Take no thought of the Harvest until its time, the verse from the Plainsfolk book, Unending Seasons, sprang to mind as she drifted off. Plant only for the moment, and allow the seed to sprout in due course.
***
The next few weeks came and went in a blur for Sal. He and Tribean continued to train with the rest of the Emerald company. Both being relatively high ranking students, they were eventually given command of their own squads. Sal relaxed into the rhythm of training, slipping into the responsibilities of leadership like an old pair of jeans. It was oddly comforting, almost a reminder of home.
Well, a homecoming, possibly, but not a military homecoming. In his world, he’d had people under his command while he was still on the boat, before joining the SEALs, but it never really brought him any sense of fulfillment. It was a duty, a job, something he did to pay the bills. Oh sure, he was a patriot, as far as that went. He bled red, white, and blue just like everyone else in the Navy. But the upper levels of military leadership—or lack of leadership, rather—left him disillusioned. More often than not, he felt he was fighting for the good of the President or the Joint Chiefs, rather than that of the American people.
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the comfort didn’t come from any sense of home at all. Rather, it came from a sense of worth, of purpose. In this strange world filled with magic, winged horses and such, he had found a niche, a place where he actually felt some sense of control over his life. When he looked into the faces of his charges, men and women who were learning daily to trust him, he knew he’d found his place. He was making a difference. Granted, he was in the den of the enemy, but he was still making a difference
So by day he continued to train, cementing himself more and more into the hearts and minds of his fellow Rank soldiers. But by night...
By night, he saw just how much of a difference he was making. With each new guard duty that he or Tribean was assigned, his band of mutineers grew. Every morning at reveille, Sal walked the rows of students, inspecting their posture, their weapons, their uniforms, and then made his report to Master Aten’rih. The first morning, Tribean winked at him conspiratorially on his way to formation. The next morning, two others winked. The next, seven more besides.
Those he recruited set their sights on recruiting others. Apparently, the testimony of a fellow student carried weight, for within a week, most of Master Aten’rih’s company had been converted. By the end of the second week, Sal had half the rubies, amethysts, and sapphires in the camp as well.
But the students were nervous, and rightly so. To even think of defying the Highest was death—or worse. So Sal spent his free time talking to other students, reassuring them, and sometimes even teaching them his way of magic, should time permit. He talked to them in groups of two or three, so as not to alert the Instructors or commissioned Rank officers that frequented the Camp of the Unmarked. He scheduled these meetings around his squad leader duties, and those duties assigned to him by Aten’rih. He had little time for anything else, including sleep. During the day, he found himself relying heavily on the inherent Emerald talent of refreshing to dispel his fatigue, and at night he actively wielded Emerald to keep himself alert. But he was no fool. He knew that the refreshing was a temporary solution at best, and would only carry him so far. He would have to find time for sleep, and soon.
“But magic is based on the linking together of concepts,” an amethyst argued in one such meeting. “If we just open ourselves to mana and let it have its way, how can we expect to shape it into a viable spell?” The other students, two sapphires and a ruby, nodded their assent.
Sal tried to stifle a yawn, but was unsuccessful. Rubbing the cobwebs from his eyes, he touched the emerald soulgem, letting its essence fill him, driving sleep away for a little while longer. He felt an artificial wakefulness, almost like the buzz he used to get by drinking large amounts of coffee. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough for now.
“You’re not letting mana just have its way completely,” he countered. “All you’re really doing is shifting your focus from the individual tasks to your final goal.”
The others offered up no sign of understanding. They just stood there, staring at him like deer caught in the headlights of a Mack truck. Sal sighed. He wasn’t surprised, really. All they knew about magic was what they had learned in class, or from other mages who’d learned the same stuff. What Sal was claiming ran counter to everything they’d ever been taught about magic, so it was no wonder that his explanation was completely lost on them. He needed a common ground, so he tried a different approach.
“Patrys,” he indicated the younger of the sapphires, a Northern Plains girl of about sixteen. “Do you know what a canal is?”
“Aye,” she replied, somewhat surprised by the question. “‘Tis a man-made river designed to carry water and vessels to places before inaccessible.” She turned her eyes down, self-conscious of the way being called upon had flustered her, heightening her Scottish-sounding accent. Sal could relate, stress doing the same thing for his South Alabama twang.
“Exactly,” he said enthusiastically. “A man-made river. Every aspect of it is predetermined—course, width, depth, source and destination. It’s a draining, time-consuming process simply to plan it out, let alone to construct.
“That is how Mana Theory teaches you to wield. Shol’tuk teaches you to see the destination. When you focus on where you want the river to go, and not so much on how it will get there, all you have to do is build a dam here, or a dike there, and let the river cut its own path.”
The ruby and amethyst students remained perplexed, but Patrys’ eyes went wide with revelation, as did those of the other sapphire, Ged. Just as quickly as it came, though, elation gave way to frustration. “How?” asked Ged, not falling back into doubt but still confused.
Looking around, Sal spied a rain barrel a few paces away. “Follow me,” he said, thinking as he walked. The barrel had been drawn from throughout the day, and was about half full. Still, it would do nicely for his purposes.
“Ged, fill it,” Sal commanded. The young man’s eyes flashed in reply, and the barrel filled to brimming. “Good. Now form a pocket of air in the center.”
Ged balked. “I haven’t been taught how to—”
“I’m not interested in what you’ve been taught,” Sal rebuked, the edge in his voice firm, but not harsh. “You’ve got the source—mana. You’ve got the destination—an air pocket. You’ve got the dam. Now, build me a river,” he said, jabbing a finger at the rain barrel.
The other looked at him uncertainly, but obeyed. Ged turned his gaze on the rain barrel, and his face knotted in concentration. His eyes flashed brightly, blazing an almost neon blue as he wielded. The water within the barrel sloshed and churned, shaking loose the air bubbles that had formed along the walls of the barrel, but no air pocket formed. Ged released Sapphire with an explosive breath, and doubled over panting from exertion.
“Forget building the concepts,” Sal reminded gently. “Focus on the end result.” The other made no reply, only shook his head as he panted.
Before Sal could say another word, Patrys stepped forward, her eyes already blazing with sapphire magic. She clenched her fists at her sides, and her brows furrowed with concentration. She wielded, and again the water churned within the barrel.
All present—Sal included—were amazed to see an air pocket form just beneath the surface of the churning water. The bubble expanded, pushing water over the rim of the barrel as it grew. Finally, it broke the surface. Water slid down the side of a faint blue but otherwise invisible dome, leaving a smooth indentation about a foot wide and deep, clearly visible and still in the otherwise churning rainwater.
Sal stepped forward and reached into the air pocket, touching the tip of his finger to the bottom of the “bubble”. It gave, wetting his finger, but the pocket remained intact. He pulled his arm out to show the students that it was still dry, save for the finger. All ran forward to test the pocke
t for themselves. All except for Patrys, who was laughing giddily and clapping, her eyes still blazing its evidence of the magic she was wielding.
“And that’s how we do it,” Sal breathed approvingly to a deaf audience.
He gave similar lessons almost daily, each with a new group of students, each student a new victory. His teaching spread throughout the troop like wildfire, bringing with it some unexpected results.
“Explain yourself, Subsergeant,” Master Aten’rih bellowed, spittle and the smell of stale garlic flying from the Ysrean’s mouth.
“Clean living, sir!” Sal shot back, standing stiffly at attention.
“Don’t give me that minta’hk dung, Sal! I’ve seen you weaving your way around the camp, first with this group, then with that group, never more than a handful at a time.”
“Just getting a feel for the men, sir. A good leader has to know his troops.”
“Well, they’re getting to know you, alright. Not a day goes by that I don’t get requests for night duty with you. No one likes pulling night duty, much less requests it. What? You got some sort of prostitution ring going behind my back?”
“I do have a way with the ladies, sir,” he said with mock sincerity. Sal knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help pushing Master Aten’rih’s buttons. The guy was being a jerk and he had it coming to him. Besides, he was starting to hit pretty close to the mark—prostitution ring notwithstanding—and Sal needed to find a way to distract him.
The barrel-chested mage snorted at the comment and turned on his heel, stalked around the far side of his desk and sat down. Like the rest of the commander’s tent, Aten’rih’s desk was simple, functional but unadorned. No decorations. No missives from his family, if he had any. Just sturdy-built and battle-scarred, like its owner, who fumed at Sal from behind it.
“I don’t know what your game is, but I do know this. All four companies are increasing in magical skill, both offensively and defensively. Even given the high level of training of some of the cadets, the things that they are doing are impressive. Just this morning, young Densin, that idiot from Tribean’s squad, sprouted wings on his back. Wings, for Prophets’ sake! Do you know how long it took to wield those things off of him?”
Wings? I hadn’t thought of that, Sal admitted to himself. Can’t wait to try...
“Everything you’ve shown me since Summerheight has led me to view you as independent, if not downright insubordinate.” He glowered at Sal once more, then softened ever so slightly. “And quite possibly the most natural leader that I’ve ever trained. Which is why, though it galls me to no end, I’m placing you in charge of Harvest security next week. As you know, the local constabulary takes holiday for the Festival. As does the main body of the Granite Spire, who travel to Schel Veylin to celebrate with the Highest. That leaves it up to us to keep the peace. You will command the four Ranks—under my supervision—and you will be responsible for maintaining law and order in Bastion for the four days of the Festival. Let’s see what you can do with a real command.”
Sal swelled with pride he hadn’t experienced since Annapolis, and he snapped off a smart salute, sweeping his fist as he would his sword, from left breast to right hip.
“Remember this,” the big emerald cautioned. “Bastion is an island nation. Small, yes, but powerful. And far away from the rest of the world. Your Ma and Pa ain’t here. Your commander ain’t here. The Highest ain’t here. On this island, we have to rely on each other, so I expect your absolute best. Anything less would be... unfortunate.”
Sal bowed his head respectfully at the admonition, and was dismissed.
As he walked back to the barracks in the afternoon sun, he replayed the emerald’s warning. There was something ominous about it. Something... significant. Or maybe it was just the way that Aten’rih had said it. It had seemed both hopeful and fearful at the same time, almost as if...
Bah, it’s probably nothing, he told himself. Brushing the thought aside, he concentrated on the Harvest security detail, and how he could best take advantage of his good fortune.
Chapter 26
The Festival of Harvest, Reit sighed inwardly. It’s finally upon us.
Few holidays stirred the blood of the people like the Five Festivals. They were quite the occasions, each one falling on the central three days of their respective month.
Whitesong, the month of the winter snows, boasted the Festival of New Year. It was a time when everyone took stock of their lives and their relationships, celebrating the lives of those lost to them in the previous year, and looking forward to new life in the coming year. It was a time to give honor to the Crafter for all things, to bless His creation, and to give thanks to Him for His emissary, the Highest, and for the promise of messac’el. Sal had once nicknamed the Festival Krismus, in reflection of a similar holiday in his world.
With the first thaws came Newbreath, and the Festival of Courting. This was when children became adults, friends became lovers, and parents became in-laws. It was quite stylish for a couple to be wed during that romantic time when the earth was just waking from its long sleep. Arranged marriages were the rule in the major cities, where the status of one’s House was all important. They were very rare in the smaller towns and villages, however. It seemed pointless to bend one’s heart to such a tradition in a place where happiness was not based on political standing.
Next came Greenfield, and the Festival of Sowing. This festival celebrated that season when the newly green earth gave way to the brown of the tilled field. Though technically a holiday, labor was encouraged rather than shirked. Villages often banded together to build houses for newlyweds, plow fields for aging farmers, and round up debris left by the storm-racked weeks following winter. This debris was normally gathered together in the village green, where it fed a huge bonfire on the last night of Sowing. Young miscreants were known to chop down good timber to keep the bonfire going long into the night. It was a practice frowned upon by older, more practical folk, but was not punished… especially considering that they had once been the miscreants themselves!
The heat of summer brought the month of Sunglory, and its Festival, Summerheight. To the young, this festival was the dearest three days of the year, as all work was expressly forbidden where not absolutely necessary. River parties, dances, and fireworks displays were the order of these festivals. Yearly contests of strength and skill were held, with trophies and bragging rights going to the victors. Unfortunately, celebrants often got carried away with their excessive merriment, so it was not uncommon for a constable to quietly volunteer his time in order to keep criminal activity to a minimum.
But the Festival of Harvest...
Dividing the month of Goldenleaf, the Festival of Harvest was perhaps the most anticipated of holidays. These three days—or four days, every fourth year—were tirelessly planned the whole year through. In some towns, committees were formed for that sole purpose.
And a job it was, too! Feasts had to be planned, which meant caterers had to be hired. Hayrides had to be scheduled with local farmers, who often were only too happy to donate their time for a glimpse at some of the pretties that they might find in the wagon behind them. Bonfires, livestock judging, magic shows, fireworks, religious ceremonies, and myriad other activities were arranged, all done in thanksgiving to the Crafter and His vicar, the Highest, for another bountiful year.
Easily the most chaotic—and potentially dangerous—time of the year, guards were kept on high alert throughout the Festival, that the merriment not be spoiled by any foul doings. But all to often, the guards got so caught up in their own frivolities that they themselves needed guarding.
As the frigate Seacutter bobbed at anchor in Bastion’s night-blackened harbor, her captain prayed fervently for precisely that kind of Festival.
“There she is,” Reit sighed. “Our salvation—or our doom—may well be spelled out within the next twenty-four hours.”
“Yeah,” his twin nodded, infuriatingly nonchalant. “D
oom, destruction, risk to life and limb, blah blah blah... makes life exciting. I mean, really. Would you have missed any of this?”
“Not for all the world,” Reit admitted with a smirk every bit as roguish as his brother’s. “Besides, someone had to pull you out of the mess you were in.”
“The mess I was in?!? Seems to me that you were the one with a war brewing. It was all I could do to pull your bacon out of the fire before you started crisping around the edges.”
“A likely career for an outlawed assassin,” Reit chortled.
Mirth spread across Retzu’s features, and pretty soon both brothers were lost to it. The sounds of their laughter echoed out far across the waters and into the night, mixing with the sounds of the docks, its workers laboring late into the night, readying for tomorrow’s festivities. And for just a moment, there was no Highest. They weren’t the leaders of some great rebellion. Millions of lives didn’t hang in the balance. They were just... normal.
The brothers leaned on the bow of the ship, letting the last few chuckles shake themselves loose as they watched the street lamps in the distance, bobbing in their vision with the movement of the ship. Neither brother spoke, each lost to his own private thoughts, but it wouldn’t surprise them in the least to know that they were both thinking on the same things.
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