The Gembound: The Price of Keeping Chapter 81: Volume 3: Chapter 74 — The Weight

Read chapter 81 of The Gembound: The Price of Keeping by Taliorn on NovelPedia.

Volume 3: Chapter 74 — The Weight Day 28 — Stuck They woke to water that had opinions about staying. Not rain anymore—just presence. The wet that gets into seams and doesn't apologize. Yara listened for Weaver's voice before she was fully awake. Nothing. Silence where the thread should hum. That could mean Aramore was fine and Weaver was busy. It could mean Aramore was ash, Weaver was dead, and the binding had gone dark because there was nothing left to connect to. She pushed the thought down and stood. The camp moved like a machine learning to hate its own parts. Men coughed. Canvas dripped. Someone swore at a buckle that had rusted shut overnight. Harry was already up, but "up" was generous. He leaned against a cart wheel like it owed him money, right hand tucked under his left armpit to hide the shake. His breathing had the wet sound of lungs arguing with air. "Renn," Yara said. "Already on it," Renn called from ten paces away, carrying hot stones wrapped in cloth. Bruno was kneeling in mud, staring at a wheel hub that had sunk to the axle overnight. "We're not moving this," he said. Not angry. Just factual. "Not without tearing the cart apart and rebuilding it on dry ground." "How long?" Yara asked. "Four hours if we're lucky. Six if we're honest." Yara's sight showed her the shape of it: the weight distribution, the angle of pull, the three places where rope would slip, and the one place where it might hold. She could see the answer. It still cost six hours. "Do it," she said. The column learned patience the way you learn a language by living in it badly, with resentment, but eventually. Men dug. Ropes went out. Planks got wedged under wheels that wanted to be monuments to bad decisions. Yara walked the line and used her sight as if she were spending coin she didn't have. Every minor fix bought minutes. Every saved minute felt like lying to herself about the hours they were losing. She stopped at the second cart. A man named Tevis was wrapping rope with hands that shook from the cold. "Tighter," she said. "It'll slip at the third pull otherwise." He looked at her, then at the rope, then tightened it without asking how she knew. Her sight showed her: the fiber alignment, the stress point, the exact moment the knot would give. She hated knowing it. She hated that knowing it didn't make the work go faster. Weaver? She pushed into the silence. Nothing came back. The binding was there, she could feel it, thin and distant, like a rope pulled taut. But no voice. No thread of thought. Just the empty space where Weaver's mind should touch hers. She didn't push again. If Weaver were alive and busy, interrupting would be a waste of time. If Weaver were dead, going at a dark binding would only confirm what Yara couldn't afford to know yet. By midday, they'd moved the stuck cart thirty feet and broken two more trying. The math was cruel and straightforward: they were spending hours to gain yards. Harry sat on a crate and pretended he was choosing to rest. The cloth around his right hand was soaked through sweat, not rain. The tremor had migrated to his jaw. When he spoke, his teeth clicked together mid-word. "Still good," he said when Yara stopped near him. "Don't lie to me," she said. "Not lying. Just optimistic." His smile cost him something. "It's worse than yesterday. It'll be worse tomorrow. I'm still here." "Renn—" "Already gave me the stones. Already gave me the broth. There's no more 'already' left to give." He looked at her with eyes that knew exactly how much time he had. "I'll hold until Saltwhistle. After that, we'll see." She wanted to argue. The numbers didn't support arguing. Rosa moved through the line with a broth that tasted like salt and stubbornness. Men drank because Rosa didn't ask; she handed you a bowl, and you drank, or you explained yourself to someone scarier than the weather. Weaver, Yara, tried again, quieter this time. Even just alive would be enough. The binding stayed silent. The not-knowing sat in Yara