The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

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The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 3

by Presley, M. D.


  A servant summoned her to his study minutes later, Marta trudging down to finally receive her punishment. Her father’s study was the one place her mother still allowed him to smoke his pipe indoors, and the smell of his fragrant mixture permeated the hallway like a stain upon the air. It was a pleasant scent to most, but to Marta it was sour since it meant she was about to receive yet another entirely undeserved punishment.

  To her surprise she found Carmichael waiting outside the door as well. As far as she could recall, this was the first time he had to enter Father’s study, though she had been within so many times she had lost count. Carmichael’s nose had been set, but a bruise bloomed around his eyes, making him resemble a raccoon. He refused to look at her directly, but upon her appearance Carmichael turned the handle and strode inside their father’s study. Marta had no choice but to follow or be considered a coward.

  Father was seated at his desk, and though Marta expected him to be angry, he looked them both over gently. He held his pipe in one hand, the tobacco packed and ready, yet the matches remained forgotten on the desk as he spoke in a calm voice.

  “Let me see if I have this correct. Carmichael, you told Marta you have an older sister named Rosealee, but she never met this sister because Rosealee was not Blessed like the rest of us and your mother and I sold her to a traveling tribe of Dobra Wanderers. I have that right?”

  “It was a test to see if she could spot-the-lie.”

  Her father chuckled at Carmichael’s response, Marta’s cheeks burning as her brother joined in. Spot-the-lie was a common game among Cildra children, one Carmichael loved tormenting Marta with. Yet her brother’s laughter died instantly as her father’s voice turned hard.

  “And if that was the all of it, I would congratulate you, but it wasn’t. You Whispered at your sister, kept her from searching for the truth. You locked her mind in a cage with a lie, and if your mother had not noticed and undone your deceit, the damage would have been terrible. You used your abilities upon your sister, Carmichael, something forbidden to the Cildra clan. We do not use our blessings to harm each other, something you must keep in mind as well, Marta.”

  Her father’s gaze flicked from one child to the next, neither willing to acknowledge the other. For a moment he looked crestfallen as he regarded them both. “Hate is easy. Love hard.”

  “And indifference the most difficult,” Carmichael chimed in. The saying was old as time, most people only recollecting the first half. But Carmichael was a good student, always reciting his lessons proudly.

  “That it is,” her father responded, waving Marta forward.

  Marta remained planted firmly in place, her words spilling out in an attempt to lessen her impending punishment. “I let my anger get the better of me again. Instead of acting, I should have stepped back and thought first. I’m sorry. Again.”

  Her father smiled, her apology not fooling him for an instant. “I think you can be forgiven so long as you both learn a lesson today. Marta, my precious little girl, you must remember to never use your Blessed abilities in front of someone outside the clan. For the rest of the world, the Blessed are a tiny minority, only one in twenty gifted by Sol. But we of the Cildra clan are special, nearly eight out of ten of us touched by Sol. And this is our secret, only to be shared within the family. So though it is law that all Whisperers and Listeners wear pins to announce their abilities, neither I, your mother, nor your brother do so. This is our secret to be used to our benefit and none others. Even though it was your first time, it is no excuse for showing your Shaper nature in front of an outsider. Mitchell is not one of the clan, yet he now knows you for what you are. We must ensure his knowledge remains hidden, which means we must keep him under our employment until he dies to keep our secret.”

  “He could die early, then.”

  Shock took hold of Marta at her brother’s casual suggestion, only to be replaced by horror as her father seemed to be genuinely considering the idea.

  “Mother could just Whisper at him and make him forget! She can make it better!”

  “Your mother is strong, Marta, but she couldn’t make him forget. That type of power is the stuff of fables. A Whisperer can impart impulses in someone not paying attention, but to make him forget entirely is impossible.”

  “No! Mr. Mitchell’s a good man. He was happy for me today. You can’t kill him!”

  Hot tears ran down Marta’s cheeks as she screamed. Real tears were a sign of weakness, something a Cildra child, lest of all a Childress, should be embarrassed by, but Marta did not care as she defiantly stared her father down.

  “He will not be harmed,” he replied without emotion. “Not because he is a good man, but because his death might raise suspicions. It’s more risk than he’s worth, especially when he already enjoys taking our money. Greed is easy to use, whereas those with principles significantly more difficult. You must remember that every action you take has repercussions, not just upon you, but upon the clan as a whole. Remember that, Marta. Remember it well.”

  Again her father waved with his pipe for her to approach and Marta trudged forward. Though she expected her long-awaited punishment, her father set his pipe aside to pick up a small inlaid box. Carefully lifting the lid, he revealed the ring.

  Marta’s tears instantly disappeared, her breath catching as she beheld the thing: three silver strands intricately woven together with a fourth golden one.

  “Your mother has one just like it, one I gave her when I asked her to marry me and join the clan. But this one is yours, to commemorate the moment you became Blessed. This was a special moment, Marta, one I am sorry I missed. And though that moment must remain a secret, when you look upon this, you can remember the secret is yours to treasure. I’m very proud of you, Marta, very pleased that you are Blessed. You are a single gleaming gold strand in a world of dull silver.”

  Her father suddenly scooped her up, planting a kiss upon Marta’s forehead. “But I would have loved you no matter if you were Blessed or not. You are my daughter, Marta.”

  With another kiss he deposited her back upon the ground, Marta snatching her ring away. Too large to fit upon any of her fingers, Marta slid it over her thumb and held it up to see how her new treasure glinted in the light.

  Waving them both away, their father finally remembered his pipe, setting it to light and bathing the room in the sweetest scent Marta had ever known. Never taking her eyes off the ring, Marta dutifully shuffled towards the door, though Carmichael remained in place. Snorting derisively at Marta and her gift, his bloody nose turned the noise into more of a gurgle.

  “And what is my lesson in all this?” Carmichael said.

  Their father did not even look at his son, instead blowing a smoke ring into the air. “Never antagonize someone more powerful than yourself.”

  Too entranced by her prize, Marta did not see her brother taken off guard. It was an entirely new look for Carmichael, one she entirely missed. By the time she glanced back at him, his indifferent façade was firmly back in place.

  “I will remember it well, Father.”

  Chapter 2

  Winterfylled 16, 567

  Her stomach gurgled, Marta unsure if it was the liquor taking effect or her meal attempting escape on out her throat. The boardinghouse she resided in provided her dinner for the evening. The potatoes were mealy and the meat gone to gray, but she wolfed down the offering without hesitation before retreating to her room. It was a sagging place, the wallpaper peeling back to expose the warped wood underneath, the scent of mildew eternally tickling her nostrils. Marta initially hoped that the haze of the liquor would help her ignore the odor, but it instead only made the cloying scent more pronounced as she took another pull off the bottle.

  Upon their first introduction, the acrid sting of the bust-head liquor nearly made Marta wretch as she fought to keep it down. In her youth Marta loved the taste of sweet things, but there was no more sweetness left in Ayr, not since the Grand War. So she forced herself to take a second sip, t
he liquor going down smoother and smoother as the months mutated into years. Sleep was still a few more fingers off, so she looked around the room for diversion, her eyes alighting on the covered mirror. No longer caring how she appeared, the mirror usually only served Marta as a hook to hang her greatcoat, but she tossed it to the bed beside her slouch hat to appraise herself in the cracked glass.

  Marta never made eye contact anymore, instinctively avoiding it even from her own reflection. So she started at her boots, gathering courage with another pull from the diminishing bottle. Her boots were covered in the pale rock dust from the quarry, the last time they were polished a distant memory. Her jeans had held up well enough, but they too were faded and bleached by a layer of dust. The shirt was cut for a man, but Marta made do with suspenders holding up her ill-fitting pants.

  Had she any care left in her appearance, the state of her hair would have horrified her. As a child she brushed it a hundred strokes a night, but now it was a tangled mess, the auburn tresses that had inspired countless suitors in her stint in the Auld Lands faded to the brown of mud. Pulling her hair back with her free hand, Marta intended to examine her face, but her eyes flicked to the ruin of her right ear. The bottom half was lost at the battle of Bergen Creek, but it was not the worst scar she bore.

  She was currently in the state of Walshvan, working by day at the Hoback Quarry. It was hard, backbreaking bullwork, even inside her childish Armor. The foreman had spotted her for what she was instantly since she did not remove her hat when she came asking after employment. For that he claimed a third of her wages, calling them taxes for keeping mum. Marta was not particularly bothered by this loss of the lucre, the remainder sufficient to keep a roof over her head and enough liquor to lull her to sleep each night. Compared to the Grand War, this was indeed a life of joy and ease.

  But for the last week, the townspeople had been giving her hard stares on the streets, and Marta suspected her foreman had not proven true to his word. Perhaps it was time to move on again, though the where of it eluded her. Abner would have dutifully followed to wherever she chose, Reid with a clever quip and mocking salute as they bid another town farewell. Gonzalo would then chime in with one of his dire warnings gleaned from the stars as Tollie meekly kept step. But they were all gone now, all scattered to the winds or interred in the dirt.

  The knock at the door disturbed her reverie, Marta releasing her hair and turning from the mirror before she met her lifeless eyes. In the last two months, she had neither expected nor received a visitor, and the sudden caller only cemented her suspicion that the townspeople had arrived to encourage her to move on. There was the possibility she would have to hurt a few as she made her exit, but if they were polite enough to knock, then perhaps they were not out for blood.

  It still paid to be prepared for the possibility though.

  Marta pulled her haversack out from under the bed, all her worldly possessions within. The only two missing were her greatcoat and the slouch hat waiting where she had left them on the bed. She considered leaving the hat there as she answered the door. If her caller was there because of what she was, then there was no reason to hide the fact any longer, but then her fingers rose reluctantly to her forehead and she felt the hard, scarred skin there.

  Her fingers retreating as if touching a burning brand, Marta grabbed her hat and pulled it low over her brow. Another swig off the bottle and her head swam as she answered the door.

  The man waiting for her was entirely nondescript, his suit a few years old, eyes and hair a burnished brown that matched his well-trimmed mustache. He would have blended in with any crowd, just another anonymous face, but the crook in his nose gave Carmichael away. It had been two years since Marta last beheld her brother, but she recognized him instantly despite his disguise.

  Her anger immediately roiled to a boil, burning away the effects of the alcohol as the perfect clarity of rage roared within her. Her fourth Breath also flared to life, begging to be released. Straightaway, Armor plans filled her head: a club to stave his skull in, claws to tear out his throat, or even the serpentine tongue that had shattered his nose all those years ago. Some part of Marta’s mind clinically noted there would be a certain symmetry to that act as her Breath again implored her to be released to wreak havoc.

  The Blessed Breath remained in her chest though, Marta incapable of releasing it now. Carmichael had seen to that when last they met.

  “Are you going to continue to gawp like a provincial on her first trip to town or can we conduct our business inside?”

  His voice was familiar, always soft, but demanding attention. Yet there was something new to it, a further depth to his indifference Marta had not encountered before as she stepped aside to allow him entrance. If she did not acquiesce willingly, he would be forced to force her.

  Carmichael’s eyes did not even flick about the ruin of the room, but she knew he had instantly taken in her squalid surroundings. The always fastidious Carmichael she had grown up beside would have made sure to verbally eviscerate the inhabitant of such a hovel, but now he politely held his tongue, his politeness making his condescension all the more difficult to digest.

  “Propst said he encountered you on the street recently, and I hoped I might still catch you before you disappeared again.” Marta remained silent, refusing to be baited by him. Not appearing to notice, Carmichael continued, “I dined with Richard just three nights ago. He’s doing well, expecting his second child in a matter of weeks.”

  Marta could not help but wince as his second verbal blow found its mark. If he enjoyed her discomfort, Carmichael’s face gave no sign as he produced a bottle from his coat for his final insult. “I considered bringing a Karlwych vintage, perhaps a red. You always had a fondness for those if I remember correctly, but then I decided this might be better received.”

  The liquor bottle’s label matched the one forgotten in her hand, and Marta was not too proud to refuse it. “A waster is a wastrel,” her father had been fond of saying, and Marta had no intention of wasting this moment as she swung her arm down. The nearly emptied bottle in her hand smashed against the wall, leaving only the neck with its jagged teeth that pleaded to be slid across her brother’s throat.

  Despite her desire for blood, again Marta did not take action, Carmichael not even flinching at her outburst. He was too sure of his own Whisperer abilities as he spoke again, “Now that the pleasantries are behind us, I have a job for you.”

  Though she had sworn she would not deign to even answer him, a laugh escaped Marta. Carmichael continued on as if he did not notice, “Orthoel Hendrix has gone missing and we believe the Covenant Sons have him.”

  Marta knew the name of Orthoel Hendrix well, as did every citizen in Newfield. The damned airships were his brainchild, his named pronounced in the East as if it were the vilest of curses. Back home the only person more hated than Marta and her ilk was Hendrix.

  Dropping the broken bottle, Marta licked her fingers clean as she examined the new bounty Carmichael had provided. She considered herself many things, but a wastrel was not one of them as she spoke. “Then he’s dead.”

  Remnants of the original Covenant rebellion, the Covenant Sons were fanatics that refused to accept that the East lost the Grand War. With no formal army, the Sons did not engage the Newfield forces directly, rather waging a war from the shadows. Compared to the victorious Newfield armies, the Covenant Sons were little more than flies buzzing around the head of a bear. But flies were known to bring pestilence with them, and so the Home Guard defended the nation of Newfield by rooting out these rebels whenever they could.

  “No, I assure you, he is quite alive and well, working with the Sons, in fact. Or, they for him, if I am to be entirely accurate.”

  Marta could not have been more surprised if her brother had announced he was Sol himself returned for the Harvest as Carmichael continued, “Hendrix’s Tinker talents are far too valuable to remain in the hands of collaborators. As such, we need you to find him for us. It
seems he departed Vrendenburg in quite a hurry, so much so he left his daughter, Caddie, behind in his haste. But he wants her back now, agents of the Covenant Sons already searching for her. That is why you are going to escort her to Ceilminster for a family reunion. And when you find him there, you will end him.”

  Carmichael’s offer was tempting, Hendrix a man Marta hated with all her withered heart. He was a fiend, one that deserved death—hopefully by her hand. But if Carmichael wanted someone dead, his deputies in the Home Guard could handle it for him. There must be more to the story, though Carmichael seemed finished and content to wait for her reply. It was a battle of wills, a game they had played many times as children to see who would break the silence first. Carmichael always won, as he did again when she finally replied.

  “I wouldn’t make it ten feet across the Mueller Line before someone slipped a knife in my back. Whatever you promise, whatever you threaten, it won’t be done. At least not by me. Not for you.”

  “You misunderstand, Marta. This order does not come from me, but from Father.”

  Carmichael idly produced a letter from the folds of his jacket, Marta snatching it away. She recognized her father’s elegant handwriting immediately, and despite the fact it was addressed to her brother, she searched its contents for her message. The words in the letter themselves were of no matter, an absolutely mundane missive recounting his days. At least to the uninitiated since the letter was composed in the Cildra codex. Each child in the clan had a separate cipher, one only shared between parent and child. Carmichael’s current marching orders were undoubtedly contained in this same text, as were the ones Marta was meant to follow, hidden in the code only she could read. It had been nearly six years since she had last received any contact from her father, and Marta’s head again swam as she finished reading.

 

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