Despite his desire for speed, Luca had taken the time to shave that morning. Most men Marta had known on the trail were happy to let their beards grow. In Marta’s opinion those that meticulously cared of their appearance had either too much time on their hands or a strong sense of vanity, and Luca certainly sounded rushed.
Isabelle took another step towards them, and Caddie shook Marta all the harder at her approach. The half-Ingios woman barked a clipped laugh as she produced a bundle of leaves.
“Put those under your tongue, but don’t chew them,” Luca said. “Swallow down your spit though, that’ll clear your head.”
Marta ignored the leaves, instead gazing at Isabelle. Though dressed the same as before, the woman now had several different-colored strings pushed through her earlobes, the strands braided together in an elaborate pattern. Marta had read that the Ingios used different braids to communicate between the tribes, but had never seen anything like this.
“It’s to state our intentions,” Luca answered, following her gaze. “Ingios weave them through their ears to tell other tribes they come across their purpose. Like a ship at sea flying its banner for identification, except their weavings can’t be taken down quick and replaced. So when they go into somewhere new, their intention is set ahead of time.”
“And what is her intention?”
Luca’s blithe shrug was her only answer, Marta accepting the offered bundle of leaves and placing them under her tongue. The taste was intensely bitter, Marta forcing herself to swallow it. Caddie still shaking her made it even more difficult, Marta finally setting her hand over the girl’s.
“No more of that,” she said, adding, “You did good,” almost as an afterthought. Caddie ceased at once, her blue eyes gazing blankly into Marta’s. Although she had obeyed Marta’s command, if there was any thought behind those eyes, Marta could find no evidence.
Still too weak to stand, Marta pressed herself up to an elbow to survey their surroundings. It was near midday, the nearby tolmen’s glow faded in the daylight. The ghuls still surely prowled the cursed place, but at least had not passed the odd outcropping of rocks they stopped beside.
The two horses took Marta entirely by surprise, both bearing the brands and saddles of the Newfield dragoons. Their riders were nowhere to be seen though, Luca’s grin widening as Marta made her discovery.
“Not to worry, they’re still alive.”
“Punishment for horse thieving and murder’s the same. You should put them down to be safe.”
“When you’re the one dealing with them, you can decide if they live or not. Until then, I’m the one calling the shots.”
Freebooters were known to take chances, but Marta had never heard of one who left his victims alive when he could silence the witnesses. The man vexed her, and so she studied him closer as he continued.
“Should probably thank you for your help, though. If they hadn’t seen you laid out there, we never would have gotten close. But we best hie out quick before the rest starts wondering where they got off to.”
Isabelle approached with a horse and hefted Caddie to the saddle. The girl situated, Isabelle extended her hand to assist Marta as well. Marta refused the gesture and climbed atop the horse by will alone. Isabelle’s eyes glittered again as she gave her bark, hopping on the other horse while Luca took the spot behind her. It was Isabelle who claimed the reins, though, gigging the horse and leading them deeper into Ingios territory.
***
Encumbered by two riders each, the horses did not keep a quick enough pace for Marta’s liking, Isabelle’s choice to continue to double back on their tracks every so often reducing their progress further. With each step Marta’s head cleared, the agonizing pain she first felt fading into only a nagging soreness, Isabelle’s herbs doing their job well.
Isabelle shifted their course yet again, sticking to the thickets of trees that populated the Ingios territory. The open ground surrounding them would have made for a faster route, but Marta silently agreed with her decision to remain obscured by the foliage. The land around them was vast and without any signs of the civilization Marta preferred. They were far away from the strong lines of ley that carried the trains connecting the nation of Newfield.
Ley was weak in the Ingios territories, no one sure if they chose these realms because of it or if the ley remained low because of the Ingios’ small population. Her former tutor Mitchell once proffered a popular theory that it was civilization that strengthened the ley. By building a city its inhabitants razed the ground of plants, releasing their Breath to join the flow. The city’s large population also demanded an equally large amount of food, the plants and animals they consumed releasing even more Breath to join the ley. Mitchell said this was a good thing, sure to make Sol happy when he returned for the Harvest to see how the humans had reshaped Ayr, just as their deity intended when he created them.
Marta had given up on her belief in both Sol and the Harvest long ago, but if he ever did return, Marta was sure he would be entirely unimpressed by their accomplishments. If Sol was capable of creating life from nothing, what would he care about the erecting of inanimate cities? If anything, he would probably consider them the same way a child would a colony of ants digging their intricate maze of tunnels inside a glass jar. Their struggles to build and survive were, of course, amusing, but in the end they were no more than bugs.
***
By afternoon Isabelle gave up on obscuring their trail, Luca starting to speak as soon as their course was set due south. The man could talk about anything, everything: the cities he had seen, men he had known, differences in dishes in the states, why the mandolin was a superior instrument to the fiddle. Though Marta listened for the first half hour, she soon took to actively ignoring him. She decided he never said anything of import, just eternally battling against the silence with his voice. Several times he asked Marta her opinion, waiting for her to turn his soliloquy into a discussion. Each time she refused to take the bait, her face stony and focused only on the terrain. She had no story to tell, not one she wished to share with his kind, at any rate. Luca never seemed to mind her silence and answered his own questions. Marta reckoned he was used to a mute companion, content to carry on a one-sided conversation all on his own.
Only briefly pausing to rest their mounts, they arrived at the outskirts of the township a bit before dusk. Though a stray line of ley ran through it, it appeared too weak to support a train, making the town small enough that Marta did not think any Dobra Cousins would be in residence. This meant their crimes would still be unknown here, giving them the chance to restock their supplies.
The horses were her greatest concern, their brands and tack marking them as property of the Newfield dragoons. This made the horses useless in trade, and each moment they sat upon them put them in further jeopardy. So they pulled their mounts off the trail and into a thickly wooded area as Marta decided how to proceed. Luca would have to purchase the new horses, of that she was certain. Isabelle could not haggle, and Marta had no intention of doing so while leaving Caddie with them unattended.
The real question was how much money to give him. The cost of three horses and gear would not even deplete the cash Carmichael had given her by a quarter, but to reveal to these freebooters how flush she was would also invite them to take the remainder by force.
Movement on the trail diverted her companions’ attention as a singular rider passed by. Marta prayed the handful of bills she pried off while they were watching would be sufficient, hoping Luca was half as gifted at haggling as he was a gabbing. She was ready to turn the money over when she glanced at the rider and noticed the bummers cap with the single bullet hole through it perched on his head.
Marta went rigid, the air driven from her lungs as he rode by not twenty yards away. Though his back was to them, she knew they were in danger of discovery. They would not be safe until he was miles away, the entire continent preferably between them—and perhaps not even then.
Luca and Isabelle noticed her reacti
on, their hands alighting on their weapons as they watched the solitary rider reach the edge of town. Once he had dismounted and entered a building, they relaxed, looking to Marta for an explanation.
Marta mounted up behind Caddie, not risking words as she turned their shared horse due east. The other two caught up quickly on their own tired beast, Luca’s mouth opening for a question, but upon meeting Marta’s eyes, his teeth clacked shut, the three racing the setting sun in silence.
They rode hard over the next hour, giving the township and the man with the perforated bummers cap a wide berth. Finally Luca spurred his weary ride alongside Marta to whisper, “We push the horses much harder, they’ll likely die under us.”
Marta ignored him, Luca finally catching her horse’s bridle to yank them both to a stop. It took all of her self-control not to attack this infuriating freebooter for slowing their flight by even an instant as Luca looked back toward the distant town.
“Who’s this bug that’s got you so cowed?”
“Graff.” The word felt risky in Marta’s mouth, as if even invoking his name might draw his attention their direction. “A Render.”
“Just a Render? I saw you take one apart not two nights back.”
“Graff’s no mere Render. He’s Blessed even among the Blessed. He’s never been hurt, not even during the war. The only blood he ever lost was by his own hand when he cut out his eye, which means he can track us from anywhere if he has our scent. And if he’s already this close, then he must have scented us.”
“He’s still just one man,” Luca countered.
“Yes,” Marta snarled. “The man who held the line at Stone Cleaver.”
Marta took a perverse pleasure in the fear that flitted across Luca’s face. She was more pleased when he released her reins, Isabelle kicking their horse’s flanks hard to try and coax a bit more muster as they resumed their flight. Perhaps it was still possible to escape Graff’s gaze, Marta thought.
It was possible, but more than likely already too late.
Chapter 15
Decembris 18, 562 (Five Years Ago)
The year was drawing to a close and Marta was cold to the core. She woke up cold and shivered throughout the day, only to return to bed, where she received no relief. The frost had become ever-present, had wormed its way into her bones, her being. Abner proposed bringing the others of their cadre inside to share the tent with them, sleeping in a pile like puppies to pool their warmth. Marta flatly refused. There would simply be too many to take with them, and she planned on escape.
Abner at first believed the winter had driven her insane, but after an hour of hushed discussion, he began to entertain the idea. His consideration of Marta’s plan was originally patronizing, Abner indulgently letting her speak her fill with the intention of shattering her strategy as kindly as he could. What he was not prepared for was Marta’s silver tongue and powers of persuasion honed by her Cildra training. At the half hour mark, Marta knew she had him hooked, and before the hour was out, Abner was fully a part of the plan.
During the next snowstorm, after the sharpshooters retreated to their lean-tos atop the Pit’s lip, they intended to use their gauntlets to scale the walls and slip away into the night. A guard had recently let slip that the Tea Spring River was not a few miles east of the Pit and they could use the cover of the blizzard to follow the river to the Overhurst capital of Broadus. There, Marta had Cildra relatives that would surely smuggle them home.
Ultimately, it was a foolish plan, as daring as it was dumb. But they had no choice and both knew they could not survive in the Pit much longer. Working with Rupert, Reid and the others kept them alive while those like Kearney wasted away to almost nothing. There was a conceivable chance they could wait out the rest of the winter and survive, but the recent rumors had become too much to bear.
Rumors always ran rampant in the prison, the guards constantly hurling down updates on the war and assuring their captive audience that the West was winning every battle. By no means a novice in matters of misinformation, Marta paid these tidbits little mind, but the last few weeks new reports had sprung up about the Whisperer prison. Like Shapers, Whisperers were notoriously difficult to inter due to their ability to manipulate guards caught unaware. So the Renders found a simple solution in cutting away the Whisperers’ Blessed Breath to render them powerless. Now nearly done with the Whisperers, the Renders would soon turn their attention to the captured Eastern Shapers, so the rumors went. Such a fate would be worse than death as far as Marta was concerned.
Death was one thing, but what she could not abide would be to be mutilated, to have her Blessed Breath stolen from her. She refused to be reduced to average and then be forced to live out the rest of her life a shadow of her former self. It was this fear of being castrated like some unruly bull that needed to be broken which stoked the flames of her rage and finally led to the formulation of their escape plan.
The sky had gone still the last few days, brimming with black clouds and promising a blizzard. In preparation, Marta and Abner only gave half their rations to Rupert and his stew for the last week, hoarding their remains for once they escaped. With any luck the snows would start that night, giving them the cover they needed. Abner was ready to tear a square of cloth from their tent to carry their foodstuffs when one of Kearney’s lackeys appeared at their flap.
His appearance caused Marta’s hair to stand on end. Not half an hour earlier she heard the creak of the winch being lowered. This was a deviation from the routine, as was being summoned to Kearney, and at this late date any deviation was worrisome. Only she and Abner were privy to their plan, or so they thought. Perhaps one of their friends had reported their strange behavior with their rations. In her heart Marta hoped she could depend on these fellow castaways, but her head still chewed over the problem as she followed the lackey through the frigid wind to Kearney’s tent. There, she found her brother waiting.
Standing beside Kearney, Carmichael was in disguise with spectacles and a beard, but she recognized him instantly from the slight crook in his nose. Despite decorum and her Cildra training, Marta was so overcome she almost threw herself into his arms, but before she had the chance, Carmichael extended his hand and formally introduced himself as “Philo Frost.”
Marta fell into her assigned role by rote. Her brother was using a cover identity, and she would not be the one to destroy his guise while they had witnesses, like Kearney, with them. So she took Carmichael’s offered hand, the proper amount of confusion displayed on her face for their audience as she gave her brother her own name in turn. This preamble out of the way, Kearney excused himself from his own tent.
Alone together for the first time in years, Carmichael still stood stiffly, his eyes appraising her. And for the first time in months, Marta felt embarrassed by the ruin of her dress, all her affluence hanging off her in tatters. Her first impulse was to cover herself, to hide from her brother’s gaze. Instead she held her head up higher, defiantly staring back at him in all his finery. Though it had been nearly ten years since they last played one of their waiting games, both fell into the role again and waited for the other to break the silence first.
Finally, Carmichael spoke, his voice as calm as she remembered yet containing a hint of awe. “You remind me of a beautiful mudbird.”
The comparison was ludicrous, Marta with nothing approaching beauty in her currently shabby state. As if sensing her thoughts, Carmichael smiled wanly. “Your song will prove all the more lovely now that all the shine has been scrubbed from your feathers. And the clan has need of your voice.”
Some small part of her mind noted that this was the first time Marta had bested her brother at their waiting game, but the majority of her mind had more important questions to consider.
“Why have you waited so long to rescue me?”
“The moment was not right. Even this meeting was difficult to make. The tide of the war is turning, the Covenant now on the offensive and making Ruhl’s government nervous of anyone
visiting captured Shapers. But we have not forgotten you.” Carmichael produced a small cake from the pocket of his coat. “An early Yuletide present.”
All sense of self-control gone, Marta snatched the sweet away, wolfing it down in a single bite. The taste was divine, the sugar dissolving upon her tongue a welcomed reminiscence. Her gift devoured, Marta’s composure returned as she examined her brother.
“Is it true what they say? Are the Renders mutilating Whisperers and cutting away their Blessed Breath? Are the Shapers next?”
Carmichael laughed dryly, an altogether unpleasant sound. “That’s just silly scuttlebutt. Both sides in this unfortunate war treasure the Blessed, your Shaper abilities still of some use to the West. They are desperate now, and their desperation will lead them to make a dangerous offer to your kind here. You are to take them up on their offer, to insinuate yourself into a position of use. This is important, Marta. The whole war could hinge upon this ploy.”
Marta’s anger awakened at his instruction, the clan demanding even more from her after abandoning her for the last eight months, but she bit back her displeasure, keeping her voice even. “Father orders this?”
Carmichael’s face fell slightly at the invocation of their sire. “We are both servants of the clan in all things. They ask much, but above all obedience. But it is all for a reason. Even your suffering has a purpose.” Without another word Carmichael pressed through the tent’s flaps and into the night.
Her father still demanded more of her, and Marta was unsure what else she had left to give. It was not until Kearney reentered that her reverie broke and she realized that she had not thanked Carmichael for his sugary gift, the taste still lingering in her mouth.
She returned to Abner straightaway, unsure if she should inform him of her brother’s instructions. Though he was still free to attempt to escape on his own, she was bound by her duty to the clan to stay. There was little chance he would survive the Overhurst wilderness, even if he did somehow scale the walls alone, and finally Marta informed him of the upcoming Western offer. If they accepted, they might be able to win the war for the East.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 16