Chapter 5: Seventeen Years Old.
Vigil Calendar Year 835, June, the Month of Endless Light.
Days grew longer. The weather turned mild and pleasant. Soon the sun would never set.
Inside the communal workshop of mud bricks and rough logs, Renat focused on carding a large pile of coarse wool. Village sheep were few. She bought this from merchants.
Once carded, the next steps remained time-consuming. Renat cared little for profit. The steady work simply passed the hours.
Outside, clear and rhythmic bell chimes rang—noon. The signal for housewives to set aside tasks and prepare the day’s main meal.
Whether the fervent Month of Endless Day or the lightless Month of Eternal Night, accurate timekeeping was hard. Iceberry clung to the old public system. Elders took shifts at the central bell tower.
Renat tidied her slightly messy hair and lifted her small basket. Her childlike stature often misled passersby into thinking some dutiful daughter helped her parents.
The workshop sat at the village edge. Home lay fifteen minutes away on foot. For Renat—weakened by juvenile mutation—it was tiring.
The tiny village now ringed by fields of greening, milk-stage wheat.
On southern sunlit slopes, giant berry bushes bloomed snow-white. Bees buzzed in chorus among the flowers, savoring brief summer.
Last year’s rare blizzard enriched the barren soil. With Renat’s careful sensing of crop growth and timely farming guidance, this harvest should satisfy.
Renat had become Iceberry’s irreplaceable pillar through her gift of hearing plants and optimizing yields.
Limited by mountains and labor, Iceberry farmed only one hundred sixty hectares. Ten years ago, under Renat, they shifted from three-field to bold four-field rotation: peas, wheat/rye, turnips, fallow.
Chief Mocus and others feared reduced yields. Instead, it secured years of sufficiency.
To hedge poor harvests, they planted both wheat and rye. Average yield reached one thousand kilograms per hectare. Excellent for Aetheron’s usual under eight hundred.
Peas and turnips were Renat’s forte.
Dry peas stably exceeded five hundred kilograms per hectare. Turnips topped four thousand. These covered most imperial taxes and sustained winter.
Post-migration imperial tax: sixty crowns fixed per hectare, fallow or not. Church took twenty crowns “tithe” per hectare.
Village fund drew twenty kilograms grain per hectare for reserves.
The southern dozen-hectare giant berry groves were communal. Output funded imperial land tax, head tax, sundries, or bought precious holy water and corruption drugs.
Total annual burden exceeded fifteen thousand crowns. Villagers never sold grain lightly. Spread over two hundred forty souls, per-person share was barely over one hundred sixty kilograms.
Women, children, elders ate less. Supplemented by peas, turnips, mushrooms, grass meal, they stayed fed, even with surplus. Unthinkable a decade ago.
…
Wading through swaying wheat waves tinged blue-yellow, fingertips grazing sharp awns, savoring the faint sting, Renat grew entranced.
“Hm?”
Passing a thriving wheat plot, a discordant black patch caught her eye. She parted dense stalks. A weak, black-rooted seedling appeared.
Renat frowned, squatted, gently touched the sick plant, closed her eyes.
Faint, fearful natural whispers—like dying groans—echoed in her mind. Life’s lament under corruption.
Classic soil corruption. Though forty kilometers from Nightdew Valley’s fog barrier, years of seepage tainted Iceberry’s land.
Last Month of Hunting, Renat scouted the valley. Some lead pillars were pitted, even cracked. Raising leakage risk.
“Holy Lord… have mercy on Your steadfast folk…”
Renat prayed softly, uprooted the dying stalk. From her pouch, she sprinkled gray-white powder evenly.
Finished, she exhaled. Tension eased slightly.
Now smoke rose from every home. A sniff told Renat most lunches: coarse bread, thin porridge, pea soup with cheese flecks, daily boiled turnips.
“Lady Renat!”
A crisp, pleasant voice behind. Renat turned, tracing a triangular holy sign. “Holy Lord bless, Miss Maren… Something wrong?”
A freckled teen appeared. Flaxen hair in lively twin tails. Fitted hunting garb outlined her developing frame. Short sword at waist, bow slung back. Full of spirit.
Maren, Chief Mocus’s youngest, Cary’s age. Next month, her fate-deciding Lantern Bearer trial.
Her brother Eric and sister Nora failed. Nora luckily avoided sickness. Eric took years to heal, but muscle atrophy left him unfit for heavy work.
Maren towered. Renat remained child-small. Their field meeting looked like a responsible sister calling a playful younger home.
“You… free these days? Could… tell me about the Black Domain?”
Maren fidgeted, cheeks pink. Amber eyes reflected Renat’s gentle smile. “Don’t misunderstand. I… I’ll hunt a rabbit for you! I know… your experience is life-bought treasure…”
Facing this eager, shy village girl, Renat nearly laughed.
“You mocking me? Think without Cary’s blessing… I’m just a plain country girl?”
Maren caught the mirth, mistook it for scorn. Anxiety surged. Words rushed.
Maren was competitive, excelling among peers. Perhaps only Lantern Bearer status could erase her siblings’ failures and heavy regret.
“Sorry, Miss Maren. I’m truly glad you’re serious.”
Renat sobered, tone warm and sincere. “I never refuse eager learners. But…” She teased. “Why not ask Cary? He’s far more generous. Happier sharing with brave, pretty girls.”
Renat’s eyes curved, smile deepening.
Truthfully, she favored Mocus’s youngest. Strong-willed, diligent, pure, kind. Perfect to stay by Cary’s side.
“Re… really?” Maren blushed giant-berry red, eyes dodging. Flustered. “Okay! I’ll… find Cary later!”
She bolted like a startled fawn, no hesitation.
Renat hands on slim waist, watched the youthful, retreating figure, sighed softly.
What did the child desperately prove? Mocus family paid too dearly. Sura’s favor, spread thin over mortals, always so frail…
Renat muttered unfit public sentiments, shook her head, walked home.