The Imbued Lockblade (Sol's Harvest Book 2)

by M. D. Presley

  Feeding the hogs and other sundry errands now fell to the two new bietas. Marko and Petro were both good men, but Luca had little time to get to know them since he spent the majority of his time for Simza along the ley. Luca soon longed for these sessions as his only reminder of the bustle he grew to love in Polis. They may be Wanderers and roam Newfield, but none of his kin knew how tiny they really were. Only when linked back into the Dobra web spanning all of Ayr did Luca feel connected to the outside world. Previously, his time on the lines was a chore, but Luca now pored over all the maps of Newfield, memorizing the lines of ley and the states and cities they stitched together. If he had his druthers, he would spend all his time either at sparring or the ley, but as Simza’s left hand, he received other onerous duties. The worst consisted of acting as chaperone for Jaelle.

  As the wolari’s fortunes grew, so did the number of suitors wooing her. Since Luca’s return, it seemed not a week went by without another new envoy from one of the Wanderer wolaris arriving. Their wagons were always welcomed, the fathers bestowing great gifts to Simza as the sons politely made eyes at her daughter. They would then remain several days before heading on, Simza telling them all that Jaelle was still far too young to marry.

  But still the suitors came, making Luca’s life miserable as he escorted Jaelle and her current beau around the camp. He thought it cruel that Simza sent him on these errands, but Jaelle proved even crueler. Always making sure to catch the eye of her unhappy chaperone, she danced up to the edge of decency with quick brushes of her suitor’s hands and even stolen kisses. She cared nothing about these boys, Luca was sure, Jaelle simply using the poor lads to torment him.

  His sister Lela agreed with his assessment at their morning meetings. An early riser, she would catch Luca for a few minutes before he went to bed at dawn, the two the only ones awake in the quiet camp. She was moving up in the wolari, and swore that as a midwife she knew the hearts of women better than Luca ever would, which was why she told him, “Give up on the girl… and her mother, for that matter.”

  Luca rolled his eyes, as he had the last dozen times. Lela’s argument was always the same, and he only allowed her to continue out of a morbid curiosity to see what deviation she put into it this time.

  “You won’t ever win her,” she continued in her sensible tone. “You must realize that. A fish may love a mouse, but they’ll never marry.”

  “Am I the fish or the mouse?”

  “Be whatever you want. You certainly have the option now. Renounce your offer to Simza and take her training to strike out on your own. Give up on Jaelle. You have as much chance of marrying into the center vurd as the mouse has of wedding a fish.”

  “You really think so little of me?” Luca asked with mock indignation. “Taking Simza’s vurd can go hang. I’d be happy in a hut so long as I had Jaelle by my side. I do this for love, nothing more.”

  “I know you do, Luca. You love like the poets, with your whole heart. And that is why you will never be content. Love can make you happy for a while, but it always ends in tragedy. That’s why the poets write about it—because their hearts feed on unhappiness. But contentedness comes from the head, not the fickle heart, and that’s why it’s the best end you can ever hope for.”

  “I fear your content head will never know real joy,” Luca said, eying Lela with pity.

  Her piteous look equaled his. “And I fear your heart mistakes suffering for love.”

  ***

  Both Luca’s head and heart suffered when he shadowed Jaelle and the bearded boy from the Gacu tribe. The last half-dozen suitors made up the inner circles of their wolari, but this boy’s family resided in the second, which marked him a grubber in Luca’s eyes. Perhaps it was his low status that made Jaelle particularly overt with her flirtations. The gaji were about and the musicians plying their trade, so Luca could scarcely hear snippets of their conversations, but he watched Jaelle’s hand constantly brush the boy’s, she marveling at his bushy beard and frequently running her fingers through it. The boy was clearly unused to this degree of affection, his face burning brightly by the time Jaelle bid him goodnight. Stalking beside her as she headed to her vurd, Luca could feel both the boy’s need and mistaken belief he had finally won the elusive hand of Jaelle Morjana.

  As she reached the edge of the boy’s vision, Jaelle made sure to glance back over her shoulder with one more steamy look she ensured Luca saw.

  “Do I need to keep watch for him outside your door tonight?” Luca attempted to keep the venom out of his voice, but upon seeing Jaelle’s face brighten, knew he failed.

  “Do as you please. It makes no matter to me. He can knock all he wants, but my door will remain shut. He wears a beard, after all.”

  Looking from Jaelle to the hopeful boy, Luca could not help but feel pity. The lad clearly thought he attained his heart’s desire tonight, never realizing all Jaelle’s amorous overtures occurred for another. He would never understand he was simply a pawn in a cruel game played by a cruel little girl bent on spinning him around for sport. At this realization, Jaelle lost all her luster for Luca as he saw her for what she really was.

  Spotting his sudden change in expression, her brow furrowed.

  “Luca?”

  He left without a word, unsure how he had ever fallen for such a petulant and capricious child.

  All he knew for sure was that he should immediately grow a beard.

  Chapter 13

  Blotmonad 17, 567

  Marta stuck out among the Weaver adherents. Even though not doffing one’s hat in the revival tent was considered the height of disrespect, her slouch hat remained. Yet they ignored her, and she welcomed their indifference on their slow trek east. Mowery’s flock was made exclusively of outcasts and misfits, which fit Marta just fine.

  Isabelle fit in far less, drawing hard stares Marta knew far too well. After their third day, Mitchell gently suggested Isabelle stay out of sight. Although no one called the girl a boor to her face, her Ingio origin remained too obvious to ignore, and many whispered as to the savages’ slaughter of good, honest Newfield settlers. When Luca inquired as to how many of the revivalists personally knew someone killed by Ingio hands, Mitchell simply reiterated that Isabelle remain out of sight. His request did not extend to Marta though, who shared some Ingio blood on her mother’s side, but Marta believed the outcome would be the same for their attackers if either woman was assailed.

  Standing and fighting back was her second nature, but Marta ran away in her dreams. They did not come every night, but when they did, she was always already in the midst of a chase. She never caught a glance of her hunter, but she still fled for her life. The dreams always ended the same, with the unseen terror’s breath kissing her neck, and Marta realizing she would never be swift enough on her two legs. The answer to fall upon all fours like an animal was obvious, but Marta clung desperately to her remaining humanity as she turned to face her enemy, only to shake awake each time.

  “Bad dream?” Luca inquired after the most recent. Mowery had been kind enough to supply them with a tent, but it was cramped between the four in the fake family unit. The single bedroll provided for her and Luca was an insult that forced Marta to her own corner with just her clothes and Caddie to keep her warm. “It’s Isabelle who asks. Her people plan their days from what they dream the night before, and she thinks your dreams could guide us.”

  “And that’s why her people don’t live in cities,” Marta shot back, harsher than she intended. Luca did not press her further, and for that, she was grateful.

  ***

  The revival wove its way through the countryside with more discipline than Marta expected from Weavers. Each time they arrived outside a new town, outriders awaited to guide them to where the tents would be erected. The next day would be the revival proper, preceded by a picnic and square dances before the hymns signaled the start to Mowery’s sermon. Every night his sermons were new, but always centered around forgiveness. Each time he seemed quite sincere,
affecting his audience with the same fervor Marta witnessed their first night. Idly she wondered if he would be able to find it within himself to forgive her for Graff’s Blessed Breath she kept in the luz jar hidden in her haversack. Though the Weavers did not cling to the idea of keeping Sol’s Breath constantly in flow like the Renders, stealing that what made them one of Sol’s Blessed might be a sin even Mowery could not abide.

  With her Shaper strength, Marta would have been more useful erecting the tents, but she stuck to the chuck wagon to help out best she could. When Mitchell found her there, he could not contain his surprise.

  “The haughty child I taught would never have deigned to prepare another’s meal.”

  “That girl died,” Marta replied flatly.

  Mitchell’s expressive face opened even more, and Marta cursed her misstep. At least once a day, he implored her to tell the story of how she became one of Bumgarden’s Furies, and each time she refused. Mistakes like this falsely fanned the man’s belief he was making inroads, and Marta fell silent until he walked away to join Luca and Caddie.

  While Marta earned her keep in the kitchen, Luca ignored all tasks but caring for Caddie. The two of them, coupled with Creature, were the toast of the encampment. Marta believed they drew too much attention, but Luca assured her no one’s thoughts turned to Hendrix’s missing daughter in his presence. He and Mitchell became fast friends, the two idling away hours at a time. From the corner of her eye, Marta watched them gab on for far too long before Mitchell finally departed. Luca did not even look up when Marta arrived moments later.

  “He says you’re getting closer. Whatever that means.”

  The idea of others discussing her irritated Marta to no end. “How did you stand this sort of life—people stumbling over each other and tripping into your business?”

  She did not utter the word Dobra, but Luca understood. “It’s nothing like this. The wolari is family, kin going back before there was time. This here, this is a gathering that will not last. Without family binding it together, it will eventually fall apart. All gatherings of men, be they musicians or armies, will eventually disperse. True kin is the only thing you cannot escape.”

  Marta watched Caddie and Creature play in the dirt. The dye for her hair needed to be reapplied, but Marta focused on the tangled locks.

  “See if you can scrounge me a comb.”

  Sure enough, Isabelle awaited them with a comb when they returned to their tent that night with a fresh luz jar. Luca usually remained by the campfire late into the night with Mitchell, and since Isabelle only left to relieve herself, Marta expected the woman to be climbing the walls. Yet Isabelle showed no outward distress, though Marta noted she now wore Luca’s straight-blade at her side.

  Marta set to work on the girl’s hair in the flickering luz jar light. Caddie’s hair was far more tangled than Marta expected, Creature cawing and pecking at the comb from the girl’s shoulder as she worked. Pressing too hard at one knot, Marta finally forced the comb through, snapping Caddie’s head to the side. Creature complained, but the girl did not cry out at the pain, which made Marta feel all the worse.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted you to be pretty.”

  “Why?”

  Caddie had not spoken since demanding Creature, and as far as Marta remembered, this was her first question. It was straightforward, but she was at a loss. Her mother would have quickly quipped it would be a sin to hide such beauty from the world, but that was not a proper explanation, and Marta had always hated it when her mother deflected her honest inquiries. Caddie deserved a better upbringing, but when pressed as to how, Marta realized she was without a mother’s instinct. She looked to Isabelle for help, but the woman just barked her laugh.

  The unanswered question hung there in the air like an erstwhile Breath to eventually float away and be forgotten about as Marta kept combing.

  ***

  Never traveling in a straight line, they headed northeast. They would skirt Broad Baird within a week, and then Marta intended to split with the revivalists to pass through the Ichuguk Mountains down towards Chisana. The pass was said to be difficult, but bearable, and from there they could follow the Naupin Line northeast to Hammond then straight north to Ceilminster. The trip would still take several weeks, and Marta wondered if her delay already exasperated Carmichael. Her assassination of Hendrix and disobedience to her father’s secret directive would certainly sever any remaining ties she had with the Cildra clan. Although Luca was correct that kin was the only bond one could not fully escape, Marta was ready to do so. Perhaps the transience of gatherings such as this Weaver revival was actually a blessing. Despite what some heretics like the Gazers believed, Breath kept no memories when death severed their strings and carried no burdens with them as they sought life anew in a new host. Perhaps this was best for humans as well, Sol’s chosen creatures abandoning their families to drift with others of like mind.

  She briefly considered if she could do this. Separating herself entirely from her family was not the difficult part, rather to willingly drift along with others. Despite the army after her, Marta dared to feel safe among these Weaver adherents. The sensation felt new, and so she could not fully embrace its strangeness, but Marta gingerly poked at the idea and found it not altogether unsound. But before she could even consider joining their band, she had a murder to carry out.

  ***

  Two more stops passed, and Marta found herself falling into the rhythm of the camp, the setting up, sermons, and breaking down to travel again creating their own ebb and flow. Each night was the same with only slight variations, and tomorrow’s tasks were never in question. The routine was refreshing as they set up outside the town of Eaton Gully. The square dances were going full swing and evening meal ready to be served when Mitchell sought her out among the cookfires. His face was friendly as ever, but Marta felt some trepidation when he led her to Mowery’s tent. With the service looming, the herald should be out among his flock, but he greeted her heartily.

  “Marta, my dear, I think it’s time you stop your hiding.”

  From the few interactions she had with him, Marta knew Mowery never eased into a conversation, but his ham-handed statement still surprised her. His suggestion was insane, but the man had shown her kindness, so Marta chose her words carefully.

  “Your flock has shown me great consideration, Herald, but it’s the Easterners outside it I fear.”

  Mowery dismissed her point with a wave of his hand holding the Biba Sacara. “Soon as they hear your story, every Easterner will become my flock. Imagine it, the leader of Bumgarden’s own Furies returning to her people to preach. They will come to vilify you. Of that I am certain. I have no illusion as to their initial hate. But we, together, will win them over. While you are reticent to tell it, I know from Evan how far you have fallen, and yet how you persevere. Yours is a story all Easterners feel, deep down in their Souls. We were proud, but arrogant, and for that we were humbled. And it is from this humility we will gather and grow our strength. Just as the good book tells us, ‘From the slightest seed, the grand tree will grow to shatter the unfeeling rock and spread its leaves. And though those leaves may fall, the tree stands for seasons upon seasons, spreading its seeds until a mighty forest grows. And though the grand tree will one day fall, the forest still remains, the result of one slight seed.’ You, Marta, you are that slight seed. And from your story we can grow an everlasting forest.”

  Marta was swept up in his words despite herself. The idea of creating had been foreign to her for far too long, but that did not make it any less appealing, and she let herself drift in the notion.

  “Tonight you’ll speak between the hymns and my message. Evan tells me you’re already trained in elocution and recitation, so it should not be difficult. I’ve already written it out for you, but feel free to add any personal details you think might pertain.”

  He pressed a handwritten page into Marta’s hand, already turning back to Mitchell for the next subject.

&n
bsp; Mowery missed the sound of crumpling paper, but Mitchell heard. Her former instructor stared unabashed, his gaze finally drawing Mowery’s attention to the trash in her hand. He, in turn, did not seem to comprehend, so Marta dropped the debris and ground it with her boot until he did.

  Smiling sourly, she expected anger at her gesture, but saw concern when he finally gained control of his features again. To her surprise, he set his holy book aside to swallow both her hands in his. He paid no mind to her splintered finger and the pain his kindly gesture caused.

  “Marta, you misunderstand your importance. Your story, it will be the cornerstone we build our greatness upon. Ours will be a following that will last long after we each join Sol’s flow again, and once you realize this, I’m sure you’ll be happy to share your time among the Traitors Brigade.”

  Mowery might have imagined his Whisperer influence over her to be a subtle thing, but to a woman raised by Whisperers, it was a crude, clumsy, and insulting thing. His ability reeked of disuse, of someone withered and worn, yet he thought himself strong.

  “Furies. We were Bumgarden’s Furies, not the Traitors Brigade.”

  Mowery’s forehead creased as he processed her statement.

  “Of course, we’ll call you—”

  Marta drove her thumbs into the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. Mowery tried to pull away, but she held fast, digging in even deeper.

  “You don’t understand, little herald. You may have cowed your flock, but I am no simple creature. Ply your weak wares on me again, and I will show you real strength. Dare touch me again, Whisperer, and I will make sure you have no hands left to clutch your precious book. You understand or should I elocute again?”