The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  The cries for escape from the frightened sororals had reached a fever pitch, Marta with no more time to reflect on the child. So she summoned her most comforting voice.

  “Caddie? Can you hear me, Caddie?”

  Still the girl did not stir, her eyes never leaving the ceiling. Marta’s anxiety fluttered its wings again, but its existence did not last long as her anger flared up to quash it. Carmichael and his network of informants would have known the girl was comatose, but he had not included this information in her mission. That meant he intended for her to fail, to be caught, and Marta’s anger roared. But there was no clarity in it this time, her rage hitting an immovable impediment as she picked over the problem.

  Marta had seen Caddie move before, had watched her take a seat outside under her own power. The only question was how to make her, the girl unfortunately a lock her open palm could not pick. Her anger without an obvious outlet, Marta shook Hendrix’s daughter roughly.

  The girl never stirred during her outburst. Marta finally let go, the girl’s head lolling to the side like a damaged doll. Her open eyes still stared straight ahead, Marta considering carrying her from the room when the sororal burst in, her Listener pin glinting.

  It was the same woman whose clothes she wore, Marta unable to miss the recognition in the sororal’s face as she beheld the thief. She was caught, had finally been discovered as she had feared. Marta’s fear was long gone though, only her anger remaining. She also now had a target to take her frustration out on as Marta considered killing the woman to save herself the trouble of fashioning an excuse as to her presence.

  The sororal’s eyes went wide, and in that moment Marta’s clarity descended to give her anger purpose. The sororal was a Listener, and so Marta set a mental refrain, her cover story tinged with the truth: she was sent from the Covenant Sons to retrieve Orthoel Hendrix’s daughter.

  The woman’s eyes widened farther, Marta sure her lie had taken root even as she lunged at the sororal. Pressing her up against the wall, Marta’s voice was cold as an Overhurst winter wind.

  “Tell me how to make her move.”

  The sororal’s teeth clacked shut, the woman apparently devoted to her charge. So Marta prodded the woman’s eye with her thumb, not quite enough to puncture it, but enough so the woman would not see properly on the morrow. On top of the pain, Marta altered her refrain, adding how she had killed many men who had not acquiesced to her demands.

  Again, it was a lie tainted with truth.

  The sororal broke, her words tumbling over each other, “You have to touch her. Skin to skin. A woman, it has to be a woman. Just touch her and she’ll obey.”

  Suddenly it made sense as to why Marta’s father and brother had chosen her for this mission. Even though Marta had hoped the ultimate reason was her chance to prove herself again to the clan, the truth was refreshing in its uniqueness. They needed a woman, a woman they would not mind losing if the mission proved too difficult, and she fit the bill.

  Though she had all she needed to complete her set task, she still wanted more as she pressed her thumb into the woman’s uninjured eye. “How did she end up this way? What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. No one does. She just appeared on our doorstep. We could not turn her away.”

  It was the truth, that much being obvious from the way the sororal’s mouth contorted in fear. The woman no longer any use to Marta, she considered killing the sororal again in the deeper part of her mind where the Listener could not plumb. Yet the woman’s abilities still had their use, even if it was only misdirection. So Marta set a new refrain, how she would take Caddie straight to Oreana to meet up with her contacts in the Covenant Sons.

  The only question was if the woman would remember this as Marta dug both her palms into her victim’s neck, pressing against the arteries with all her might. Within moments the sororal’s eyes fluttered, unconsciousness overcoming her as she went limp in Marta’s arms. She allowed the woman to slump down against the wall as Marta again turned her attention to the girl staring at the ceiling. Her fingers encircled the child’s wrist, the girl’s skin so thin Marta could feel each and every steady beat of blood in her veins.

  “Look at me.”

  The blue eyes turned to bore into Marta, the woman unsure if the girl actually saw her or was just following the sound of the voice. It was still progress though, and her time to safely remain within Lindaire Sanitarium was quickly winding down.

  “Stand up.”

  The girl rose to stand beside Marta without hesitation. Her movements were smooth, but once she reached the requested stance, the girl went slack, as if awaiting other orders. It reminded Marta somewhat of the festations growing up on Hillbrook Manor, the creatures with basic intelligence but no will of their own, no spark stemming from their Soul to give them desires. Marta also remembered when she had first met the girl’s father years ago, how his demeanor too had reminded her of festations and their lack of emotion. But if he had only echoed this similarity, his daughter resounded with it, the girl mechanical and even less useful than a festation since Marta had to remain in contact with her to give her orders.

  “Come with me.”

  Caddie complied readily enough, falling into step with Marta as she hurried down the hallway. The initial plan was to take the girl out the back, over the wall and into the maze of alleyways of Vrendenburg. But like all plans, this one too had broken down at the unexpected appearance of the sororal, and so Marta modified it as she went.

  She led the girl straight out the front door, through the confusion of the other milling sororals with their patients, and out into the streets. Glancing over her shoulder, Marta saw no one noticed as the two made their escape. They fled through the alleys and then the streets until she found her boardinghouse. Spiriting the girl upstairs to her room, Marta rid herself of the sororal garb, Caddie waiting exactly where she had been left without complaint.

  Getting the girl dressed proved no issue. Like festations, the girl proved capable of simple tasks such as putting on her dress and coat without having to be walked through the steps individually. Holding the girl’s wrist, Marta noticed the marks crawling up her arm, tiny scars no larger than pinpricks swarming over her flesh. They were evenly spaced, less than a thumb’s width between them as they spiraled up both arms. Though hardly noticeable against the girl’s pale skin, Marta noted them nonetheless, hoping if they were considered identifying marks they would be covered by the coat she had fortunately bought.

  Fastening a bonnet over the child’s forehead and then her own, Marta then turned her greatcoat inside out. The Grand War had left a surplus of such coats to match the sudden surplus of widows. A woman wearing one turned out was a sign she had lost a husband in the war, a silent announcement of her bereavement, and Marta hoped this would give an obvious answer to anyone wondering why a mother and daughter were traveling alone at night. Slinging the haversack over her shoulder, Marta took the girl’s soft hand in her own rough one.

  “Let’s go see your father.”

  The trip to the tramline took no time at all, the car not quite empty even at this late hour. It dropped them at the train station without incident, Marta hurrying with the girl to the ticket counter. She knew she was not yet too late to purchase a ticket, but Marta was ready to put Vrendenburg far behind her.

  True to the refrain she had set for the unlucky sororal woman, Marta purchased a ticket for Oreana, though she had no intention of ever reaching that destination. The man behind the counter was happy enough to issue their tickets, smiling sleepily at Caddie as he told Marta she certainly had a well-behaved daughter. Marta bestowed a thin smile upon him in response, not because she cared for the girl, but because it was what her cover story required.

  ***

  The first leg of their journey went smoothly, Marta almost believing they could make their way to Ceilminster entirely unmolested in the silence of the sleeping car. But a straight shot to their goal would be exactly what any pursuers wo
uld be expecting, messages along the Dobra networks traveling faster than the trains. Marta therefore had no intention of plotting such a simpleminded course.

  She hauled Caddie off the train at the second rest stop to purchase another ticket on a new route to Keysville. The girl followed her promptly and seemed willing to obey any order she was given. The girl never shut her eyes though, and she never attempted to sleep as the car’s gentle rocking lulled Marta to drowsiness despite the promise of the oncoming ley headache. Though Marta never spoke unless issuing instructions to the girl, she found Caddie’s silence disquieting.

  Splurging on another sleeper car, with any luck Marta could fall asleep before the ley headache could take hold to then disembark in the forgotten city of Naddi. Bordering Ingios territory and far away from the main train lines, this tiny train hub was the last place anyone would think to look for them. If this new direction proved successful, Marta would then buy a new ticket for Ceilminster in the hope they would arrive there without incident to make contact with the Covenant Sons, at which point she would find herself beside Orthoel Hendrix.

  But her mission would only be complete as she drove her Shaper claws into his chest and watch while his eyes turned dead as his daughter’s. Marta’s father might be able to forgive the man, but she realized she was now too far gone to be capable of such humanity herself.

  ***

  His rear firmly planted in the earth, his hands occupied by furiously whittling with his straight-bladed knife, Luca Dolphus kept his bare foot within the Cienegas line of ley. His headache raged beyond the point of distraction, Luca barely able to maintain his attention on the ill-formed block of wood.

  He would have preferred an instrument, a fiddle maybe, or better yet a mandolin. Playing music apparently alone along the ley would draw attention though, so he contented himself with the whittling. A few more slivers removed from the outer edge of the block, he still puzzled after what it would be. He had learned long ago that to carve with intention was a fool’s errand, the wood resisting any attempt at giving it form opposed to its own internal will. No, the wood wanted to provide its own shape independent of the person doing the whittling, revealing itself only when it was good and ready. So far he was still clueless as to the final form, but it was only a matter of time before it made itself known.

  These were all foolish thoughts, Luca knew, wood with no consciousness except what he bestowed upon it in his distress. His headache had continued unabated for two weeks now, the exact amount of time he had kept his foot within the ley, and it was influencing his thoughts.

  Frustrated again at the inscrutable piece of wood, Luca looked for Isabelle. She was probably close, but not making her presence known. Usually the woman refused to shut up, chattering so much about her dreams the night before it made his head swim. But since they received their latest, and hopefully last, mission together, Isabelle avoided him as much as possible, content to let him suffer alone in silence.

  The headache had grown past the space of Luca’s head, making him want to get up and shake himself free of it. Yet Luca remained, his right hand reaching down to feel the comforting weight of his lockblade in his right pocket. Just the touch of it made the pain retreat somewhat as Luca’s concentration again coalesced on the block of wood. Unless he found some new inspiration, it would be an ugly thing discarded to join the dozen others littering the ground around him. He wanted this one to be beautiful, just as he had wanted the others to be, but again inspiration eluded him. His hands kept moving ceaselessly though, chipping away at the wood as if it would help.

  Suddenly a message came through the line, Luca sitting up and reaching his hand into the ley as if more contact would actually help decipher the Dobra transmission. It was the usual drivel, mostly an outpouring of the nation of Newfield’s bureaucracy. There were also the usual personal messages, far-flung families sending their love to their relatives, but buried deep within the transmissions was a message to Luca himself.

  Simza had finally spoken, had finally given purpose to his suffering along the ley.

  Replacing the forgotten boot upon his foot, Luca stood, blood rushing to his head and making him dizzy. Or perhaps it was the mission, finally a chance to be reunited with Jaelle that made his head spin. Either way, Luca returned his straight-blade knife to its sheath at his waist.

  Isabelle appeared beside him, quiet as a thought as her hazel eyes gazed into his brown.

  “Time we were off,” he said.

  Isabelle cocked her head, her face remaining slack. Her lips did not even tremble as he tucked the unfinished block of wood into his belt.

  “No, no need to hurry. They won’t arrive in Naddi until morning.”

  Chapter 7

  Solmonad 20, 559 (Eight Years Ago)

  It had not even been a year yet Marta had come to the conclusion that the Auld Lands were tranquil, beautiful, and utterly boring. Opportunities for intrigue certainly abounded in the balls, salons, and banquets she attended, Marta whirled from one to the other so fast they were but a blur of finery. Whispers and snippets of information filled every corner, the lands abuzz with plots.

  All the intrigues felt tired to her though, the plots perfunctory, as if everyone was simply going through the motions of a game that had gone on for far too long. There was no passion to it, all the discussed territories already having been claimed for centuries, their borders secure and the residents of the Auld Lands simply politely arguing over scraps.

  The continent had run its course. The Daci had seen to that as he preached his peace, not just between the Renders and Weavers, but for all of Sol’s children. There were no more wars; no more sense of discovery. Everything had already been established and agreed to by all, their roles already assigned and readily accepted. All in all it was a far cry from the constant excitement provided her in her hectic home of Newfield.

  The Auld Lands were certainly more cultured though; Marta could not deny them that. The people here were also much more refined in their affluence. To hear them tell it, civilization sprung up on their shores thousands of years ago, and they had the heirlooms to prove it. The mansions her Cildra relatives lived in here each had dozens of beautiful tapestries and portraits that would surely reside in a museum back home. But here no one even noticed them. They were too commonplace and faded into the background beneath all the senseless chatter.

  There was more minutia to their maneuverings as well, an almost indecipherable maze to penetrate. Marta made her first mistake the night of her arrival by kissing her host’s cheeks twice, not the three times as demanded by high society here. Her host had been kind in his response to her gaff by deviating from decorum to return the same flawed gesture to her, but as she realized her mistake, Marta saw the reaction on her cousins’ faces. The fact they looked down upon her was obvious, they considering her the provincial girl who would not last a week when faced with all their cosmopolitan glamour.

  What was worse, she soon realized her hairstyle was long out of fashion here, her dresses two seasons out of date. If Marta wanted to be considered one of their numbers as her Cildra training demanded, she would have to make some drastic changes.

  Marta made the requisite alterations immediately, throwing out all of the dresses filling her trunks and availing herself of the shops and boutiques her cousins frequented. In a matter of days, Marta was the height of fashion, her corsets cinched so tight she could scarcely breathe in dresses that were as alluring as they were low-cut. To these she added jewelry to accentuate her choices with a surprisingly adept eye.

  But in regards to her hair, Marta decided to establish herself as separate from everyone else. Instead of mirroring her Auld Land hosts, Marta chose to plait her hair in the style of her cousins’ back in the state of Nahuat, staying up late to perfect the intricate braids they favored in Sable Hill.

  In so doing Marta stuck out from the crowd, her aberrant hairstyles and darker skin drawing all eyes to her, especially from the boys desperate for something n
ew to turn their attentions upon. Marta found them all genteel, erudite, and utterly undeserving of her interest. She still smiled sweetly at their entreaties though, laughing coquettishly as each one took the uniqueness of her braids as an opportunity to approach her. The most difficult part was making sure her female cousins were nearby to witness her hoarding of the boys’ undivided attention.

  Soon her female cousins sought her out, first one or two at a time, and then finally whole flocks anxious to learn the secrets of her plaits. Within a matter of weeks, the whole coterie sported the same style, Marta smirking internally each time she doled out her knowledge. Back home these braids were considered provincial, but here in the Auld Lands they suddenly became the height of fashion.

  Although the fickleness of fashion was amusing, the idea of her identity now perplexed her. If anyone back home had asked her where she hailed from, she would have answered Mimas immediately. Back home being from Mimas meant something, yet here in the Auld Lands, Mimas was simply a small spot on a vast map, just as Acweald or Bance were to her before she stood upon their shores. So now when the people of the Auld Lands asked her where she was from, Marta found herself answering Newfield rather than Mimas.

  This realization disturbed her, a sense of loss there, though she could not put her finger on the why of it. Back home she would have had an instant dislike of anyone from the Western state of New Albion, arguments over the necessity of festations sure to factor into their heated conversation. Back home they would be at each other’s throats, only decorum keeping them within the barest semblance of civility. But here in the Auld Lands, she and this imagined citizen of New Albion would become fast friends, the two of them bonding over their similarities of being from Newfield as opposed to these inscrutable denizens of the Auld Lands. Here their differences would be forgotten in favor of the fact that they were both foreigners.