The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  In the alley Marta felt his presence in the shadows before she saw him, lashing out with her gauntlet to grab his throat. Pressing him against the wall, she recognized the man with the sly smile that had followed her outside the saloon. Despite the gauntlet wrapped around his neck with the force to crush rocks, he gave the same grin now.

  “Why I do believe I would not mind going blind now that I’ve seen your face up close.”

  It was a well-practiced line, one Marta knew was meant to distract her from his right hand thrust into his pocket. So she tightened her grip, cutting off his air.

  “Show me what you have there. Slowly.”

  The man complied, his right hand slipping out to reveal a large lockblade with a dark sheen. In capable hands a lockblade was a dangerous weapon, the blade released with a simple flick of the wrist. But why a man would need one when he had a straight-blade knife at his waist eluded Marta.

  “Drop it.”

  To her surprise he hesitated, unwilling to part with the lockblade. His air running out, he finally did as he was bid. Not entirely releasing him, Marta slackened her grip enough to allow him his breath again. It still took him several moments before he spoke, his voice coming in huffs.

  “Here to help. We’re here to help you.”

  “We?”

  At his knowing nod the woman materialized from the shadows to Marta’s left, a wicked steel hatchet in her hand. After years of sneak-and-see, both with her brother and little sister, Marta was horrified that the Mynian woman had gotten the drop on her. She still kept the fear from her face as she regarded the grinning man.

  “And you are?”

  But he kept smiling, one hand pointing idly at her gauntlet wrapped around his neck. She would have to release it before he offered more, and Marta was in no mood for a game of wait-and-see as she dropped him to the ground.

  The man instantly snatched up the lockblade, inspecting it for damage and finally deciding it remained unscathed before returning it to his pocket. Then he grinned again.

  “The Covenant Sons, of course. Come, we have horses waiting.”

  Chapter 9

  Weodmonad 14, 561 (Six Years Ago)

  Marta had been back in Newfield for almost a year, but still had not seen her home. Although she suspected she would miss Gatlin, she never supposed the pang would be so pronounced. The sights she had seen in the Auld Lands, then grand Western cities of Newfield, were amazing, but they did not compare to the scent of honeysuckle in her mother’s gardens, the yelps of a new litter of her father’s puppies, or simply walking along the long canals snaking through Gatlin.

  Most of all she missed Oleander, wondering again how much her little sister had grown. Oleander sent no more letters, her father only obliquely referring to her in his own messages. Her sister must already be doing her Cildra work, Marta decided, serving the clan as Marta now was.

  It was nice to be back in Newfield, even if it was not quite her home. She had disembarked from her sojourn in the Auld Lands in the New Albion city of Polis to be welcomed by Cildra relatives so far removed Marta initially could not recall all their names. They were happy enough to show her the sights of her new abode though. In the Auld Lands, they measured the history of their cities in centuries, and though Polis was scarcely over a hundred years old, it dwarfed anything she had seen across the ocean. Polis was a paragon of progress, constantly adding to its visage. The city was now so massive that it had entirely devoured the peninsula with its sprawl and had begun to build upwards. One of the tallest buildings nearly scraped the sky, her cousins taking her to the top of its eight stories so she could behold the city in its entirety. Marta had to hide her amazement of such an engineering accomplishment lest she appear an unrefined yokel, not the daughter of Norwood Childress.

  Marta never spoke of her mission with her cousins any more than they would to her of theirs. Each child of the Cildra was simply an extension of their parents, doing their duty and reporting back, all decisions made by the heads of the clan. Fortunately, her father had decided to throw his support behind the East in what had become known as the Grand War, and Marta was glad he had not sided with the Western Renders over his own countrymen. If her Cildra relatives in Polis were bothered by being instructed to turn against the West, they gave no sign. Nor should they, the Cildra’s loyalty to the clan superseding that to the nation. Still, Marta was glad she had not been ordered to help the Renders to victory.

  Marta did not stay in Polis long, departing for the national capital of Vrendenburg barely five months after she arrived. This city seemed more familiar, no building more than four stories tall. It was still a far cry from the winding beauty of Gatlin though. Like all Western cities, Vrendenburg was laid out in an unimaginative grid pattern, all the streets straight, the buildings square and lacking personality. It was the Render influence, their religious beliefs invading their architecture and demanding function over form. There was little splendor here as there was in the East. The Weavers back home knew how to enjoy life, creating their festations for tedious or backbreaking work to allow their masters time for leisure. The fact the Weavers could enjoy life was proof they were superior to the Renders in Marta’s mind, proof that they would eventually win the war. They deserved to by being inherently smarter than their austere enemies.

  Thankfully, Vrendenburg was a hotbed of intrigue with all the couriers, senators, politicians, ambassadors, and aides running about. As Gatlin was the state capital of Mimas, her father had once taken her, Carmichael, and Oleander to the statehouse to watch the politicians fashion their laws. Marta was impressed at the men and women as they argued and harangued until they finally reached their compromise, but then her father disabused her of her illusion.

  “They’re all fools,” he announced. “The politicians and statesmen, they all believe themselves leaders, but they’re simply slaves to their desire for power in the public eye. Once we learn what these so-called leaders covet, the Cildra gain power over the politicians. This is what makes us able to manipulate them, knowledge of what they want. In this way the clan controls all of Ayr, influencing the course of nations without having to even take one step inside a statehouse. This is what makes the Cildra great.”

  From the corner of her eye, Marta caught Carmichael nodding shrewdly, as if this were simply another recitation of one of Mitchell’s lessons. Oleander nodded in turn, and so Marta did as well so as not to be left out, but she stayed up until nearly dawn tossing and turning in bed as she chewed over her father’s lesson.

  It was Marta’s task to infiltrate the upper Western echelons of Vrendenburg society and report all she found. Initially she thought that being an outsider in the West would make her information collection more difficult, especially being the daughter of a displaced Eastern aristocrat in the capital of the enemy. Instead, her distinction as an oddity made it all the easier, everyone taking pity upon the unfortunate Covenant girl unable to return home. All the Westerners seemed to be in competition to befriend her, each wanting to demonstrate how reasonable they were, whereas it was her countrymen that were the zealots. And so Marta soaked up every secret they spilled, influencing the events on the battlefields while far removed in the lap of luxury.

  For the most part Vrendenburg was untouched by the bloodshed of the Grand War. The only sign there was even a war was the comings and goings of the messengers rushing straight from the Kuk line of ley to President Ruhl. All the fighting was taking place in the bordering states surrounding the Mueller Line separating the East from the West. Unable to pick a side, the state of Neider had split in two, what was now called East Neider having sided with the Covenant against their former countrymen.

  Everyone knew that the war would have ended long ago in the West’s favor were it not for the brilliant tactics of the Eastern General Clyde Loree. The Western general Davis Underhill shared equal blame in prolonging the bloodshed, his blunders so egregious that some of the papers dubbed him “Dunderhill” and demanded his resignation. But Ma
rta knew the truth: many of Loree’s brilliant feints and charges were the results of already knowing Underhill’s plans through the information she passed to her father. She was personally helping to make a hero of Loree and a ham-fisted villain out of Underhill.

  Despite the public calls for Underhill’s dismissal, President Ruhl stuck by his general, devoted to the man, even if none knew quite why. Marta met Underhill once, courtesy of her beau, Richard, and found him a man full of conviction, but utterly lacking in ability.

  She was much more impressed by meeting the president himself, again courtesy of Richard’s expanding influence. Despite the fact he was the epitome of the enemy, Marta found herself almost overcome by the president in spite of herself. Though no Dacist by any stretch of the imagination, Ruhl believed in peace between the Renders and Weavers and frequently called for a cessation to the bloodshed. Though she fervently hoped for the East’s utter victory over the Renders, when in Ruhl’s company, Marta found herself hoping for peace instead. He had such a powerful presence, a sorrow emanating from him while somehow still giving a sense of hope. Though her father said all politicians were simply fools, after meeting Ruhl, she was not so sure. Perhaps not all politicians were out for personal gain.

  Perhaps some, like Ruhl, were called to serve.

  Marta met other Western war celebrities as well, Richard more than happy to provide an invitation to any upper-class gathering she took a fancy to. A Tinker by the name of Hendrix was the most fascinating, and Marta believed it was the will of Sol that put her beside him.

  It had been a rather uneventful soirée, Marta mingling with her usual crowd and finding nothing of interest. Then she noticed the man in his rumpled suit, which was several seasons out of date, remaining alone by the punchbowl for nearly an hour, Marta sliding up beside him the third time she refilled her cup. He was new and, as such, should be investigated.

  “Will you be attending the Blalock gala next week?” she inquired in a casual tone. It was a neutral question, but Marta made it a point to appear as approachable to this wallflower.

  Although he had surely heard her, the man did not look up from his drink. Marta considered asking him again when he finally caught her eyes with his pale blue ones.

  “No. I will be working then. Should be working now.”

  His words were so quick and clipped that Marta could barely catch them in as he fidgeted with his cup. The motion drew Marta’s attention, noticing the smudges of chalk on the blades of his hands and the residue of grease under his nails.

  “Could I possibly be fortunate enough to be in the presence of Orthoel Hendrix?”

  No matter his answer, she was sure she was. Between his blue eyes and receding hair so thin it was almost undetectable, his identity was easy to ascertain. Marta had heard whispers of the man rising quickly in the Western Tinker ranks, but had not had the chance to make his acquaintance quite yet. So she smiled all the brighter to invite his attention.

  But the man’s gaze returned to his cup, his words spilling out all over each other. “Working. Should be working. War is an opportunity, one that will not last forever. But perhaps a year more… if I’m lucky. Technology doesn’t have a lifespan like man, you see. It must therefore be nurtured in times of crisis. War is the real opportunity every Tinker must take advantage of.” He glanced up then back down, his flitting gaze not quite making contact as he continued at an even faster rate.

  “During warfare it jumps forward at an unprecedented rate. We only realize the applications after the fact. Muskets. Did you know muskets were first called harkbuts? Terribly primitive contraptions. They were too slow to fire, so a Drolant general set several men in a line. The first would fire, the second behind him passing him a new harkbut, the third loading a new one while the fourth cleaned the spent weapon. Each man had a set task, one he performed individually to make a process between them. Years later we applied what he learned from warfare to the factories, giving each man a small task that allows us to build machines in a matter of months. Don’t you see? It’s the technology that’s important, not the war itself.”

  Marta could barely keep track of his argument, but he was opening up at least. “But the loss of human life,” she said. “Surely that’s not worth the price we pay for this technology.”

  Hendrix sucked air through his teeth several times, Marta unsure if he was tisking her or laughing. “The bloodshed is incidental. The loss of life means little, the dead’s Breath simply retreating to Sol’s flow to return anew. That is what makes technology unique. It is the only creation that is not of Sol, the only thing outside his flow. It remains when its inventor dies, waiting for another Tinker to pick it up and give it life again. That is why this Grand War is an opportunity that should not be wasted. That is why I should not be here. I should be working. I should take advantage of the destruction while I can to create.”

  As he rushed on with his words, Marta found her cheeks tingling. The idea that something good could come from being outside of Sol’s flow and that anyone could think human life was worth less than inanimate technology was horrifying to her. It was monstrous, and though she tried to keep her face pleasant, she quickly found her façade flagging.

  “You don’t understand either.” He looked away, shuffling off with his cup of punch still grasped in his hands. “Should be working,” Marta caught him mumbling as he made his retreat.

  The odd man reminded Marta of the festations she grew up beside. Despite what she had been assured was a powerful mind, the man seemed almost mechanical in his manic interactions. Like the festations, he seemed to have no Soul, and it was this Tinker’s lack of humanity that disturbed Marta most of all. As she knew that Newfield was much further ahead in the technological race against the Covenant, Marta suggested to her father that Hendrix should be removed before he widened the gap further. But her father did not respond to this point, instead telling her to keep close to Richard.

  Richard Torbee was the whole reason she remained in Vrendenburg, Marta reflecting on him again as she brushed her hair. She had met him a week prior to the start of the war by chance, running into him again a few days later entirely on purpose. The boy was instantly smitten, and so the girl used all her charms to the Covenant’s advantage. As an aide to the Secretary of War, Richard was close to the flame of leadership and wanted to impress Marta by demonstrating his burgeoning influence. Through Richard she learned about Underhill’s Chilwist Basin offensive a week before it launched, Loree easily outflanking his foe after she informed her father.

  Marta’s eyes alighted on the dried rose beside her mirror, a gift from Richard at their first outing alone together. Time had sapped the rose’s color from bright red to a muddy brown, but Marta still treasured the thing. They had become quite close over the last few months, Richard considering him her confidant in her time of need. And although all his attention and offerings were quite flattering, the greatest gift was the knowledge she had him wrapped around her finger as surely as her woven ring. Absently her thumb scratched at it, waiting for the day she would slip it to Oleander and again be equal.

  There was much to like about Richard, the boy handsome, clever, and above all ambitious. He was a rising star in Ruhl’s government, perhaps holding office himself someday. For that position he would need a wife, and on a whim Marta imagined what it would be like to occupy that space. It was a silly impulse, the idea of affection towards her mark laughable. Although the attraction she felt for him was indeed genuine, she could never allow herself to let her emotions get the better of her. Cildra children were taught at a young age any sentiment towards others should be a show only—a sham. Any actual affection towards their targets was a weakness.

  But Marta liked feeling weak in Richard’s presence. Having climbed so high in society, she had the sudden overwhelming urge to fall. The impulse was like a cliff that called to her, leaning over the edge to see what mysteries resided in its depths. Teetering on the tip, the longing to allow gravity to ply its trade and
plummet her to whatever awaited below would suddenly fill her heart. Each time she steeled herself, had turned back from the emotional abyss. Yet each time she found herself climbing further out, waiting along the edge longer. If she kept at it much longer, she was afraid her fall would be a foregone conclusion.

  A knock came from the door of the hotel room that had recently become her home, a servant announcing Richard’s arrival in the hall below. Giving her cheeks a good pinch, Marta hoped it would be enough to mimic the blush that was expected upon seeing her suitor.

  Her bustle bouncing behind her as she swept down the stairs, Marta pushed past the servant and spied Richard among the thronging crowd. Decorum dictated she remain modest at his arrival, but Marta made it a point to publically fall into his arms, this perfectly expected by a girl besotted by her beau. But his arms suddenly surrounding her, she realized her blush might now be genuine.

  ***

  Dinner was a wonderful affair, the war’s food shortages not yet reaching the finer restaurants of Vrendenburg. Richard was his usual conversational self, several state secrets slipping out as he bragged about his day with abandon. Marta gobbled these morsels down while picking delicately at her food as a lady should, but as she tried to cut her steak into dainty bites, Richard suddenly trailed off. Looking up, she found him staring with abject adoration.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  His words were barely above a whisper, but rung about Marta’s head, she now at a loss at such an outpouring of emotion. It was raw, unfiltered, and without any of the guile she was taught to expect in high society.

  More than that, it was unlike being a part of the Cildra clan. Though Marta had learned her Cildra lessons well, there was another moral underneath it all she had accidently ascertained: she must act adequately to earn her love. Her parents cared for her, of that Marta was certain, but to be given any sign of their affection, she had to perform, had to excel. When she stumbled at her lessons, her parents were quite willing to withhold their attention. As a child Marta had thought they loved her the same way as she had seen in her non-Cildra acquaintances. But now as an adult at nineteen, she recognized they certainly showed more affection with her and Carmichael than they ever had to Oleander. Her sister had never received a woven ring except from Marta. The conditional love in her household was completely different from what she received from Richard.