”
Ed was not pleased to hear fear tingeing his voice as he responded, “You think they’ll come back?”
“Not if they’re wise.”
Loree’s smile faded as he gazed back at the fallen. The coffin containing Pulley’s body remained not far off from the first of the Western dead, the purpose of the battle forgotten about during its din. When Loree spoke again, it was in a quiet voice. “I shouldn’t have used the Weavers, not yet.”
“Why not?” the Weaver woman inquired incredulously. “Our order handed you your victory today. Don’t tell me the great General Loree is afraid of the West.”
“Of the West, no, it’s just a direction. What I fear is the nation of Newfield. Their armies, their factories, and their Tinkers. Their supply of munitions and men. But most of all I fear the rage of the Renders.”
“If the Renders are fools enough to challenge us on the field, it will indeed be a grand war,” she answered with fervor in her eyes. It was this zealous fervor, so contrary to her careless words, that caused Ed’s anxiety to bubble up again. He knew he should not feel it, not after having witnessed only three Weavers collapsing an entire company of trained soldiers in a matter of minutes. With the Weavers at their vanguard, it was entirely inconceivable that the Covenant could taste defeat. Yet Loree’s concern was contagious, fear soon consuming Ed like a fever.
And the children of Sol knew life rolls on so long as Sol’s Breath flows freely on Ayr. And so it will continue until each fragment of Sol has fastened with every other and Sol is again whole to return for the Harvest.
“May Sol hold off the Harvest,” Loree answered, Ed chagrinned to realize he had muttered the scriptures aloud. “I fear that if Sol returned to judge us now, He would find us entirely unworthy.”
Loree rose as cheers filled the air. The militia finally broke rank, emerging from behind their stone wall to surround their victorious general and carry him off in celebration. Watching them depart back for camp, Ed stood alone among the forgotten dead on the battlefield, his hands still clutching his unfired musket.
***
In the years that followed, both sides of the ensuing conflict would swear it was the other that fired the shot that started the Grand War. Ed Oldham was there at the very beginning, but until his dying day he remained unsure which side fired that fateful first shot.
All he knew for certain was he was not to blame for the bloodshed that came.
Chapter 1
Iulius 7, 548 (Nineteen Years Ago)
Marta was mad. Carmichael had lied to her. Again.
Her older brother’s lies were nothing new, Marta expecting them now whenever he spoke. But this time he had gone too far, had Whispered upon her, and for that he would pay.
Her mother had saved Marta that morning by removing Carmichael’s mental hold over her, but Cecelia Childress also knew her middle child’s tendencies well, ordering Marta to catch
four Breaths from the nearby Coak ley. It was a mission of diversion, one meant to keep Marta occupied until her father returned. During daylight the ley was entirely invisible, the flowing Breaths that made it up almost impossible to capture. The task should have kept the six-year-old Marta busy all afternoon, but after two hours her head began to ache, each throb reminding her of Carmichael’s lie. Finally she had enough, flinging her luz jar to the ground hard enough to shatter the glass.
Cutting through the fields, the cotton crop loomed high above Marta’s head, but she navigated the rows easily towards the sprawling manor in the center of the plantation. Up ahead she heard a rustle, most likely a festation toiling away. Unlike the manifestations, their Weaver relatives, festations did not fade away after a single day, instead existing until their creator dismissed them. Needing neither food nor rest, festations made perfect workers, and the Childress family owned hundreds to tend to their crop of cotton and tobacco. There was no chance the mindless festation would alert her mother to her disobedience, but Marta shifted her course nonetheless. The lifeless eyes of the festations disturbed her, so she dodged through the stalks furtively from row to row until she reached home.
Once inside, she stormed up the first of the three sweeping staircases of Hillbrook Manor, the steps too steep to accommodate her stride. But Marta reminded herself she was growing every day, and soon she would outgrow the childish frills her mother loved dressing her in and receive her own gowns, girdles, and bustles. Soon she would be old enough to do something that mattered to the clan.
Carmichael was not in his bedroom and Marta gave the door a satisfying slam as she marched on down the hallway. If not in his room, then he was probably with their tutor, Mr. Mitchell. Mitchell was only required to stay for lessons until three bells but could linger for additional instruction if requested by one of the children. Although Marta’s shadow never remained in the classroom after the third bell’s final note died, Carmichael, to Mitchell and her parents’ delight, often took on additional studies.
Marta did not feel delight when she burst into the classroom to find Carmichael hunkered over his textbooks with Mitchell. Her brother always gave the appearance of the perfect oldest child, at least in the presence of others. Marta knew the truth, as her little sister, Oleander, would discover soon enough herself.
Carmichael stood at her sudden intrusion, decorum dictating he rise at the entrance of a lady, even if the lady was now plowing straight for him with no intention of stopping. Three years older, he towered over Marta, so she jumped as she aimed her fist straight at his face.
She missed by inches, Carmichael laughing at her attempt even as Mitchell scolded her. The laughter, more than the reprimand, enraged Marta further. Carmichael’s hands latched to her wrists before she could react, Marta struggling against her stronger sibling to no avail.
“Whatever is wrong with you?” Carmichael’s voice was amused, each word another twist of his knife.
“Rosealee,” Marta spat back.
To her surprise Carmichael blinked uncomprehendingly at the name. It had been rattling around Marta’s head like a Breath in a bottle for the last three months, but to him it seemed meaningless. Then the corners of his mouth curled up, Carmichael finally remembering.
“This is about our older sister? I forgot about her entirely.”
His dismissal of her months of misery infuriated Marta all the more, the girl fighting harder against his grip. Her helplessness stoked her anger further, fanning it into blazing rage.
And with the rage came clarity, Marta suddenly aware of each Breath within her body. There were the usual three all humans were born with, one in the center of the chest to representing the Body, the second in the middle of the forehead for the Mind, and the third at the crown of the head signifying the Soul. But in that moment of clarity, Marta could feel a fourth Breath nestled deep in her chest next to the Body. Were she not so angry, she might have been surprised to find it, to feel it thrumming with its own frequency. It had a resonance, a musical identity all its own that only she could hear.
So she inhaled, filling that Breath with both her air and anger.
The fourth Breath stirred, summoned by Marta’s will and obeying on her exhale. Though its base remained firmly in her chest, she felt it elongate as it stretched through her throat and out towards her mouth. The appendage was entirely new to her, but it felt natural as she experienced each sensation through this fresh limb: the light scrape as it edged over her teeth, the sudden coolness of the air outside her body; the crunch of her brother’s bones as it collided with his nose.
Carmichael released her as he fell, his face spurting blood as he sputtered for air. Mitchell was speaking again, almost yelling, but Marta paid him no mind as she stared in awe at her new appendage. It looked like a strange tongue, a tentacle thin as a ribbon and made up of her iridescent Breath. It was a marvel, one that entirely belonged to her and made her special; one that utterly disappeared as her anger dissipated. One moment the Blessed Breath was there, ethereal and unreal, but upon her inhale it retreated back within Marta to nest again in her chest.
Marta tried desperately to bring it back, but her clarity was gone, the fourth Breath again a mystery as Mitchell’s voice finally penetrated her mind. Though Carmichael was still calling for aid on the floor, Mitchell’s attention was turned solely upon the Childress’ middle child.
“Congratulations, my girl, you are one of Sol’s Blessed. And a Shaper, no less. Your parents will be very proud.”
But looking down on her brother dripping blood upon the carpet, Marta was not so sure.
***
Marta remained in her room for the rest of the evening, forgoing dinner, though her belly soon cursed her for it. Her father was still away at his kennels, and her mother, having married into the Cildra clan, did not make decisions on important matters. The discovery that she was a Shaper would certainly be considered an important matter, so Marta determined it was best to remain hidden until her father’s return. Only her little sister dared to disturb her, Oleander too young to realize the gravity of the situation and wanting to play as if this were any other day. Marta sent her away rudely, Oleander’s sobs haunting as they disappeared down the long hallway of the children’s wing. Though she felt a pang of regret for Oleander’s tears, Marta realized she would be lucky if those were the only ones spilled after her father returned home.
“I’m Blessed,” Marta whispered. “A Shaper.”
It was true and today’s events proved it. She was Blessed and touched by Sol Himself.
The tale was taught to all children as soon as they were old enough to understand: In the beginning the divine Sol had wandered the black void between the stars until He found Ayr. And there their deity had fallen in love with the beautiful, but lifeless world. Saddened that there were no living beings like Himself to take pleasure there, Sol performed the ultimate sacrifice in surrendering His own life, shattering His essence into an untold number of fragments. It was those fragments, known as Breath, which gave life to Ayr.
All living things therefore had an aspect of Sol within them, a piece of His divine essence a part of them from the moment of their birth. Plants, as the lowest form of life, had only the one, consisting of the Body. Animals, being imbued with intelligence, had two: the Body and the Mind. And humans, as Sol’s greatest creations, were superior with their three aspects of the divine: the Body, Mind and Soul. It was this third Breath, the Soul inherent in all humans, that made them Sol’s chosen children and the inheritors of His beloved Ayr.
And some humans were made sacred by a fourth Breath of Sol, marking them as Blessed. Their abilities depended upon where the fourth Breath resided. Those with it within the Body were called Shapers and were capable of constructing solid, spindly Armor around their bodies to give them inhuman strength. If it inhabited the Mind, then the Blessed were known as either Listeners or Whisperers depending on how their powers manifested. The Listeners were capable of hearing stray tho
ughts of those around them, whereas Whisperers, like Marta’s mother and Carmichael, were able to implant ideas into the minds of others. If the fourth Breath was within the Soul, the Blessed was able to influence the flow of Breath and became either a Render or Weaver depending if they lived in the West or the East.
Overall, the Blessed were quite rare and no one knew exactly how they were chosen since a child of two Blessed parents was no guarantee their progeny would share their abilities. Some, like the Dobra, increased their chances in the lottery of birth by only breeding within their tribes, but even then their numbers were almost laughably low, only two in ten Blessed and the majority of them simply Listeners. Only Marta’s own Cildra clan had any real understanding of Sol’s secrets, the proof being that many more of their clan were Blessed than not.
And she was finally fully one of them.
Singing the ode “Joy and Ease” with abandon, Marta heard her father’s approach before she caught sight of him. His kennels were located a half-mile from the house to save them from the hounds’ constant baying. Only a few miles outside the Mimas’ state capital of Gatlin, buyers often traveled hundreds of miles to purchase her father’s famed hounds. The kennel and the hounds were all pretense though, expected of an aristocratic man of leisure, as her father pretended to be. Although the plantations around them and the sale of his hounds explained away their affluence, the family’s true purpose always belonged to the Cildra clan.
The ode meant he was in a good mood, one cut abruptly short as Marta’s mother met him at the front steps. After a few quiet words, her father looked up at her window, Marta slinking for cover behind the curtains. His Cildra training ensured Norwood Childress saw her movements, which meant he knew she was watching. Her hiding was pointless, but Marta was not ready to face her father quite yet.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 2
