The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1)

by Presley, M. D.

  “You are an abomination against Sol and must be released. Will you do so willingly?”

  The imposing emet rose to its full height before rushing through the pool for him as unstoppable as a downpour.

  Graff’s drawing deflected its momentum with a flick of his wrist. Like a puppet master directing his marionette, Graff made it slow its speed, stopping inches before him. Lowering one hand, he forced it to kneel, its head still hovering high above his own.

  =You are cursed, Render. Your Breath is stained darker than—

  Graff’s glass dagger sliced through its throat before it finished: drawn, driven into its being, and returned to its sheath in an instant. Most Renders carried glass sabers, enjoying the weight of their weapons and pretending they would not shatter against an authentic sword. This was all arrogance though. Graff knew when it came to culling Breath, the dagger cut just as well and was released from its sheath much quicker.

  The mysterious bonds that held the beast’s Breath were cleaved, allowing them to again join Sol’s flow along the ley. Like metal filings rotating towards a magnet, the three released Breaths turned away from Graff to enter the waterfall, the nodus that had created the emet surely within. It was this space behind the falls, more than the emet itself, which interested Graff.

  Warmed by his skin and the fourth Breath within, Graff’s glass eye was still cooler than the rest of his body. His socket made a sucking sound as he removed the hollow orb. Exposing the hole that had so recently pointed towards his brain, his Blessed Breath within slipped through the opening and rose into the air.

  It was an odd sensation to remove an aspect that was so central to his being and willingly let it abandon him. Many Renders could not mentally take this step, could not split themselves into pieces without shattering. But Graff was no ordinary Render, was the youngest to pluck his healthy eye from his skull with his own hands. Sacrifice was a price he was more than willing to pay if it helped him complete his given task. It had been years since he had last been given one, but Graff was sure that the death of this peculiar girl would fulfill his last command well enough.

  His amethyst-tinged fourth Breath shot away from him, through the waterfall and out of sight. Graff was glad it was gone, though he was now rendered just a fragment of his normal self. Its absence would lead to its speedy return though, brimming with knowledge that would lead him on to his newest kill to fulfill his grand purpose.

  ***

  The glassman Bernice watched the strange Render from the dark of the nearby woods. She knew with his fourth Breath gone, he was without the drawing abilities he used to defeat the emet and would be no match for her. She could easily feast on his three diminished Breaths without incident, and she was ravenously hungry. Having had to release several of her stolen Breaths to speed her healing, she was weaker than she had been in nearly a decade. She had enough Breath left to remain ageless for another six months at least, but when it came to collecting dying Breaths, one was never enough. For each she consumed and contained within her, she starved for another to join it. More just made the hunger more pronounced.

  The Render would make for a sustaining meal, but she turned away. The emet was right: there was a sickness to the man, right down to his very Soul. Bernice was afraid if she consumed such a stained Breath, she too would be unclean. It was therefore best to ignore the man and report the strange occurrences she witnessed tonight to her master.

  Chapter 21

  Iulius 16, 563 (Four Years Ago)

  The Traitors Brigade proved invaluable in the battles of the Drinkwine Branch, Big Lovely Arch, and Forty-eight Mile Creek. Bumgarden modified their original formation, now seven phalanxes instead of the original fourteen. Each still consisted of twenty-four soldiers carrying the shields and a flag-bearer, but now each contained an additional six Shapers ready to claim a shield if one of their comrades fell. They were still afforded no weapons, but with Marta’s continued training, they could at least defend themselves when they were breached.

  Most peaked in their education with the forming of Shaper swords, but Leon Doyle had actually mastered the phantom blade. This made him useful, but Marta did not trust the cousin of the man she killed in the Pit for a moment. The first time she found Leon before her for instruction, he assured her he cared nothing for revenge, but Marta never turned her back on him. He was one of the few Shapers who reveled in the bloodshed, far different to the rest who were pressed into service. Whenever she looked at Leon, he leered at her with a look that made her skin crawl. But he and his phantom blade proved instrumental when they were breached at Glendalose Draw, so Marta allowed his looks so long as he still proved his worth.

  With the Traitors Brigade transporting troops safely through the battles, the tides of war were turning against the Covenant. The Western soldiers considered them allies now too, occasionally sharing their own meals with them—the scraps, at least. They ate best when there were battles, hauling the fallen horses from the field to butcher them. Though each skirmish risked their lives, the members of the Traitors Brigade found themselves looking forward to battle as their stomachs rumbled.

  There were casualties as well, both Clinton Sheers and Bruell Leichseuring dying just last week when Bruell stumbled to expose the two to musket fire. The gentle farmer Tollie had also succumbed to battle fugue, nearly costing his entire platoon their lives as he froze during an engagement. Kearney was ready to discard this defective equipment, but Abner interceded, keeping Tollie with him in his own tent. Weeks passed, Tollie not stirring except to eat, the majority of it dribbled down his chin. He could no longer contribute to the communal pot, but Abner insisted he would not starve. Due to Abner’s largess, Tollie recovered somewhat. He was no longer useful on the battlefield, but could forage and assist Rupert in cooking their meals. Though the company was diminished by Tollie’s mental affliction, their cadre at least ate better.

  Reid’s prison wife, Ida, also fell to a gauche sword, one less seat now occupied at their nightly meals. Reid never spoke about her, and no one intruded to disturb his uncharacteristic silence. They had all lost friends and knew to let each other mourn however they chose.

  No one would mourn Kearney though, a fact Marta savored as she entered the dying man’s tent. Hidden far from the fighting, it was no bullet or sword thrust that claimed him. The formerly paunchy man instead fell shamefully to sickness. The disease came on quickly in Kearney, no one else in the company contracting it. In a matter of days, he was on his deathbed, the doctors unable to find a cause. Marta assumed it was weakness of character.

  Always at the forefront of the fighting, Marta had not made it out unscathed. The ruined remains of her right ear still stung something fierce from being torn off by musket fire at Bergen Creek. Her uniform bore several scorch marks as well, her skin a patchwork of still-healing scars from stray shrapnel. Every bit of her constantly ached, but Marta embraced the pain as a sign she was still alive. Kearney would soon feel nothing at all.

  He was so weak he could not speak, but his mind was still with him, his eyes narrowing at Marta’s appearance. She again considered crushing his throat as she had dreamed during training. But to do so would cleanly end his misery, and she wanted him suffering until the bitter end. So she leaned in close, her lips nearly kissing his ear to whisper.

  “You are the only traitor here.”

  With that she wrested the pipe from his frail hands and left him to die entirely alone.

  She found the remains of the company waiting for her as she stepped out, down to only 200 soldiers from the over 300 that had originally joined. They were a ragged lot, most having survived only by luck and her training. None of them were natural fighters with the exception of Leon and her. This gave Marta no right to assume Kearney’s vacated mantle, but she expected no one would challenge her for it. Though wounded, she had still fared better than most, hungry but not starving due to her friends and their shared pot.

  Marta considered this fact as she looked them ove
r with Kearney’s pipe gripped in her teeth. When no one stepped up to take it from her, she called out loud as she could through her clenched teeth.

  “From now on Rupert Kelly’s in charge of food. Anything you forage goes to him. Anyone caught hoarding will be treated as if they had destroyed Newfield property. We all eat from the same pot now.”

  “While you’ll be dining with Bumgarden?” someone called out anonymously from the dark.

  “Indeed I will. Training will be expected after supper’s done. Everyone will attend.”

  Marta waited for someone to respond, her eyes sweeping over her potential troops. When they fell upon Reid, he gave her a wink, his hand rising to his brow to give her the scornful salute he had mastered. He was perhaps mocking her, but Abner’s appeared authentic. Soon all the others in the Traitors Brigade mirrored the men. Marta snapped off a salute in turn then, hoping he would accept the news as she departed to inform Bumgarden.

  She found him in his tent peering over several maps, two dinners steaming on the table. Her stomach instantly rumbled at the ample meal, her mouth salivating so much she could scarcely speak.

  “Kearney won’t make it through the night. I’m his replacement.”

  Bumgarden did not look up to acknowledge her and Marta decided to wait, the sight of the food taunting her. Most alluring was the plum, bright violet and inviting her to take a bite. She had not touched a fruit since she had been caught by the Render and had almost forgotten what sweetness tasted like.

  Finally, Bumgarden cleared the maps away and gestured for Marta to join him at the table. He dug into his plate in silence, Marta letting hers sit. Bumgarden blinked in surprise at the starving woman and then opened his hands politely.

  “Please, eat. No need to stand on ceremony here.”

  Marta left her dinner untouched, and he considered the woman a long time. She thought he might be offended, but finally, Bumgarden pushed his own plate away. “If you can forego a meal, I expect I can as well. But perhaps we can share a smoke.”

  Marta accepted his tobacco, Bumgarden first stuffing his own and then Kearney’s pipe. She had never smoked one before, but lit it easily enough when he offered her his matches. On her first inhale the smell hit her like a blow to the head, scattering her senses and striking her dumb. It was her father’s blend, the smell rekindling memories of being summoned to his study for punishment.

  “This was sent by an acquaintance in the Public Safety Department, Philo Frost. Do you know him?”

  Her wits jumbled, Marta could only force a shake of her head and hope Bumgarden did not realize how twisted she was. He descended back into silence, puffing away like her father once did. Marta founder herself incapable of bringing Kearney’s pipe to her lips.

  “You are an innovator, Childress. I respect that, consider myself one as well. As such, I encourage you to think hard on any means that can enhance this company. But any innovations you discover you must bring them to me before enacting them. Is that understood?”

  Marta’s head had cleared enough to give the illusion of considering his statement before nodding. Bumgarden had all the power here, and she could not say no if she chose to, but the pretense of choice was a nice departure from the last year of her life.

  “Where are you from, Childress?”

  “Gatlin.”

  “Ah, Mimas, a beautiful state.” Bumgarden blew several smoke rings, the last slowly wafting down to encircle Marta’s wrists like manacles. “We’ll be in Gatlin soon enough. Will you be welcomed back when we arrive?”

  She had never considered that question before, but Marta knew the answer. Her father’s blend sent by Carmichael proved her family was still thinking on her. “Of course, they will welcome me with open arms.”

  Bumgarden nodded sagely, knocking out the remains of his pipe on his plate where the smoldering tobacco ruined the meal. He then pushed the food away and unfolded his maps. Their meeting was apparently over, Bumgarden not even considering her worthy of a formal dismissal.

  Marta stood, grabbing the victuals from her plate to stuff it into her pockets. She was just reaching for the plum when Bumgarden spoke.

  “Are you stealing from my tent?”

  It was a direct challenge, but Marta answered without hesitation. “We in the Traitors Brigade share our meals now. This belongs in the pot so all can share, the first of my innovations.”

  For a moment Marta thought she saw a faint movement on his face, but perhaps it was her imagination as Bumgarden waited until she realized her mistake. “I do apologize for not bringing it to your attention first though, Colonel. Might it be allowed?”

  Bumgarden pondered her a long time before he spoke. “You will make a popular leader, Childress. The only question remaining is if you will prove a good one.”

  He returned to his maps, Marta snatching the last of the food and departing. Before she was through the flap, he called out after her, still not looking up. “Kearney always favored the plums, something Frost took great pains in noting before he sent these. I’ve only met the man once, but I find what he takes the attention to notice to be of grave importance.”

  Stepping out of the tent, Marta examined the plum. It was one of the first from the yearly crop; its supple skin begging to be bitten into. As her fingertip traced the fruit, she found a slight indentation, a mar to its perfect form. It could have been where a bug took a bite, but it could also be the point where it was pierced, a poison deposited within.

  Marta flung the fruit away, wondering if Carmichael had been the one responsible for Kearney’s sudden misfortune and her abrupt battlefield appointment.

  An equally good question was if she could be both a popular and good leader. The former she secured the moment she appeared with the haul from Bumgarden’s tent to drop the contents into Rupert’s pot in front of her troops. She won the Shapers’ loyalty then and there, now considered one of their number in a way Kearney never was.

  Bumgarden had supplied the means to her victory, had been polite if a bit dismissive. Now that she mulled it over, perhaps he was not the heartless serpent she first thought him. Given time, she might even grow to respect him.

  Marta still intended on killing him though. But at least now she would be merciful about it and end him quickly.

  Chapter 22

  Winterfylled 23, 567

  They made their way on foot, the adults carrying their supplies over their shoulders. Twice Isabelle disappeared into the trees, returning the first time with a dead bird, the second with a handful of tough, edible greens. She had not removed the strings from her ears though, still making her silent intentions known to her invisible people. Yet the Ingios tribes had been conspicuously absent while within their territory, and even when their intentions were given voice as Luca had done the night before, Marta considered them mistruths at best and more likely outright lies.

  Setting up camp that evening, Luca climbed high in a tree and announced there was a line of ley not far off. They could reach it the next day, the line strong enough to probably connect up to the Dobra network and provide them information as to their whereabouts. The Ingios territories were vast, taking up much of the interior of the continent of Soltera, and this was the first time Marta had stepped foot within them. Though they were probably more dangerous, she preferred the states she was already familiar with. The Lead Mine Hills proved West Neider was near, East Neider and Nahuat not much farther, but for the time being, Marta would not be able to pick out where they were on a map, which made her beholden to her two companions.

  Closing in again on the states, the chance they might run into another squad of dragoons increased, Marta stating they should set guards throughout the night. She took the first watch, chewing her pipe absently. Luca and Isabelle retired to separate bedrolls, Caddie contenting herself with Luca’s bix sticks by the light of the dying fire. And there she played, alone and totally engrossed throughout Marta’s shift.

  She woke Luca for the second watch, the man taking h
is position without complaint. Setting her head down on her haversack, Marta pulled her greatcoat over herself. Sleep did not come though, and had remained a tentative stranger for the last several nights. Rolling over to find a more comfortable position, Marta only discovered she could find no comfort here. A half hour passed and, though wretchedly tired, Marta could not sleep. She still had the bottle of rot gut Carmichael had gifted to her, and though he had meant it as an insult, Marta thought it might be of use now.

  The bottle remained untouched for the time being, Marta deciding she would give a 200 count before she uncorked it. She had made it nearly halfway through when she sensed motion nearby. Fully awake again, the mental plans for her Armor flooded her head only to realize it was Caddie silently stalking up.

  Without a word or even a look her direction, the girl lay down next to the woman, turning her back to Marta and curling into a loose ball. Her eyes then closed, Caddie falling into a deep sleep in seconds. Looking at the girl’s features softened by her slumber, Caddie reminded Marta of Oleander again. The comparison was tenuous at best, as Caddie’s skin was pale as cream and her eyes blue, whereas Oleander’s eyes and skin had been dark, like Marta’s. Though Caddie was about the same age as Oleander was the last time Marta saw her, that alone was not the source of the similarity. Instead it was the look of peace upon her face, the same she had seen from Oleander as a toddler when she would invade her older sister’s room to escape a nightmare. Oleander would climb into Marta’s bed, never their parents’, and immediately dissolve into an untroubled sleep. The looks on their faces were the same, both comforted by her presence.

  Marta knew she should not allow this instance to become a habit—should not let the girl attach herself to her. Soon she would kill the girl’s father, and allowing Caddie close now would only make the act all the more difficult. She should shove the girl away and make her find her own sleeping spot. But the girl was not worth the trouble, her mind clear and empty according to Luca, and so Marta simply turned her back upon her as sleep soon took her.