Matching eyes with Luca, she held them with all the intensity she could muster. “If I don’t make it back, make sure she gets to her father. Swear on your life.”
Without waiting for an answer, Marta climbed down the terrace to reach the glass-covered underside of the train. As she descended, the last thing she saw was Caddie staring out from under her own slouch hat, something approaching interest in the child’s eyes that caused Marta to wonder again what was really swimming in the depths of that girl’s indecipherable mind.
Marta pushed those thoughts from her head as she made her way. The design of the trains quickly made sense as she surveyed them, the cars connected by two points: one from platform to platform by chains where the cars came together, whereas the second had a long, stiff cable that ran from the center of each car to the other. Again the plan was simple, the execution exceptionally difficult. To disconnect the cable she would have to climb along it until she reached its connection point at the next car. There were steel handholds driven into the thing at regular intervals, but Marta ignored them as the winds from the turbines assaulted her. The roar from the force propelling the several-ton train along at its breakneck pace was deafening, but she had no more time to dither.
Hanging upside down, her legs wrapped round the cable, Marta made the climb one hand at a time as fast as she dared. She tried her best to ignore the drop below, the ground surging past and getting faster every mile they went. She slipped only once, dangling by her legs to watch the ground scream past before finally reaching the cable’s connection. Its mechanics were easy enough to surmise, a giant cross bolt holding the cable in place. She just needed to pull the bolt and they would be free, Marta summoning her gauntlet to give her strength.
Although strength she had in abundance, she had no leverage and could not get enough distance from the bolt to give it a proper yank. She still tried with all her might, finally giving up when she realized she was just squandering more of her diminishing time.
So she attacked the glass surface surrounding metal connector, shattering it to reveal wood underneath. The bolt might be metal and more than she could manage, but it connected to weak wood, Marta bashing her gauntlet around it until it finally tore free. The cable she had clung to fell away immediately, Marta barely fast enough to catch one of the handholds. The car above her swayed and rolled, the loss of the glass keeping them aloft along the ley dropping it down several feet. The cable she clung to dropped even farther to drag on the ground in a series of angry sparks. She was halfway home, but Marta did not allow herself to dwell as she began the long climb back via the steel handholds.
Released of the cable, the car was only attached by the significantly thinner chains between the platforms, the loss of the stabilizing cable causing the car to shimmy back and forth nauseatingly. The roar of the turbines again greeted Marta as she reached the head of the car, ready to pull herself up to join her companions before separating them from Graff for good. Gambling a glance into the engine, she expected to see their looks of relief at her return.
Instead she saw Luca throw Caddie behind the door jamb, he and Isabelle joining the girl immediately. The pilfered pistol peeked round the door, though no head joined it to aim, all Marta could see now being the back of the engineer.
Marta could not see Graff directly above her in the train car, but Graff spotted the engineer well enough. The unfortunate woman’s Breath suddenly fled from her body to enter the next car only to dissipate into the air a moment later. The engineer fell dead at the touch of his glass blade, the woman never even having seen her killer.
The others were pinned down in the engine car, afraid to show themselves and become a victim of Graff’s drawing and glass dagger. They could not separate the cars, so Marta did it herself. Her gauntlet ripped through the wood of the terrace, tearing through the supports connecting it to the engine car. Marta made a grab for the disappearing chains, but she was too slow, her hands only brushing them as they slipped through her grasp.
Marta grinned nevertheless as the engine pulled away, the momentum of the now-leaderless passenger cars still keeping a slackening pace. But detached from the turbines, they began to slow, the engine car widening the gap between them. She still could not see her companions, but Marta knew they were safe. She would surely die for her sacrifice, but at least she had won.
Graff’s face appeared over the edge of the platform to spy Marta clinging to the handholds, the Render gesturing as he drew her Breath. Firmly in his Blessed grasp, Marta’s Breath jettisoning her body against her will to be jerked up into the car where his glass blade waited. Not wanting his face to be the last thing she saw, Marta gazed at the retreating engine for solace.
But Graff did not sever her Breath, instead drawing it all the harder. Her Breath stretched to the breaking point as he yanked at Marta’s being; the pain was excruciating. It was if he was trying to rip her Soul in two, Marta with no choice but to pull herself up and physically enter the car to join her violated Breath before he tore it from her by the root.
Soon as she was over, the side Graff manipulated her Breath again, making her move like a marionette. First, he forced her to approach before holding her in place. She was paralyzed in his grasp as he looked her over. His good eye focused on her brand, the scar seeming to spark something in the man.
“Do I know you, Traitor?”
The seat beside Graff suddenly exploded into splinters from Luca’s pistol shot. The Render did not even flinch as he took another step towards Marta, his face hovering inches from hers. It would be her last chance to put an end to him before he severed her tether to the world of the living, and so Marta took full advantage of the moment.
“You saved my life,” she said before sending her snake tongue shooting at his good eye.
Her Breath should have hurtled into his brain with the speed of a bullet, but Graff somehow caught her Breath in his hand even as he gestured simultaneously with the other. He shoved the Breath left within her body away and flung Marta to the ground. There, he pressed her hard into the floor, Marta barely able to turn her head. The exertion was worth the effort though, as Marta watched the engine pull even farther to safety, now twenty yards away and out of the reach of his drawing.
“Pointless,” Graff said. “It’s all pointless. Just postponing what is meant to be.”
Marta did not listen to the man. Instead she retreated into her mind to make her peace. For a moment she remembered Tollie and how he had succumbed to battle fugue. Caddie had retreated into her head as well, Marta absently wondering if they had weighed their lives in their mental havens as she was now.
She had led a cruel and bloody life, sure to stain her Soul when that Breath joined a new set on the next turn on the wheel of life. But she had done one good deed, at least, in ensuring Caddie’s survival, and for that she would embrace oblivion as an old friend. She was ready for Graff’s glass dagger to swing and take away her pain when Caddie stepped to the door in the disappearing engine.
Terror took hold of Marta at the sight of the girl. She feared Caddie might still be within the range of Graff’s drawing, that even at a distance he could still prove deadly to her child. He would never stop, never hesitate, and her daughter would never be safe so long as he still stalked her. She could not survive if Marta was dead.
Caddie needed to be protected.
No rage touched Marta, but again the clarity was there and brought with it the plans for the Armor she used on Underhill. She summoned the impossible Armor immediately, Graff’s drawing suddenly unable to restrain her as she swiped his feet out from under him. He was taken entirely off guard, flailing to the floor as Marta stood. Encased in her Armor, Marta’s fist was the size of a mallet, Marta ready to put it to use when she caught Caddie’s call.
=Mother.
In her rational mind Marta knew it was impossible what she heard, the distance and roar of the turbines swallowing any chance of communication. But she still heard Caddie’s voice clear as day.
She was being summoned, sure as she did with her own Blessed Breath, and just like her Breath, Marta could not deny the call. Turning her back upon Graff, she raced for the door in fast, fluid steps. With the impossible Armor she was suddenly so much more than she had ever been before: stronger, swifter, a powerful and hitherto unknown creature on Ayr.
The distance was nearly thirty yards, but Marta made the leap with ease. Landing lightly in the engine car, she engulfed Caddie in her embrace, her new Armor still a barrier between them. Seconds ago it had been a weapon capable of annihilating Graff entirely, but now it delicately held the girl as if she were a fledgling bird having pecked its way through its shell. Through the Armor Marta could feel the child’s breathing more vividly than she could in her own skin.
As she held the girl, the plans that had been so clear before began to fade, Marta’s Breath diminishing as it retreated back within her body until she and Caddie were finally pressed together flesh to flesh as mother and child.
Chapter 33
Decembris 21, 565 (Two Years Ago)
They had been sequestered at Mitkof for three months, Yuletide only a few days off and bringing the Traitors Brigade no joy or ease when Marta was finally summoned to the offices. Carmichael awaited her, sporting the same false glasses and beard she had seen him in last. This time he did not even offer her his hand as the guards left them utterly alone.
“Philo Frost again?” Marta asked with all the politeness she could scrounge.
“No, today I come to you as Carmichael Childress. The identity of Philo Frost has inadvertently taken over my life, and I now have to go out in disguise when I wish to be myself. It is… comical, I guess, in the way a farce is humorous as it yet reveals harsh truths through jests. But it is somehow fitting, I feel.”
Despite her ongoing attempt at regaining her humanity, Marta’s anger sparked to life at his dethatched discussion of his current choice of names while she had been suffering for the last four years. But she kept the anger contained, one of her first Cildra lessons being not to harm another of the clan. So she kept her voice composed as she asked, “Are they alive?”
“Mother and Father are well, having evacuated Gatlin long before the airships reached them. Hillbrook Manor was unfortunately destroyed along with the kennels, the government claiming much of the plantation and divvying it up—”
“What about Oleander?”
“She did not make it out of Kekoskee in time,” he answered without emotion. “The reports say she died bravely.”
Marta felt nothing at first, the abruptness of his announcement too much for either her heart or head to comprehend. But then she felt the pain in excruciating detail at the loss of the one good and pure part of the Childress family. She would never see her sister again, had spent her last moments with Oleander already almost eight years ago, and had not been aware of it until now. Marta crumbled under the weight of the realization, all her strength deserting her and dropping her into a heap. She had seen hundreds die, dozens by her hand; enemies, comrades, and friends in equal measure, yet she had never felt hurt such as this. She wanted to cry, but her body seemed unable to remember how to anymore.
Again Carmichael made no effort to comfort her, leaving her in anguish on the floor. She was glad he did not attempt to give her succor, sure she would blindly lash out if he tried to soothe even an ounce of her hurt. Oleander had never meant anything to him and to pretend otherwise would blaspheme her memory.
Not bothering to rise from the floor, finally Marta recovered enough for her tongue to form words. “We failed. It was all for nothing.”
“Was it? Our home may have been destroyed, but Newfield is again whole and my sway in the Public Safety Department has become total. It did not go entirely as planned, but Father’s result was reached nonetheless.”
Marta could not comprehend his words. Finally providing elucidation, Carmichael said, “Father hedged his bets, could not decide which side would win in the Grand War. So he placed agents on both sides of the conflict. In a way it was the wisest of decisions. Either way he would lose, but either way he would win.”
It was chance, Marta realized, only chance that left her horribly scarred and Carmichael at the pinnacle of power. Had events unfolded slightly differently, their places might be reversed and Oleander might still be alive. Faced with the horror of the Grand War, their father had made the rational decision in ensuring at least one of his bets paid off. He had not played to win, rather to break even no matter the cost. It was the right choice, but it was cynical—a heartless decision that had caused both her suffering and her sister’s death.
She had played her role well though, as had Carmichael and Oleander. They had followed the first Cildra tenant of being obedient to the clan and complying without question. It was a bitter draught she had been forced to drink, but she had done her duty; something she was sure her father would assure her of when she returned.
“When can I come home?”
“I already told you Hillbrook Manor was destroyed. You have no home now. Father can’t be seen consorting with a known traitor, especially one so infamous. He’s already lost much of his influence from even being associated with you. It would be best if you disappeared.”
The shock of Carmichael’s previous announcement about Oleander and his mission during the Grand War deadened this blow’s pain. She could not hurt anymore, leaving only confusion as Marta touched the scar on her forehead.
“Why? I did everything Father demanded. I sacrificed everything for him.”
“Did you? Father told you to hold the line at Fieldhollow long enough for the airships to destroy Gatlin and Kekoskee? It was Father who told you to teach Cildra techniques to outsiders? Father who told you to become a traitor for the West when you were sent to spy for the East?”
“Yes!” Marta bawled. She meant to go on, but her cry cut off as she made the realization.
Carmichael had lied to her. Again.
“You should have remembered your training, should have only followed Father’s orders when verified by your codex. And you should have kept Father’s most important lesson closer to your heart.” Carmichael was completely calm as he spoke, as if explaining an obvious lesson to a dull student. “Never provoke someone more powerful than yourself.”
Marta’s mind reeled, her thoughts jumbled and unable to grasp how her brother could betray her like this, how he could force her to become the monster crumpled before him. He had never cared for her or Oleander in the slightest, but was he truly capable of something as evil as this? Yet his repetition of their father’s lesson from nearly twenty years past echoed through her head. Could he have done all this simply because she broke his nose all those years ago? Was he really that petty and cruel?
Suddenly her anger was there, terrible and roaring and outstripping anything she felt before. Carmichael’s life would be forfeit for his treachery, his limbs slowly plucked from his body like petals by her hand. He would finally understand not to provoke someone more powerful than he, this the last lesson he would learn before she snuffed out the light behind his eyes. The plans for her gauntlets were fully formed in Marta’s mind, her Breath howling to be released as she rose.
“Stop,” Carmichael said as casually as if he were informing a carriage driver he had reached his destination.
And, to her horror, Marta froze in place.
She had been the subject of both her brother and mother’s Whispering talents before as a child, this Cildra training allowing her to realize when she had been manipulated by being familiar with the sensation. They were always gentle mental nudges, as if brushing against someone in a crowd and shifting your gait because of the bump. It was like picking a pocket: the touch light lest the victim realize the violation.
Those times before were nothing like this; Carmichael was not Whispering, but Bellowing. There was no guile or gentleness to it, just the brutal slamming of his will upon and over hers to nearly crush her consciousness with the force of it. Marta tr
ied to open her mouth to ask how he was capable of such force, but he simply told her to hush and her tongue suddenly became a dead thing in her mouth.
Utterly mute and frozen where she stood, Marta could do nothing as Carmichael examined her. He peered into her eyes a long time, clinically measuring the hate there before finally brushing the dull hair back from her forehead to inspect her puckered scar. He traced the outline with his finger, her skin wanting to recoil at the vileness of his touch, but her muscles no longer hers to command. She was a prisoner within her own body until he said otherwise.
He no longer met her eyes, instead staring at her brand. When he finally spoke, his voice did not seem his own as real emotion tainted it. “I’ve taken to breeding mudbirds, just like father did with his hounds. The ugliest ones sing the most lovely, those bred to shed their ugliness losing their sad songs along with it. They say it’s impossible to raise a beautiful mudbird, but I don’t think they truly understand what it takes to make change. They do not have the patience. The Grand War has made Newfield ugly, but I believe there’s still something worthwhile left in the husk. Ugly things always have the most beautiful stories to tell.”
Carmichael dropped her hair to again cover her scar as his daydream broke, his voice again the same calm insisting one she had grown up with. “You will seek no vengeance against me; will not raise your hand or Breath against me ever.”
His pronouncement instantly became the word of Sol in Marta’s mind, she suddenly knowing with full certainty she would not be able to harm him. It was as sure as her given name, sure as the scar on her forehead, or that the sun rose in the east.
“The Traitors Brigade will be disbanded tomorrow. You are all free to go where you wish, all now full citizens of Newfield, as we promised. But I would not suggest returning east. The only people hated as much as Hendrix and your friend Bumgarden there are you lot. You will die if you ever cross the Mueller Line. You are an enemy now, Marta, a Westerner, no longer Father’s favorite.”
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 31