The King Who Broke Heaven’s Tithe

Chapter 117 Strength Enough to Let Go

Daren's arm hardened, and the cup fell from his hand.

It struck the blanket beneath the bench without breaking. Selka would have called that a useful failure. He could almost hear the dry patience in her voice as he stared at his fingers, which had obeyed the command to brace so thoroughly that they had forgotten how to hold.

Osric picked up the cup.

“Again?”

“After I stop shaking.”

The eightieth morning had brought a low ceiling of cloud over Nallis's field. Brida was examining the downstream channel with Tor and Ullen. Asha compared the seep samples beneath the shed roof. Daren had been ordered to rest until there was a task his shoulder could safely bear.

Rest did not prevent him from noticing the failure in his circulation.

His Ironhide pulse had saved him at the gate because he had pressed against a fixed support. It made the forearm resistant for a breath. It did not make every joint above and below it ready to accept the load.

This morning, he had tried maintaining that resistance while opening his fingers.

The cup had answered him.

He waited until his pulse slowed, drank ordinary water, and began without reinforcement. Open the hand. Close it around the cup. Rest the elbow. Keep the shoulder loose.

Osric watched the movement rather than offering advice about a cultivation path he did not practice.

On the fourth attempt, Daren sent warmth through the familiar narrow loop while keeping the fingers moving. The skin along his forearm tightened. His thumb trembled, but the cup stayed upright.

He released the pulse before the tremor reached his shoulder.

One controlled opening of the hand.

It was less impressive than punching through a door, and far more relevant to the men he had once seen trapped beneath their own hardened grip.

“Write that down,” he told Osric.

“What?”

“That it worked once. Not that I can do it whenever I like.”

Daren flexed the fingers again without power. They obeyed, slowly. He would rather keep that ordinary movement than win a second attempt by forcing it.

Osric scratched the note beside their route marks.

Brida returned before he could attempt another pulse. She laid her sketch across the bench and held it down against the rising wind.

The covered drain ran toward a stone basin in the reed hollow. Its last stretch had collapsed. Water entering the drain struck the obstruction, backed against the crooked bronze gate, and escaped through the field channel. The knocking came when pressure shifted the loose wing against its staple.

They had watched the same movement three times.

“No need to imagine a monster knocking,” Brida said. “The stones are dangerous enough.”

Nallis owned the narrow header pool feeding that channel. It lay apart from the upper drinking spring, separated by a ridge of sound rock. An old timber stop could reduce its feed, if they replaced the rotten lifting handle and cleared the groove from the dry side.

“Then we shut it,” Daren said.

“Slowly. While Ullen watches below and Asha watches the upper spring. If another seep rises, we stop.”

Nallis agreed. She had seen enough yellow barley to accept losing irrigation on the damaged strip while they investigated. She would not sacrifice the healthy rows to preserve the appearance of farming all of them.

By midday, they had a new handle cut from her seasoned wood. Brida fixed a retaining rope to prevent the board from dropping suddenly. Tor cleared weeds from the accessible groove with a hook, staying out of the water.

Daren stood at the low lever where the work could be done from firm ground. Osric took the longer end. Together they eased the stop downward in short stages.

The western seep diminished.

Asha reported no visible change at the drinking spring. Ullen saw the lower channel fall without a new flow crossing his boundary. They waited between movements and marked the levels on fixed stones.

Then the retaining rope tightened against a splinter in the old frame.

Tor reached toward it.

“Back,” Daren said.

The rope slipped free before the boy could touch it. The lever lurched upward, trapping Daren's sleeve against the support. His first instinct was to lock everything.

He felt the shoulder begin to take the load.

Instead he braced his forearm for one short pulse and opened his fingers, letting the lever turn against the wooden stop while Osric kept control of its far end. His sleeve tore. Brida drove the safety wedge home.

The board settled another finger's width.

Daren stepped away, breathing hard.

His forearm hurt, but the shoulder had not been wrenched from its supported position. He could still move his hand.

The morning's little failure had given him something useful.

Nobody called it a breakthrough. Brida made him sit down and checked the lever before allowing anyone near it again.

By late afternoon, the feed was closed as far as the old board could seat. A narrow leak remained. It was small enough to collect through the existing lined channel while they watched for new pressure.

The buried bronze still needed attention, and the damaged soil would not heal because its water had slowed.

Nallis brought them broth from her own pot as a declared gift. Daren thanked her without calling it payment.

Beyond the shed, rain began ticking against the dry barley stalks.

Tor looked toward the header pool.

“Will the board hold?”

Brida watched the clouds gathering behind the ridge.

“The board may,” she said. “The bank is what worries me.”