Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  Wyand rowed in silence as he waited for Fadian to continue. Each time the oars hit the water, the sound was disturbingly similar to that of the haugaeldr writhing across the muddy banks of the Lake of Skulls. Wyand knew it was foolish, but he couldn’t keep himself from glancing down just to be certain none of the pale yellow creatures were waiting beneath the surface of this lake too. Thankfully, they weren’t.

  “Tell me, Wyand—now that you have been away from Aldhagen for several days, have you begun remembering things that you believed never happened?” Fadian asked, fixing his glowing eyes on Wyand’s once again. Wyand shifted uncomfortably as the sensation returned of having his mind searched.

  “I’ve had dreams that seem incredibly real,” Wyand admitted carefully. “Dreams about people and events that no one else remembers.”

  Fadian smiled without blinking. “You will likely find this difficult to believe, but what you’ve witnessed in those dreams are suppressed memories of the truth that was hidden from you. You are remembering one small part of the true history of Aldhagen.”

  “What do you mean the ‘true history’?”

  “Think about it, boy,” Fadian replied. “For one reason or another, you watched things happen that ended up horribly wrong, and yet everyone else remembers a different story, a more pleasant story. Does that sound familiar? Perhaps it was a Casting that supposedly never occurred, perhaps you witnessed death, perhaps you even caused death. I can’t discern the details, but whatever the event was, I can see in your eyes that remembering it fundamentally changed your view of the ones you call Venerates.”

  Wyand struggled to keep from admitting everything he knew to Fadian; that unwavering gaze demanded answers. Instead, he poured his attention into the steady rowing of the boat until he could think of a suitable reply. “What is your view of the Venerates?” Wyand countered after enduring several more agonizing seconds of silence.

  Fadian looked away, releasing Wyand from the intense stare. “So much distrust…” the old man said wistfully. “That’s good. You are wise not to trust without proof. To answer your question, I know that the Venerates—the ‘Cultivators,’ as we call them—are skilled liars and manipulators. They are not gods, though they have you worship them like they are.”

  Wyand’s mouth hung slack in shock. “How can you know that?” he whispered as the boat drifted to a stop.

  “I know because Grigg knew,” Fadian replied with a shrug. Then his expression became distant, “I know because I have watched hundreds of Newfallen remember details of a past the Cultivators hoped they would forget. I know because I have fought fanatics who are completely lost within the thought poison that keeps the Cultivators’ servants faithful. Mostly, though, I know because I went through the same process of cleansing as you nearly thirteen turnings ago.”

  Wyand stared at the old man blankly, unsure how to react. Fadian’s words proved without question that the Cynmeren did not worship the Venerates, but more importantly his words proved that Wyand was no longer alone with his secrets. It was terrifying for Wyand to admit, but he was beginning to trust this stranger. Tears welled in Wyand’s eyes from relief, then they shifted to tears of sadness as he once again relived Haemlan’s murder at the hands of the Venerates. “I have seen death,” Wyand said quietly.

  “As have most of the people here,” Fadian said gently, resting his hand on Wyand’s shoulder. “That is the greatest tragedy of the Cultivators’ lies—they remove your fear of death, and with it your respect for life. That is not so for the Cynmeren. We honor the fallen and use their memory to inspire the living. You could say the dead are our deities. But death is not our focus; life is our focus. Look at the people on the path.” Wyand turned his attention to the flow of workers that lined the lake shore. “Each one of them serves a unique purpose. Each has a story, an ever-growing chain of memories and dreams, that can never be taken from them. The same cannot be said of anyone living under the rule of the Cultivators.”

  Wyand watched the Cynmeren going about their daily routines, and he was suddenly overcome with sadness for the people he left behind in Aldhagen. His worst fears were confirmed now—the thoughts of all Aldhagen’s workers were not their own, but were instead fabrications shaped by the Venerates. Each new revelation further fueled Wyand’s desire to return to Aldhagen and share the truth with the workers there. With his new understanding of the Cynmeren’s beliefs, though, he realized that perhaps he wouldn’t be forced to take on that challenge alone. “Is there any way to reach Aldhagen?” Wyand asked. “Can we help them?”

  Fadian shook his head. “Sadly, no. We’ve tried many times throughout Cynmere’s history, and each attempt has met with failure. The Cultivators keep their servants well protected and very isolated, I’m afraid. Instead, we do everything we can to retrieve the people they cast out before the haugaeldr can claim them.”

  “Like the child that Eyrie brought here?”

  “Yes, although that is a story for another day,” Fadian replied. “Don’t forget that we rescued you, as well. And now that you are cleansed and proven, you are on your way to becoming a part of Cynmere.”

  “What is this ‘cleansing and proving’ that everyone keeps referring to?” Wyand asked suddenly. Despite the thousands of other questions that begged to be asked, understanding the importance of those two words was foremost in Wyand’s mind.

  “Ah, an excellent question. Recall earlier that I mentioned a thought poison used by the Cultivators?” Wyand nodded. “We call it ‘Murk,’ and every bite of food, every drop of water you ever received from your former masters was laden with its poison. It’s how they kept you compliant, and it’s how they replaced your memories with whatever they chose. Now that you’ve escaped their control, your body has had time to purge the Murk’s vileness. Thus, you are cleansed.”

  Wyand shook his head in disbelief. Fadian’s words didn’t make any sense, and yet they explained everything. Forcing newcomers from Aldhagen to starve for several days suddenly didn’t seem like a punishment at all; instead it was a painful gift, an agonizing but necessary step towards freedom. The idea that he had spent his entire life to this point under the influence of a poison that altered his memories made Wyand almost as nauseous as the thought of consuming the wax ant liquid had. He quickly shifted his thoughts to something else to avoid being sick. “And the proving?” Wyand asked.

  “That is what we spoke of last night, when you were still caged,” Fadian explained. “It is the idea that freedom must be earned, not given, and that to earn it we must be willing to fight. By striking Holt and taking his food, you broke free from your captivity and your own belief that violence is never needed. When used sparingly and with only enough force to achieve the intended result, violence is a powerful tool that must be learned and controlled. You did what was required to obtain food, and you immediately begged forgiveness for resorting to physical confrontation. Thus, you are proven.”

  “I still don’t like it,” Wyand muttered as he looked away to the mountains in the distance. The earlier fog had lifted, but an overcast layer of clouds still hung low against the mountaintops.

  “And you shouldn’t!” Fadian exclaimed. “If a day ever dawns where you enjoy causing harm to any living thing, it means that you are already dead.” Wyand refused to look up, but he could feel Fadian studying him again. “We’ve spoken enough for one day,” the old man said abruptly a moment later. “You are confirmed, Wyand. Take us back to shore.” There was an inexplicable note of sternness in Fadian’s voice that said he was finished answering questions for now, so Wyand followed the order in silence.

  After feeling the boat slide into the layer of muddy sand, Wyand stepped out to find himself standing beside his own footprints from earlier in the day. Without realizing it, he had rowed around the entire perimeter of the massive lake over the course of several hours. Fadian climbed out of the boat and rushed past Wyand. “This way,” he called over his shoulder, and Wyand hurriedly followed.

  Th
ere were far fewer people on the path now than there had been early in the morning, but it was still crowded by Wyand’s standards. Fadian led him past many small groups that stepped aside as soon as they took note of who approached. For the first time since arriving in Cynmere, Wyand saw several of these people offer him a smile as he passed. It wasn’t a warm embrace of welcome, but it was more than the cold apathy he had experienced thus far.

  Turning off the main path towards a cluster of bark-lined structures, Wyand heard the unmistakable sound of metal striking against metal from somewhere deeper in the forest. As Fadian led him down a narrow trail to a clearing just beyond the buildings, Wyand’s suspicions were confirmed when he spotted five men working over blazing fires beneath an enormous covered shelter. Each man had his own work area, complete with a raised trough of fire, a small tub of water, and a flat slab of dark stone that tapered to a conical point at one end. One of the men looked up as Fadian and Wyand approached, and a broad smile of recognition shone through the layer of soot that coated his face.

  “I knew you’d be back,” Holt shouted over the sounds of metal being formed and worked by the other four men.

  “He is confirmed, Holt,” Fadian announced, then he turned away without another word. Holt and Wyand were both speechless as they watched Fadian’s tan cloak disappear into the trees between the clearing and the main path.

  “Guided,” Holt said, shaking his head, then he turned his attention to Wyand. “So, the old man approves of you too. Good. Did he tell you all of our secrets? Or, better yet, did you tell him all of yours?” Holt grinned slyly.

  “He said some…interesting things,” Wyand replied.

  “They always do,” Holt said with a nod. “It’s all a formality, though. As soon as I attested that you were proven, that should have been enough for your training to start right then. But the old customs demand that the Guided have the final say when it comes to all Newfallen.”

  Thinking back to the proving, Wyand glanced at Holt’s injury. “How is your cheek?”

  “Fine, no thanks to you,” Holt laughed. “The Handsisters smeared some of their cream onto it and covered it up with a bit of cloth. It’s probably close to healed by now.” Holt reached up to the top of the small soot-covered bandage and peeled it away, revealing a clean patch of skin beneath. He was right—there was barely a scratch there now.

  “That’s amazing!” Wyand exclaimed. “How did that heal so fast?”

  Holt shrugged. “Don’t know, probably never will. That cream is one of the Order of Hands’ most guarded secrets.” Wyand marveled at the miraculous healing for an instant longer before Holt changed the subject. “Now that you’ve had a nice, relaxing morning rowing a boat around Council Lake, how about we put you to work, Wyand? A few hours of mindless labor will give all that important guidance some time to settle in. What was your task back in Aldhagen?”

  Wyand paused for a split second as he debated whether he should use the term “Depthcarver” or not; he decided against it for the sake of simplicity. “I was a Carver,” he said.

  “Good!” Holt smiled. “You’re accustomed to a long day of real work then. Before we get started, though, you’ll want to change into more suitable clothing. Here, put these on.” He tossed Wyand a set of brown field clothes and turned away as Wyand changed.

  “Ready yet?” Holt asked a moment later.

  “Yes,” Wyand said as he tightened the sash around his waist. He tucked the stone from the Cavern of the Winds into his pocket quickly before Holt could take notice.

  “Good. There are a few mines tucked away in the mountains, but that’s not where I need you today. Let’s see…. The forges can always use more charcoal. You’re going to make some from those logs over there.” Holt pointed to a log pile a few strides beyond the smiths’ shelter and began walking towards it. Wyand followed.

  “Are you familiar with one of these?” Holt asked, picking up an axe from beside the stack of logs and offering it to Wyand.

  “I helped the Smelters make charcoal a few times when I was a Tailing,” Wyand replied. He didn’t admit it, but he was nervous about using an axe again for the first time in almost four turnings. As he hefted the axe and tested his grip, he couldn’t help but smile. If Keltin had seen Wyand with an axe, he would’ve shared some unrequested wisdom about rock breakers not knowing anything of the tasks above ground. It was one of Keltin’s favorite things to joke about when he was trying to get a reaction out of Wyand and Edan both. Wyand’s smile quickly faded; he hoped he would be able to laugh with his friends about this someday.

  “Excellent,” Holt said. “Then I’ll just tell you what I need instead of how to do it. Start cutting these logs into sections no longer than a stride, then split them in half long-ways. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s an added incentive, since I know you’d probably like to earn some more food today. If you get three logs completely torn apart by Second Meal, I’ll bring you something to eat other than the same bread you had earlier. Though how someone can dislike the taste of the wax ants’ hivespice is a mystery to me.” Wyand shuddered visibly and rolled the first log towards him as fast as he could. Holt laughed and headed back to his workstation at the shelter.

  Wyand set to work on the log and quickly found the motion of the axe to be startlingly similar to his usual task in the mines. He felt the same groups of muscles grumbling as they stirred out of their slumber from the past five days until the unmistakable heat of diligent labor coursed throughout his body. He had forgotten how much more approachable and forgiving wood was to work with than stone. It was delightful for him to watch what he considered a gentle swing carve deep into the core of the log, whereas that same swing against a stubborn face of stone would have yielded only a few small rock chips, if anything.

  From the shelter, the combined sounds of the five men working metal filled the clearing and echoed against the surrounding trees. In any given instant, Wyand could pick out the familiar ring of hammer against metal, the roar of the bellows breathing life into the coals, the hiss of a hot piece of work being dipped into one of the water tubs. Holt and his coworkers laughed as they labored, especially following the few times when a loud clatter signaled that someone had dropped a piece of stock. It was the closest thing to a normal day of work Wyand had experienced in many days, and he found great comfort in the atmosphere of the clearing.

  “So, Wyand, did the Guided tell you anything about our Order?” Holt called over the roar of his forge.

  “Actually, he didn’t explain anything about Orders,” Wyand answered. “What are they?”

  “I wish their ‘guidance’ would at least cover the basics,” Holt muttered just loud enough to be heard over the sound of the surrounding forges. The other men laughed, though Wyand didn’t understand why. Holt set down his hammer, pulled his work piece out of the heat, and walked over to Wyand, who continued chopping at the log.

  “In Cynmere, there are no ‘tasks’ as you knew them in Aldhagen,” Holt continued. “Our people are instead divided into eight Kindred Orders—they are family groups that specialize in certain areas, but whose daily responsibilities span a large array of common duties. I belong to the Order of the Axe, as do all of the smiths working with me. Our specialty is taking raw materials and shaping them into something more useful, whether it’s wood, metal, or new arrivals like yourself.”

  “I’m a raw material?” Wyand asked skeptically between swings.

  “Absolutely, and the most valuable one at that,” Holt replied. “Even the best made tool of iron or wood is only as effective as the skill of the person using it. So, one of my Order’s main roles in Cynmere is to test and train newcomers. You’ll be working with us for most of your early days here.”

  “Then what happens?”

  “The Elder Council will decide what Order you are meant to join,” Holt answered. “The Council is comprised of the most respected members of each Order, and their decisions shape the fu
ture of Cynmere. But forgive me, I should finish explaining the other Orders first. Beyond Axe, there’s Stone, Blood, Hands, Song, Dawn, Storms, and Night.”

  “That’s a lot to remember, compared to the tasks in Aldhagen,” Wyand said, looking wide-eyed at Holt after finishing another cut.

  “You’ll get used to it quickly, I assure you,” Holt laughed. “Once you meet some of the other workers, it will be easy to identify who belongs to each Order. For now, I’ll just explain the main roles. You already know Axe. The Order of Stone are the protectors of Cynmere. They provide the guards in the entry towers and serve as the primary means of defense for the rest of the population. They always wear a dark green sash, so they’re very easy to distinguish. Their area is the first one encountered after reaching the lake—you probably saw their walled compounds during our walk this morning.”

  “I did,” Wyand nodded before setting the next cut mark.

  “You’re also already familiar with the Order of Blood, whether you know it or not. Eyrie is a Bloodsister, and she’s a perfect representation of her Order as a whole. They are our best fighters, and they strive to preserve all life at any cost, including the sacrifice of their own. They journey to Drugoth regularly to rescue the Newfallen, despite the constant threat posed by the haugaeldr. Beyond their selfless compassion for human life, they have a unique bond with animals like the scrid that no one outside of their Order can comprehend or match, so taming is in their nature.

  “The Order of Hands are our healers, and they are very secretive about their methods. As you saw, though, they are also very effective.” Holt tapped his cheek, then resumed his explanation. “The Order of Song record and preserve the history of Cynmere and all its people. They teach that history to our children as well as to the Newfallen. You’ll spend a great deal of time with their Order in the coming days, too. And don’t worry about the word ‘song’; you’ll understand what that means later tonight.” Holt lifted his eyebrows excitedly, but started talking again before Wyand had time to pose any questions.