The shock of hearing her own thoughts come from that monster’s mouth dispersed Marta’s mirth. She knew that glassmen were inherent Listeners and Whisperers, but Marta’s Cildra training should have made her immune to the woman’s unnatural influence.
“Perhaps to a Blessed Listener,” Bernice answered, shaking her head. “But we both know I am as far beyond Blessed as you, Marta Childress of the Cildra clan.”
Marta instantly set a refrain, cycling through the song “Joy and Ease” to keep the glassman out. It held only a moment before Marta felt the assault of the woman’s will upon her own, Bernice pounding against her mental partition.
“Her name. You will tell me your daughter’s name.”
The song’s refrain cracked at the glassman’s onslaught, Bernice pushing through Marta’s defenses. “Caddie Hendrix, daughter of Orthoel. But what makes her so special that you would sacrifice yourself?”
Marta erected another mental barricade, throwing all of her will into it. It lasted no longer than the last before the glassman brushed it aside. The invasive touch of her presence in Marta’s Mind made her recoil. It was so unlike the Cildra training she received as a child to recognize a Listener’s attempt. Those had always been light, like snowflakes accumulating over the course of a storm. Bernice attacked with the force of an avalanche, battering past Marta’s defenses as easily as Marta had previous Listener’s touches. The glassman shoved aside every resistance Marta erected, rushing straight for Marta’s core where she held all her secrets. For a moment, Marta believed her care for Caddie might mean their destination of Ceilminster would withstand. But Bernice bashed against it again and Marta felt her resistance falter. Then it broke, Marta feeling the first tendrils of the glassman’s mental invasion taking hold when Isabelle struck.
An inarticulate cry cracked the silence as her hatchet bit the glassman’s neck. It burrowed deep, cutting through skin and muscle until it lodged in the bone. Isabelle yanked twice, unable to dislodge it, before abandoning the hatchet in favor of her black stone knife, plunging it into Bernice’s side a half dozen times and only stopping when the glassman toppled.
Bernice landing on her, Marta gazed directly into the woman’s eyes, watching them go from bright green to glassy. The woman’s last breath blew the familiar scent of death into Marta’s face. For a moment, she dared to hope their enemy dead, but then the glassman exhaled again and three livid Breaths escaped her mouth. From her unhappy vantage point, Marta watched as Bernice’s flesh knitted back together around the hatchet, blood ceasing its flow as the monster stood.
Isabelle attacked again, her knife flashing. But it was not enough, the glassman racing away into the woods, Isabelle’s hatchet still embedded in her neck. Isabelle turned to give chase.
“No!”
Isabelle leveled such a sharp glance in her direction, Marta feared it would cut her, but she maintained her stare. “She’ll heal before you can finish her. You won’t stand a chance. You’ll die alone at her hands.”
Isabelle angled her body towards the departed glassman and Marta called out again.
“After she’s done with you, she’ll come back for Luca. He won’t even know she’s there until she’s done with him. He has no idea. His only chance is if we warn him.”
Isabelle reluctantly returned, and Marta breathed a sigh of relief. With any luck, they could find Luca and a line of ley before the glassman fell upon them again. Although Marta swore she would never step foot in the hateful city again, it seemed their survival hinged upon reaching Sinton.
Chapter 6
Jenvier 14, 559 (Eight Years Ago)
Luca refused to admit his misery, not to Simza, not to Bo, and certainly not to himself. During the days, he kept his unflagging smile on full display, yet in the dark hours of the night, the yogani blazing without him there to keep it company, he detested his deal. True, he was now one of Simza’s bietas, but he was a bietala, a lesser servant far below Bo’s status as Simza’s second. They gave him nothing but dunder duties—the most menial of tasks, such as hauling slop or mucking out the hog’s pen. Fetching water or firewood always fell to him, Bo idly watching him work from Simza’s second vurd.
Only a few years older than Luca, Bo lost both parents to putrid fever at five, his pocket watch his only remaining heirloom. Despite kin in another wolari, Simza took the boy in, feeding him from her own table until he grew taller than everyone else. Bo was never considered family though, but more a loyal dog Simza sent out to bite when required. Although they had been friendly towards each other before, since Luca entered his compact, Bo transformed into a relentless and taciturn master, only speaking when barking orders.
Luca would have welcomed orders from Simza herself, the matriarch instead only interacting with him to teach him how to pluck the lines of ley the Dobra used to send messages. After that, Luca’s Listener abilities became another source of income for Simza, and once he understood her instructions, she added him to the roster of messengers, his payments delivered directly to her. As to Jaelle, she avoided Luca like the plague, never deigning to even look his direction. Only Bo dealt with Luca, and always harshly.
As Simza’s bieta, Bo knew the lockblade’s dance. Although boys the world over played with sticks as swords, Dobra children practiced with shorter limbs the length of lockblades. Swords were too long to be carried in a pocket, their scabbards at the hip a sure sign the owner was armed. With more than their fair share of enemies, the concealed lockblades quickly became the Dobra’s calling cards. The metropolitan Cousins set up schools devoted solely to the art of the lockblade, their bietas spending years mastering techniques they announced by twirling the closed lockblade over their knuckles as a magician might a coin. Each school taught its own secretive style refined over the years and complete with signature patterns of spinning. But these styles belonged to the affluent Cousins, the grubber Wanderers making do with informal sessions conducted in the woods.
With his newfound free time, Bo applied himself to practice with his lockblade, inviting the boys of the camp to join him. Watching from the hogs’ pen, Luca was surprised to see how gently Bo taught them, their instructor carefully correcting their stances and not allowing their sparing sessions to ever escalate out of hand. Wishing to be a better servant for Simza, Luca rushed through his chores and plucked a proper-sized stick to join their number. As soon as Luca joined them, Bo called him up to spar.
Having practiced his fair share as a child, Luca knew the basics of knife fighting, or he at least believed he did before Bo disabused him of the notion. Without even the pretense of instruction, Bo immediately rapped his weapon across Luca’s knuckles once their match ensued. The pain made Luca drop his stick, and for a moment, he thought this his first lesson. But then Bo jammed his mock lockblade into Luca’s ribs nearly a dozen times before Luca fell groaning. Despite the blunted stick, Bo’s blows still left deep bruises, Luca receiving the same treatment when he claimed his stick a second time.
Luca refused Bo the pleasure of a third embarrassing bout, and thus his lockblade instruction ended the same day it began when Luca limped away to the children’s laughter.
But the greatest indignity came from Bo’s decree that Luca cease trading with the gaji. Cut off from his sole source of income, Luca’s fortune quickly dwindled. His financial state soon became so dire, Luca considered selling his tweed trousers before instead opting for only two meals a day. His newfound poverty convinced him of only one thing: they wanted to be rid of him. That was why he was forced to suffer with all his labors. No Dobra feared hard work, but work needed to be balanced with equal amounts of leisure. Leisure was the meat that made the bitter greens of the meal palatable, but for these many months, they starved Luca of the meat, and he was ever so hungry.
He did not share his misfortune with Lela, but she immediately cut to the heart of the matter. Never taking part in the late nights or the wine that flowed with it, Lela was one of the few he found early each morning as he hauled the ho
gs’ slop.
“Renounce your claim to Jaelle,” she announced frankly, the woman incapable of politeness in any form. “Father could always use some harmony next time he plays the bosh.”
“He should be the harmony,” Luca scoffed.
Lela rolled her eyes. A Listener as well, she always excused herself when Luca and his father argued, stating she received enough of their animosity through their thoughts alone. “You play melody or he, it makes no matter. Just so long as there’s more meat on the table.”
At her mention of food, Luca wondered if she had been traipsing about his Mind, but then pushed the thought aside. Always practical, Lela entered into apprenticeship with the camp’s midwife, Dorenia. When Luca questioned why she would take up such a messy profession instead of working the ley, Lela answered she would always be employed so long as women continued to give birth. Much of her meager income went back to their parents, but upon her mention of meat, Luca considered selling his trousers again.
“Does Mother have enough food?”
For once, Lela ignored the opportunity to rail against their father’s choice of drink above victuals, instead earnestly grasping his hands. “There’s no shame in giving up on a bad deal. Do not let foolish words idly said ruin the rest of your life. I promise you, Saiera still pines for you, though Sol knows why. Go and say only half the sweet words you wasted on Jaelle and she will be yours. You will be happy with her, content.”
“Content,” Luca spat the word back. He wanted to argue, but found his silver tongue leaden. His sister was not wrong, but Luca refused to give her the satisfaction of admitting as much as he trudged to his next task along the ley.
***
Luca grew up speaking the Dobra language, and often switched between it and Acwealt without noticing, but seldom spoke it alone except on the ley. Compared to Acwealt or Bancel, the Dobra tongue was exceedingly simple, but Luca never considered why before. Yet manning his little booth on the ley not far from camp, Luca possessed nothing but time to consider as his headache festered. Here the simplicity of the Dobra language made sense considering the ten tribes scattered all over Ayr speaking the language of the land in which they resided in as mother tongues. A Wanderer or Cousin in the far away country of Ispan spoke Ipsa and would have no chance of understanding him any more than he this imagined Dobra. But both shared the Dobra tongue, allowing them to speed their messages along the ley no matter how many nations or continents the missive passed through. This, in turn, made the Dobra invaluable and was why the gaji the world over begrudgingly accepted their presence.
But stuck suffering alone on the ley, it being too early in the day for anyone to avail themselves of his services, Luca secretly cursed his Blessed nature. With Bo currently away from camp on one of Simza’s errands, Luca had hoped that the man’s several day absence might buy him a reprieve. Bo instead filled Luca’s days in advance, including strict orders not to speak to Simza unless spoken to first. Such an eventuality clearly an impossibility, Luca contented himself with chewing over his sister’s words as his headache rumbled. To avoid the ley headaches, it was common for Wanderer Listeners to remain outside the line’s influence, only invading the ley on the hour for the usual slew of messages. But the cruel Bo refused to give up his prized pocket watch, Bo ordering Luca to remain in the ley for his entire four hour shift out of spite.
The second hour into his ordeal, Luca mentally picked through the messages and uncovered one addressed to Simza herself. What more, and much worse, it was an order sent by Ostelinda Mellor Ikus. Despite having stepped outside his wolari only the once, even Luca knew the name Ostelinda, she the matriarch of the largest Ikus wolari in the Auld Lands. What she was doing here in Newfield, and why she required Simza, of all people, made no more sense than the message itself, but he hurriedly deserted his station to deliver it. Unable to read or write, Luca hoped he committed it fully to memory as he ran.
Jaelle answered the door to Simza’s vurd, the girl’s face contorting as she beheld Luca. Her look hurt, but Luca ignored it until Simza appeared and he recited his message. She made him repeat it once and then again as fear crawled across her features. Though the bulk of the message confounded him, Luca was well aware that she had been summoned by her betters, the point driven home when Simza called for everyone to break camp within the hour.
***
They traveled as hard as they dared, reaching their destination outside of the Meskon capital of Kekoskee two days later. The city the domain of the Naphat Cousins, they made camp outside the town of Suttonville since it was the last stop along the ley before Kekoskee. The wolari buzzed with rumor as to Ostelinda’s sudden summons, but Simza remained silent as to their goal, Luca wondering if she herself was aware of its purpose. All Luca knew was that they had not waited on Bo, Simza simply leaving a written message tacked to a tree in their former camp. Although Bo rode him hard, Luca found himself wishing the lanky man would arrive to steer them through this mysterious storm. But Bo did not appear in time, Simza thrusting a lockblade into Luca’s hand at dusk and instructing him to keep his mouth shut. With that, she had him harness her horses to the smallest of her wagons. Her vurd secured, Simza embraced her daughter before taking the seat and aiming her wagon off into the dark. Luca trotted along beside the trundling vurd, his new lockblade hanging heavy in his tweed trousers pocket.
***
Luca could not decide if reaching the ascribed clearing before Ostelinda was a boon or burden as they waited for the other matriarch’s appearance in the dark. They heard her approach moments before Ostelinda arrived, not in a wagon, but a fancy carriage that must have cost a fortune to hire. Her bieta driving it was a hard-faced man with ten years and fifty pounds on Luca. Although at least the same age as Simza, Ostelinda was as slim as the ornate two-headed Listener silver pin she wore. Her face also belied her years with few lines, though Luca suspected this was because the woman never smiled. Ostelinda imperiously strode to the center of the clearing, Simza following suit with her much slower, shuffling gait. Unsure what he should do, Luca took his cue from Ostelinda’s fearsome bieta, shadowing his own matriarch a few steps to the side and a bit behind, keeping him close at hand yet at the edge of earshot.
Not that Luca needed to hear to note Ostelinda’s fury. It rolled off her in waves, the woman not bothering to hide her thoughts from the two Listeners. Roiling underneath the vehemence, a deadly undercurrent sought to suck the heavy Simza down.
“You,” she hissed in the Dobra tongue. She sought other words, but her anger made her repeat herself. “You? But you’re no more than grubbers.”
Luca bristled. It was true all Cousins regarded Wanderers as grubbers, the Ikus considered the grubbers among the Wanderers, and the Newfield wolaris lesser than their Auld Lands counterparts; however, Simza at least deserved the pretense of respect from a fellow matriarch.
Simza’s Mind remained closed to Luca, her voice calm as she politely replied, “I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage as to tonight’s meeting. I assume you called me here for more than insults.”
Ostelinda swelled for a moment before swallowing her hatred down. “I have been instructed to give you the matriarch’s gift.”
“Matriarch’s gift?” Simza sounded the words out as if they belonged to another language.
“From the first matriarch.”
Luca did not know what to make of this, but the announcement made Simza take a step back, her hand grasping her heart. She looked for all the world like a dotard at the edge of death, and Ostelinda pounced upon her weakness.
“No, this is a terrible mistake! You are not worthy to wield the gift! I call a haichisano!”
At mention of the high council summit between the Ikus Newfield matriarchs, Luca sensed Simza’s panic. Although not one of their Newfield number, Ostelinda’s status in the Auld Lands would surely give her sway and turn the council against Simza. Whatever this matriarch’s gift was, it would be snatched from Simza’s grasp if its fate ended up in
the hands of the council.
“You will do no such thing.” Luca took two steps forward to stand abreast of Simza. Ostelinda’s frightening bieta mirrored his motion, a lockblade appearing in the man’s grip.
Ostelinda did not bother to even look at Luca. “You exceed your station, boy.”
He feared her bieta more than her insult, but kept his thoughts close and smirk unflinching. His years of practice antagonizing his father had honed it sharper than any knife. “It is you who oversteps yourself, woman. You have been instructed, but you dare try to slither away from an order given marrow true.”
Luca honestly had no idea who possessed the authority to order the most powerful matriarch in the entire Ikus tribe, but he did not let that lack affect his bluff. The woman recoiled slightly, and he knew the advantage belonged to him now. It would be wise to pause and let Simza take over, but Luca could nearly feel victory within his grasp and barreled heedlessly on.
“You seek to steal from us? Is that what you are—a thief, a tsor?”
“You dare insult her honor!” the Auld Land bieta bellowed, his lockblade snapping open. “Ix culla, you dirty grubber!”
The man could surely carve him like a yuletide ham, but Luca’s grin did not falter as he drew his new lockblade. He did not bother to open it since doing so would be to accept the honor duel. Instead, he rolled his wrist, letting the knife spin around his palm until it balanced on the back of his hand in the same routine he once practiced with the bow to his violin.
“So that’s your ploy?” Luca taunted. “Resorting to a duel when your orders become unpleasant. Clever, but a bit black-hearted. You must have quite a bit of confidence in your man.” Luca spun the lockblade again to get a better feel for its weight. His bow was much lighter and longer, and he feared his musician’s routine might not work with the knife. But he had no time for doubt as he began spinning the knife.
“Fortunately, we have a bit of confidence as well.”
The Imbued Lockblade (Sol's Harvest Book 2) Page 7