The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  The Render struck soon as the brick left the old man’s grasp, his hand rising like a conductor’s, his fingers bared and open towards the sky. Almost too fast for the eye to track, his fist closed, his arm swinging back as he drew the old man’s Breath with is Blessed ability.

  The old man staggered, his mouth gasping as his Breath poured through his pores, stretching itself like taffy to cover the distance between him and the Render. No thicker than a finger’s width, it almost reached the Blessed man when it finally could not be elongated any farther.

  It was still inches out of the Render’s grasp, so he drew again. He wrenched the old man’s Breath harder, sending him stumbling several steps forward as his life-force finally cleared the gap to set itself weightlessly into the Render’s free hand. Then the glass blade descended, the downward arc sailing through the stretched Breath as a strangled hiccup issued from its owner. The Render released the old man’s Breath, and it returned inside its owner instantly.

  The man crumpled as his life left him, his body now no more than a cooling husk as his three Breaths separated and escaped his gaping mouth to drift along invisible currents back towards the nodus. The brick he had thrown finally stopped rolling, the two of them motionless in the silent street.

  If there would be any further bloodshed, Marta knew it would be decided in the next moment. The Render had demonstrated his power to the crowd, but they still outnumbered him and his protectors ten to one. Many would die, but the Render and his two guards would surely be among their number if the crowd rushed at them as one.

  The Render remained calm as he speared each individual in the crowd with his gaze again. He silently dared each and every one of them to take the first step, to single themselves out among the crowd and become his second victim. When his eyes alighted on Marta, they lingered, or his right one did at least. Marta was not shocked to see his left eye was white and without an iris. Only a powerful Render would be capable of what she had just witnessed, so it was no surprise that his left eye was made of glass. He was clearly revered among his Blessed order.

  His gaze remained upon her, probing Marta’s face and posture. Her haversack still slung over her shoulder, she appeared poised to take action against him. Or perhaps the Render recognized her gauntness, marking her as another survivor of the war. Marta realized then that though she might be able to disguise her presence as a man in the dark, she still stuck out among the soft and well-fed townspeople of Gungersburg to a fellow former soldier.

  As not to startle him, Marta’s hand slowly caught the strap of her haversack and gently lifted it over her head to slip it across her back. The Render did not twitch, his living eye still fixed upon her. So she tipped her hat to the man before departing the way she came. Though she did not look back, Marta could hear the crowd dispersing behind her. As she again approached the statue of their precious emet, Marta absently wondered if she was the catalyst for the crowd’s breaking up without further bloodshed. It was possible they followed her lead without being aware of it, saving the lives of both the Render and dozens of townspeople.

  Marta did not care for the lives of either the Render or the citizens of Gungersburg; it was her own survival she was ensuring. The Render had proved he was not to be trifled with, certainly not for a town she cared nothing for or its dead emet. What she had stumbled upon was clearly a message, a reminder of who held sway.

  The presence of the Home Guardsmen proved that at least. Dedicated to the protection of the nation of Newfield, the Home Guard took their orders from the Department of Public Safety, to which Carmichael was acting as secretary. Both her and her brother’s arrival in Gungersburg on the same night that the government of Newfield allowed a Render to destroy a beloved emet was no coincidence. Carmichael had meant for her to see the Render at work so she would remember who it was she served.

  Or perhaps it was her father who ordered this display as a reminder of the cruelty the Western Renders were capable of. His coded message promised that if she delivered Hendrix his daughter, the East would rise again to throw off the Renders’ rule. She just needed to complete her mission and return the nation of Newfield to a war he seemed sure they would win a second time around.

  ***

  They arrived in the nation’s capital, Vrendenburg, as the horizon was still shaking off the last lingering strands of dawn. Built like a wagon wheel with the senate and president’s offices at the center of the hub, it was the heart of Newfield, a governing cog the whole nation revolved around. A thin mist hung over the city, making the cobbled streets slick and treacherous as the shrouded electric lampposts gave off a ghastly glow. The city was erected upon a swamp, an engineering achievement even modern Tinkers marveled at. Despite draining the land of the fetid water, the mists still lingered each morning as a reminder of when the landscape belonged to the swamps. In the beginning Vrendenburg had been a dangerous place full of sinkholes and disease, and though it hardly resembled its original state now, Marta suspected little had changed.

  She had spent nearly two years here during the beginning of the Grand War in the highest echelons of society, but if any of her old companions saw her again, she hoped they would not recognize her now. Her encounter with Propst back in Walshvan had been awkward to the point of pain. Propst was always a well-meaning man, each of his hearty hails to Marta a stab at her heart as she tried to shuffle past him unseen. He remained oblivious throughout the ordeal though, first offering her a meal, then a job when he learned how she was employed at the quarry. Marta flatly turned both down and was glad he was bright enough to finally realize she had no desire to become reacquainted and allow her to depart.

  As she disembarked the train, she spied Carmichael entering an awaiting carriage with Home Guardsmen making up his retinue. No one waited on Marta as she slipped through the crowd and into the awakening street as unnoticed as a shadow. Though tired beyond measure, the ley headache having kept her from sleep the entirety of the trip, Marta trudged along until she found the tram line to take her north to the outskirts of the city where the Lindaire Sanitarium and Hendrix’s daughter awaited her.

  It was nearly noon when she found the place, the high wrought iron walls imposing but doing little to obstruct Marta’s view. A tavern across the street would provide a sufficient vantage point, Marta’s mouth watering at the promise of sustenance, but upon stepping into the fancy foyer, she realized she stuck out like a pig in a Solday dress in her shabby clothing. She retreated back to the street, finally finding a vendor who sold her strong black tea she took in the tin cup she produced from her haversack. She spent even more money on the single cube of sugar, allowing herself little nibbles between slugs of the bitter drink. Usually she could not afford such luxuries, but flush with Carmichael’s cash, she allowed herself the indulgence.

  Her minor extravagance consumed, Marta slipped into an alley. Sure she was alone, she summoned the plans for her Cildra Armor and chose her rabbit legs. Her Breath instantly stirred at her bidding, swallowing her legs in the formation. The nickname of rabbit legs was not by accident, the Armor extending the length of her feet nearly threefold. These strands of Breath then connected back up to the forms over her calves, the fulcrum at her ankle allowing for the powerful leaps that gave the plans their name. The roof of the two-story building she chose for her new vantage point was about twenty feet up and the upper limit of the ability, but Marta made the leap without hesitation.

  Landing lightly atop the building, she listened, scanning the sounds of the street for any alarm at her display. Hearing none, she slunk to the edge of the roof, lying prone and watching the comings and goings of the sanitarium. The habits worn by the sororal women attending the patients meant it was affiliated with the Dacist religious tradition. Such a place that followed the teachings of the Daci back in the Auld Lands was an anomaly. Most citizens of Newfield had readily chosen either the Render and Weaver way, little middle ground between the two. The Daci instead preached peaceful coexistence between the orders,
referring to the Weavers as his right hand, the Renders his left. Dacist enclaves such as these were certainly few and far between, making it the perfect place to hide Hendrix’s daughter. Despite her smoldering hatred towards her brother, Marta was still impressed by Carmichael’s foresight in choosing it.

  Her stomach gurgled, Marta slipping some hardtack from her haversack to stave off hunger as she waited. Her patience paid off finally as a flaxen-haired girl was led to a bench by a sororal wearing a Listener’s pin. At this distance her age was difficult to determine, Carmichael’s description putting Marta’s target at twelve, but small for her age. This girl could be Hendrix’s daughter, but Marta needed confirmation before she could act.

  Her confirmation came when she saw the girl’s eyes, bright blue and clearer than an untroubled summer sky. Between them and her hair, there could be no mistake as to the girl’s identity. Not fifty yards away, Marta beheld Caddie Hendrix, daughter to the destroyer of the East.

  The sororal woman stayed at the girl’s side only a moment before leaving her to soak up the sun’s rays alone. There the girl remained, motionless as a sculpture for the next several hours. Only once was the girl disturbed, a male patient hobbling over to shoo the child from her seat. But Caddie Hendrix remained absolutely stationary, and eventually her fellow patient departed. The girl did not turn her head at any point of their interaction, Marta unsure if she was even blinking from this distance as the hours rolled on. Finally, the sororal with the Listener pin returned, ushering the girl back inside as dusk descended.

  Marta waited until the sororal with the Listener pin departed the sanitarium, dropping back into the alley and silently shadowing the woman down the street. The sororal’s home turned out to be an unassuming boardinghouse, Marta waiting outside until she saw the light in her mark’s room come on. Memorizing its location, she waited another few minutes before taking a room herself. When the clerk behind the counter asked for a name, Marta, on a whim, gave that of Steff Heitsch.

  Her lodging secure, Marta fell into the awaiting bed, her exhaustion nearly all consuming. She set her spark box to the awaiting lamp out of habit, its harsh electric light revealing this boardinghouse to be head and shoulders above Marta’s last in Walshvan. Her spark box contained enough electricity to keep the lights on throughout the night, but she pulled it free of its housing a moment later. Light in any form was unnatural to Marta, whereas darkness felt far more familiar.

  Sluggishly she remembered the bottle of o-be-joyful Carmichael had so kindly provided her, finally deciding she would let it remain within her haversack. She needed a clear head for the next day when she would again prove her worth to her family as she returned to Cildra work.

  Chapter 5

  Maia 15, 558 (Nine Years Ago)

  Marta carefully folded her favorite Solday dress, adding a pine sachet to the bundle before packing it in her trunk. Oleander looked on, perched atop one of the other five trunks that would outfit Marta in the Auld Lands. Their family would depart for the port of Chateaugay on the morrow, where Marta would sail off across the Saulshish Ocean for her new home alone.

  The years spent in the Auld Lands among their Cildra kin was a rite of passage for the Childress children, one that Carmichael had recently returned from. Marta teased Oleander about her departure, stating at least Carmichael would again be here to keep her company. Though her sister smiled sweetly as she reminded Marta that their brother was meant to soon go into the field to do his Cildra work, Marta knew Oleander was relieved he would not share the manor with her. Even her parents’ composed consideration, the servants’ polite deference, or the mindless festations silently toiling away in the fields was preferable to Carmichael’s presence.

  Carmichael spent little time with their sister, never tormenting her like he had Marta. Instead he treated Oleander with absolute apathy, like an ugly piece of furniture that could not be disposed of, only endured. He scarcely even looked at her, certainly less so now since the family had accepted that Oleander was not born Blessed like the rest of them.

  Yet Carmichael had also changed during his sojourn in the Auld Lands, now more aloof than ever. He had been absent a long time, even before he left to complete his training across the ocean. Since Marta had broken his nose, he had become distant. Although he had been antagonistic before the incident, she had always felt some form of affection in his taunts, yet since that moment, they had become like strangers forced to interact every day. They were both perfectly polite about it, but there was no love passing between them any longer.

  Father was certainly not pleased when Carmichael returned wearing a Listener’s pin with its two silver bulbs. Whisperer pins only sported one orb symbolizing the single mouth a person possessed, whereas the two heads of the Listener pins resembled the two ears. The Cildra eschewed both sets of pins though. Throughout their long and hidden history, no one in the clan had ever advertised their Blessed abilities, least of all abilities they did not possess. Though their father’s face did not display his displeasure, he was quite irate that he had not been consulted before Carmichael made such a drastic decision in donning the Listener pin.

  Carmichael remained equally impassive as he calmly explained his choice was in fact to make his Whisperer abilities more effective through misdirection. If his marks were spending their attention trying to keep their thoughts hidden from the apparent Listener, they would not notice him subtly placing new impulses into their minds as a Whisperer. This ploy would open up new avenues of mental ingress hitherto unavailable to him.

  Mother came to his aid, of course, Carmichael always Cecelia Childress’ favorite child. She flatly stated Carmichael’s logic was sound, his heart strong and willing to make a daring decision. Father was not pleased by his wife taking their son’s side in front of the entire family, but ultimately there was nothing he could do. The glass cap had already been removed, the Breath released from the luz jar, and nothing was capable of putting the escaped Breath back in.

  Marta was excited to see her kin in the Auld Lands and to complete her Cildra training in the nations in which their clan was born. She had spent a similar stint of six months with Cyrus in Sable Hill to master the phantom blade and open palm a year past. There, she had been the darling of her more rural cousins. The older girls took to her instantly, each as genial and accommodating as their father, Cyrus, by ensuring there was not a single inch of the neighboring city of Broad Baird Marta was not familiar with by the time she departed. Marta played her part well, her manners and lovely dresses endearing her to the local aristocrats. This trip was more than just learning her Shaper abilities with Cyrus though; it was also a test to see if Marta could swim well in unfamiliar waters by blending with an entirely different set of high society. And Marta passed with high marks if one counted the inundation of requests that she soon return.

  The city of Broad Baird was certainly lovely, if a bit quaint when compared to the more cosmopolitan Gatlin. Broad Baird fit her more provincial cousins perfectly, they soon to marry into the local gentry and guide their decisions from the shadows. The city and district would be in good hands, but Marta was meant for greater things. As oldest daughter of Norwood Childress, head of the Cildra clan in Newfield, Marta would not be wasted on a single forgotten county. No, whole states would one day be under her influence, perhaps even the fate of the entire nation.

  Despite her desire to finally see the Auld Lands she had read about firsthand, she was still apprehensive. This trip was meant to last two years, an entire ocean between her and her family. In Sable Hill she had begun to miss the lingering smell of pipe from her father’s study and her mother’s tales of her home in Lacus and the war they had fought against the glassmen of Myna to claim it as part of Newfield. She would not miss Carmichael one iota, but the idea of being separated from Oleander for years was almost more than she could bear.

  Marta shut the last of her trunks and, for a moment, she felt the impulse to reopen it, to leave the possibility for one last item t
o be crammed within. But she was fully packed and to leave the lid open simply on a whim would be childish. Marta would turn 16 in two months, and it was time to put childishness behind her as she clicked the latch into place.

  The sound of the latch had an effect upon Oleander as well, her face going ashen. The look of apprehension vanished as quickly as it appeared though, replaced by a mischievous glint in her little sister’s eyes.

  “One last game of luz jars before you leave me?”

  The offer of the game was a ruse, same as any of the Cildra games she had played with Oleander. Along with their Blessed abilities, the Cildra were expected to be the ideal model of aristocracy: well read, cultured, and as courteous as they were duplicitous. Marta had never been one for the strict manners demanded of her, something both her siblings took to naturally. But whereas Carmichael’s polite words were a thin veneer for his continual disdain, with Oleander they always seemed genuine, even as she taunted Marta yet again.

  Having never been forced to divide her time with Blessed training, Oleander instead maintained the prescribed Cildra physical and mental regiments of adolescence, her body now a coiled contraption and her mind honed sharper than any blade. Though two years younger, Oleander had overtaken Marta in their games and was now up by four points in their tally. Catching the flowing Breath within the luz jars was one of Oleander’s specialties, Marta never able to match, let alone surpass, her at the game.

  It was obviously a trap, but Marta fell into it willingly, both girls scrambling over each other to collect their jars and reach the ley.

  In most households collecting Breath in the luz jars was a nightly chore for children, and in the wealthy Childress home, it was the duty of the human servants. But Norwood Childress’ youngest children appropriated the chore and made it their private game, a point for each Breath they collected.