The Imbued Lockblade (Sol's Harvest Book 2)

by M. D. Presley

  He had seen her thousands of times before, the matriarch’s daughter familiar to everyone in camp. She was always at her mother’s side, such an ever-present accoutrement that Luca ceased seeing her before her departure to Polis. But now, with the morning light illuminating her dark curls, the woman gracing them with a friendly, if obligatory, smile, Luca could not for the life of him understand how he had never really seen her before. The woman was luscious, the type of unnatural allure inspiring odes and sonnets. Though known for his silver tongue, Luca knew he would never know all the words to fully describe her beauty.

  Saban spoke again, but Luca could not hear, too dazzled to do more than stare. He felt adrift, his body sailing away like some great balloon cut loose of its ballast. While a firm believer in Waer, the existence of Sol never crossed Luca’s mind, but in that moment as his breath deserted him, he would have sworn the deity had reached down and smote him with His own hand.

  “Luca?” Saban clapped several times, but Luca continued to track the riders as he committed each individual bounce of Jaelle’s curls to memory as if holy scriptures.

  When he last spied her, she had been but a sapling, a gangly girl unsure upon her own two feet and with an ugly dusting of freckles. But in the intervening year, she rounded out wonderfully and reminded Luca of a ripe fruit begging to be bit into. Those defective freckles somehow transformed into faultless stars he dreamed of tracing private constellations with his fingertips. Worn from the journey on the train and then the early morning ride, there was a lethargy to her smile, but Luca could still not imagine a more stunning woman were his life dependent upon it.

  “Luca?” Seeing his client’s clearly stupefied state, Saban chuckled. “Waer take me, he finally shut up.”

  ***

  Luca bore no memory of returning to his wagon. As he passed through the central ring he vaguely recollected thinking that if he caught sight of Jaelle again, his heart might burst, but he had no greater desire than dying right then.

  Fortunately for him, Jaelle remained within her mother’s main vurd. As the matriarch, Simza owned three wagons, the largest with three stained-glass windows, one for each wall, which she shared with her daughter. The second housed Bo, an orphaned boy she took under her wing and who now slavishly acted as her bieta. The smallest was said to contain all her materials and was seldom opened. As the matriarch, only Simza knew the intricacies of imbuing an object by passing the Breath of the recently dead through it, an act so rare Luca doubted its existence. Occasionally, Simza would ride away on her tiny wagon to do readings for gaji willing to pay her outrageous price, but for now, the wagon remained shuttered.

  Opening the door to his vurd, he heard Saiera sigh as she indolently stretched in his bed. Her arms languidly reached for him to join her among the pillows, but Luca did not notice as he dully contemplated the wall.

  “Luca?” concern creased her features. But when Luca turned to her, Saiera’s face froze, the concern finally melting into melancholy. She still crawled across the bed, grasping his face in both hands and pulling his lips to hers. He dutifully returned the kiss, but she tasted no sweetness there.

  “What have you been about?”

  “Nothing,” he answered before remembering the hairpin and carelessly thrusting it her direction. “I bought you this.”

  Holding the hairpin up to the light as if to appraise it, Saiera instead examined his face. The man did not notice her stare in the least.

  “It’s quite lovely,” she told him as she gathered her clothes. Soon dressed, she departed after bestowing a dry kiss on Luca’s check. At her touch, Luca came out of his reverie enough to realize she was leaving.

  “I’ll see you tonight,” he promised. But Saiera could see the truth, even if she was too polite to draw attention to it. It was many hours after she was gone before Luca realized she left the hairpin.

  ***

  That night’s gathering was a boisterous affair befitting the Ikus wolari as a cacophony of singular musicians rattled off conflicting strains for individual dancers reeling about the center of camp. Sitting above them on the stage, Jaelle clapped with delight at the vibrant scene surging in her honor. Now bathed and adorned in a white top, red skirt, and black sash, she was a vision of loveliness, her beauty now so pronounced Luca’s heart hurt.

  Simza remained statelier, the massive matriarch only nodding her appreciation, while the sober Bo remained stone-faced behind her. Luca dressed in his best gads, his white shirt spotless, black vest brushed until it shone, and neckerchief red as blood. But even with his face shaved and hair oiled, Luca knew he did not stand out among the musicians. Jaelle’s gaze passed over him only once, making him miss a note, but did not linger, and he was sickened to see no recognition from the woman who had already changed the course of his life.

  The night wore on, and before the wine could cloud the musicians further, they coalesced into one large mass before the matriarch and her honored daughter. All the wolari’s myriad of musicians coming together for a single song was a rare occurrence, only afforded the most exceptional of occasions. Caught near the middle of the crush, Luca frowned at finding himself beside his father, who barely acknowledged him with a curt nod. But Luca had no time for Camlo Dolphus, his eyes adhered to Jaelle.

  “Winds of Bliss,” she finally called out, her voice lower than Luca imagined. Yet, though it deviated from what he envisioned, it could not be any more perfect. She chose a ballad, but one with enough spice to it to keep it from being boring, and Luca threw himself into the song, hoping against any semblance of sense that she would somehow pick out his strain among the throng. Her eyes never rested on him, instead scanning the crowd and only alighting on a single violinist when Tomas began the solo.

  Tomas was by far the best fiddler in the camp, and so the others simply twirled their bows. Luca applied himself to his twirls with everything he could muster, hoping that the intricate patterns he wove between his fingers and over the knuckles might catch her attention, but Jaelle watched Tomas intently, clapping enthusiastically when he finished. As she did, Luca felt a stab of jealousy towards Tomas, an ugly man by any estimation and more than double his age.

  Luca threw himself into the song again when the refrain returned, but still could not catch her eye. As the final notes died down and Jaelle kicked off the wolari’s applause, Luca realized that being among the crowd would never do. If he was to win Jaelle’s heart, he must do so as a soloist, even if he had not earned that right.

  The great gathering of musicians dissolving back into individuals, Luca took two purposeful strides forward, calling out as loudly as he could.

  “Perhaps one more song in honor of the lovely Jaelle?”

  Through his Listener ears, Luca could hear his father’s horror, the boy swallowed by the sea leaping to the front of his Mind. But Luca’s eyes remained on Jaelle, the girl sputtering at his audacity.

  “Another time perhaps,” Simza answered with as much grace as could be salvaged in the situation. “I do not believe we could have any higher honor than what we’ve already received.”

  To challenge the matriarch in public was a great affront, and Simza even entertaining Luca this far as he creeped upon ice far too thin was more than he deserved. But he also knew the spoils went to the bold.

  “Then may I offer my Jaelle my hand in marriage.”

  Luca was as shocked as the others at his words. They were not on his mind when he opened his mouth, but there they were floating about freely as Breath for all to witness. And now that they had escaped his lips, he realized he wanted nothing more in life.

  He could identify his father’s strangled cough from behind him, the rest of the wolari now staring at him, none more so than Jaelle. A stunned silence crept all about Luca, the gathering waiting on Simza and her inevitable denial of this upstart grubber.

  “You do indeed honor us, Dolphus, is it? But I’m afraid Jaelle is far too young, only sixteen. Perhaps you should make your offer again when she comes of
age.” To her credit, Simza keep up the pretense of politeness. But Luca would not be denied.

  “To true love, age is but the smallest of impediments.” Luca twirled his bow as his words came unbidden. “And I assure you, my love is marrow true. A month, a year, an age, or a thousand ages makes no matter to me. I will prostrate myself each day at your door and ask again until you give me your blessing. Until Sol himself returns for the harvest.”

  Twitters of laughter flitted around him as Simza’s bieta stomped off of the stage to finally silence Luca.

  “Did not our sire Dobradab wait eight years to claim his bride, Marme? From that deal all the tribes were born, and if Dobradab was willing to give eight years for love, then I will make the same offer. Eight years in exchange for Jaelle’s hand!”

  Bo looked livid, but Simza’s voice was calm and stopped her bieta before he throttled the grubber. “You choose odd inspiration, Dolphus. Dobradab took not one wife, but three, and a woman on the side in Ikus. Why would you invoke him to declare your love?”

  He honestly had no idea, but Luca put his silver tongue back to use. “Because my love is that of ages past, the strong stuff scriptures will one day be written about. This night will surely be included in the story of the Ikus tribe, this the moment where I won Jaelle’s hand and the world changed.”

  Silence ensued as Simza considered, her horrified daughter beside her. “Eight years it is.”

  Luca’s heart soared even as the gathering gasping. Simza waited until their shock wound down before she made her addendum. “But as to if your service will end in marriage, that will be for Jaelle to decide. As the future matriarch, it will never do for her to be married off by her mother, rather choosing her own husband. And she will not be free to choose you until you have proven yourself by serving me unwavering for eight years. Do you accept, Dolphus?”

  “I do,” Luca proudly called back.

  “Then enjoy your last night of freedom. Your eight years begin tomorrow.”

  Chapter 5

  Blotmonad 5, 567

  Marta was done with rain. The deluge came within hours after their departure, and at first, she welcomed it washing away their tracks. But it did not let up for two days straight, soaking through Conroy’s rawhide coat and leaving everything sodden and clammy. Crossing what Marta believed to be the Kirk River in their southward trek towards Hanahan had not helped matters and neither did the appearance of Graff’s Breath earlier that morning. Caddie spotted it first, the girl staring straight at it when Marta awoke. So they forded the Kirk River again, heading northeast to throw him off their true destination, Marta still unsure that the Ingios territory they initially aimed for would provide a safe route to skirt the Ichuguk Mountains on their way to Ceilminster. Neither the rain nor the river fully washed away the dye from Caddie’s hair, but it had already faded from deep black to gray. With any luck, the lie that Caddie was her daughter might pass muster, though the girl’s bright blue eyes would certainly give them away.

  They broke into two groups upon discovering the road, Luca leading Caddie along ahead of Marta and Isabelle. From the width of the road, and the fact it ran parallel to what Luca said was the Vandiver Line of ley heading on into Gatlin, Marta assumed it was one of the unofficial highways that crisscrossed Newfield reserved for travelers unable to afford the trains. They made camp far off the thoroughfare, Marta arriving to find Luca telling Caddie the story of “The Boy Swallowed by the Sea.” It was an odd and seldom-told tale, but she remembered its moral about contentedness well.

  As always, Caddie ignored him as she toyed with his bix sticks, but now Creature joined her, the crow hopping about to pick at the sticks. His beak frequently disturbing the pattern the sticks fell in, Caddie would brush him away as Luca went on.

  “… but the boy was not only brave, but very clever. So he secured two stout ropes back on shore and tied them around the gem. But when he finally broke the emerald loose, he discovered it was actually the heart of the sea, the plug that kept all the water there. So with it disturbed, the water rushed down the hole, almost sucking him with it. But he was very quick, and so he clung tightly to the ropes until all the ocean had drained away. Then he hauled the emerald off and sold it for enough to buy a kingdom, one that he ruled for many years, and his children after him.”

  He oiled his lockblade during his recitation. At first glance, it appeared old and worn; the blade tarnished by age until nearly black. But further inspection revealed it to be impeccably clean, the darkness a patina both beautiful and intricate. Realizing her attention lingered on the blade rather than its owner, Marta looked up to catch Luca’s gaze.

  “That’s not how I remember the story ending.”

  “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

  Their meager meal soon consumed, Caddie chose to sleep beside Marta. The last two nights she refused sleep, the girl instead watching Creature, who in turn kept one eye on his new owner. The girl brought her crow with her, curling around it while Marta curled around the child in turn. She expected Creature to keep them up, but the bird promptly fell asleep, one eye occasionally opening to observe Marta watching it while Caddie slept.

  Marta was happy the girl had something soft in the bird; life was hard enough.

  Their hike began at dawn after a brief meal, Luca leading Caddie and Creature away as Marta waited a half hour to depart with Isabelle. For the most part, the mute woman ignored her, and Marta was quite content to reciprocate. In her mind, the two of them were comrades at best and would never be friends. It had been many years since she had considered anyone a friend, but Marta firmly believed that some degree of communication would be necessary to reach that state, something both she and Isabelle found either unnecessary or impossible. For that reason, Marta said nothing as she departed the highway to relieve herself. Isabelle continued on without a second glance, just as Marta had done the dozen times before when Isabelle did the same.

  Her hand grasping a branch for support, her jeans around her knees, Marta did not see the blow that hit her. All she knew was the blackness of oblivion.

  ***

  Pain welcomed Marta back, the world swimming upon opening her eyes to find herself on her back. A rope bound her, one she suspected came from her own haversack. Unable to spy her captor, Marta prepared to summon her Shaper blade when the glassman’s hand pressed upon her chest with the crushing force of a boulder.

  Questions as to where the woman had hidden, how she guessed Marta’s plan, or how the glassman had tracked them after their escape due to the engel’s intervention disappeared as the weight of the woman’s hand became unbearable. The casual application of threat was in stark contrast to the woman’s glittering smile.

  “I’m afraid the rope will have to stay. Until we’re done discussing, at least. If you try and escape, I will be forced to bring your innards outwards. Understand?”

  Marta remained silent, the glassman pressing all the harder until Marta nodded.

  “Tremendous,” the glassman beamed. Then, faster than Marta could have imagined, the woman hauled her aloft with one hand to deposit her up against a tree in an upright position. Her captive secured, the glassman straightened her dress, the tatters of which Marta, Isabelle, and Luca played no small part in creating.

  “Please forgive me my rudeness,” the glassman said. Marta detected a bit of a Mahnen accent. It reminded her of her distant relative Steff Heitsch, making her hate the glassman all the more. “But I’m afraid I’ve never been in a position like this before. And I must add my disappointment to my own behavior the last time as well. I simply did not know what you were. So, in the interest of fresh starts, I am Bernice Mauch.” The woman extended her hand before remembering Marta’s bound state. Her hand then fell, but the smile remained, taunting Marta.

  “And you are?”

  Marta held her tongue, her head still swimming as she took stock of the situation. Her captor allowed a moment for the silence to take hold, finally cocking her head and continuing on
as if Marta had answered.

  “Are you from another line? Mahu said that the Auld Land stock are entirely different. Quite inferior to hear him tell it, but I suspect that’s just his predispositions rearing their ugly heads. Those weapons you used, they were almost like a Shaper, but I’ve never heard of another using them before.” Suddenly, she broke into a tinkling laughter. “Have I just revealed my ignorance again? Please, enlighten me if I have.”

  Raised in high society, Marta easily recognized a pretender putting on airs and settled on silence so as not to offend. With a smirk, Bernice grasped Marta’s smallest finger on her right hand.

  “Do not ignore me.” The glassman gave a sharp twist. “We must speak truthfully if we are to become friends.”

  New pain flooded as Marta’s finger jutted off at an unnatural angle. Bernice observed it as well, her gaze flicking to Marta and then back again. Finally, the glassman stepped back, looking down at Marta with a degree of disappointment.

  “So, you either cannot heal or have decided against it. Are you starved? Hungry? Do we need to find you a meal?” The glassman closed the gasp again, her mouth near enough to kiss as she sniffed Marta. “You certainly bear the mark. So why then your shabby state? You are stronger than the sheep, but you still reek of weakness.”

  Marta was sure the glassman would not consider her weak were she able to summon her odd Armor. With it she could surely shake the foundations of Ayr itself, but the plans again eluded her as Bernice sniffed her again.

  “But you’re not what you were when last we met. You’ve changed. How?” The glassman hiked up her skirts to sit astride Marta’s legs. “You will tell me how you and the child changed yourself. If not, I will be forced to wring the words from you.”

  Marta could not help but smirk. Pain was an old friend, one she embraced with open arms. The glassman’s thin smile reflected Marta’s.

  “Yes, pain is the only way you know you’re alive.”