“I’m sure you remember Cerelia, the woman from the Order of Dawn?” Holt asked. “That was a foolish question. Of course you do. No one could forget her.” Wyand let the first sound of a laugh slip out before catching himself. He glanced back at Holt, who was thankfully smiling as well. “Yes, that woman. Don’t let her appearance and cheerful demeanor mislead you—she’s every bit the fighter that Eyrie is, just in very different ways. Her Order is dedicated to the care and development of the children of Cynmere, and they take that task very seriously. They also take their…other tasks…very seriously, which is why the Dawnsisters tend to have much larger families than the women of other Orders.”
Wyand sunk the axe into the log and turned towards Holt with a confused expression. “What other tasks?” Wyand asked. “And what does ‘family’ mean? You’ve used that word several times.”
Holt’s eyes darted away as he searched for an answer. “Ask Fadian when you see him,” he said hurriedly. “That’s something for the Guided to explain.” Wyand noticed that the sounds of work from the shelter had paused and that the men working there were all laughing and pointing at Holt. Holt spun towards them, face red from embarrassment or anger or both. “Do you want to explain it?” he shouted, and the group of men looked away instantly. Suddenly their work became very important once again, although Wyand could see several of them still struggled to keep from smiling. “Ask Fadian,” Holt repeated, turning back to Wyand. Wyand nodded and decided that his work had become suddenly important, too. He didn’t dare ask any questions as he waited for Holt to continue.
“Moving on,” Holt said at last, his face still deep red. “Since we’re talking about the Guided anyway, it makes sense to discuss the Order of Storms next. They all witness Visions—‘echoes of the future,’ as the Guided say—about people, places, and events, and they interpret those Visions into guidance. No one outside their Order understands how the Visions are seen or where they come from, but somehow the things they show always happen eventually. It’s the same gift that Grigg had that led him to find the location for Cynmere, so we have a deep respect for what the Guided can do. Dealing with them day to day can be infuriating at times, though, as you’ll see. They are a strange group.”
“What do they do from day to day?” Wyand asked.
“Whatever they are Guided to do,” Holt replied with a shrug. “Sometimes they help the other Orders with the daily work, other times they do absolutely nothing for hours. It always varies. Anyway, enough about the Guided. The last Kindred Order to discuss is the Order of Night. It is the group people belong to when they don’t pass the initial proving that you just completed, and they have a reputation for their unwillingness to fight under any circumstance. They are dedicated to peace, and as such are very necessary to provide balance to our society, but they are even stranger than the Guided in my opinion. Then again, I think anyone who would rather die than fight to live is strange. One of their primary responsibilities is to cleanse the dead of sin, and those that perform the ritual are widely known as Sineaters. The man you met when you first arrived with the long black hair is a Sineater; his name is Byrsund.”
Wyand grimaced when he thought about the awkward encounter with Byrsund. “I remember him. He said that he’d be ‘waiting for me,’ whatever that means,” Wyand said as he swung the axe down again.
“He was implying that he thought you wouldn’t pass your proving and you’d become a Nightbrother just like him. That’s just the sort of thing they say to the Newfallen to try to scare them, so don’t worry about it too much. Though they are dedicated to physical peace, some in their Order—like Byrsund—are masters of causing mental turmoil. It’s a kind of game to them, a way to make themselves feel less weak by seeing fear in the eyes of the powerful.”
“That’s…disturbing,” Wyand admitted. There was a pronounced break in the conversation as both Wyand and Holt searched for what to say next. Thankfully, one of Holt’s Axebrothers shouted to him from the shelter soon thereafter.
“Feel like doing any real work today, Holt?” the man called with a smile.
Holt sighed. “Remember: the challenge is three logs before Second Meal.” Wyand nodded before taking his next swing, and Holt returned to the group of forges.
Wyand resumed his earlier rhythm, and in a short time the first log was completely broken down, then the second. When he looked up after rolling the third log into place, Wyand found that Holt was no longer working with the other men beneath the shelter. The light from the coals in his forge had dwindled to a faint red glow, indicating that he had been gone for some time. Wyand searched for the sun behind the low layer of fast-moving clouds, but it was impossible to tell where it stood in the sky. Uncertain of how much time remained before Second Meal, Wyand turned back to the third log and set his starting cut. He didn’t want any more of that bread if he could avoid it.
---
“How many logs is that?” Holt asked suddenly from just beyond Wyand’s left shoulder. Wyand brought the axe down at an awkward angle in surprise and shaved the wall of his cut.
“This is the fourth one,” he answered, wiping his brow and setting the axe head on the ground.
“So it is,” Holt said with a nod as he reviewed the massive pile of wood that Wyand had cut and split. “You more than delivered on your portion of our agreement, now I’ll deliver on mine. As promised, here is something different to eat for Second Meal.” He handed Wyand a small pouch. “It is called gifla.”
Wyand recognized the aroma even before opening the pouch—this was the same food Eyrie had offered to Halwen and the Unwoven during the journey to Cynmere. After seeing their reaction to the taste of this “gifla,” Wyand didn’t hesitate before pulling the pouch open and trying one of the small brown chunks for himself. Though pleasant, the smell alone could not begin to capture the savory mixture of salty sharpness and warm spices that greeted his watering mouth. Wyand emptied the pouch in less than a minute, and to his delight Holt passed him another one.
“This is incredible!” Wyand exclaimed with his mouth full of the juicy gifla. He started to ask how it was made, but after Holt’s explanation of the hivespice earlier, Wyand decided it would be better to enjoy the taste now and risk regretting it later.
“Glad to see you like it better than the bread,” Holt laughed. “Here, you should drink too. I didn’t see you stop for water once while you cut up those logs.” Wyand accepted the water container and was happy to empty it.
“Thank you, Holt,” he said with a relieved smile after wiping his mouth dry. This was the first time in nearly five days that Wyand no longer felt the constant, nagging pain of an empty stomach. “What’s next?” he asked.
“Eager for more work already! I wish all Newfallen shared your enthusiasm,” Holt replied. “Let’s see. Now that you’ve cut plenty of wood, it’s time to turn it into charcoal. Do you remember how that process works?”
“I think so,” Wyand said tentatively.
“Give it a try it, then. If you have any questions, I’ll be right here at the forge.”
Wyand found one of the longest pieces he had cut and stood it up a short distance away from the wood pile. Next, he stood up a ring of firewood around the first piece, then another ring around that. After setting a third ring in place, the circle of wood to be burnt was almost two strides across. Wyand continued stacking the remaining pieces on top of the first set of rings until he had created a domed pile that stood taller than his head.
With all of the wood in place, Wyand searched the nearby forest for branches and small twigs to serve as a layer of kindling around the outside of the pile. After returning with the final handful of branches he needed, Wyand discovered a small stone shovel and a bucket filled with water next to his mound of wood. He glanced toward the forges.
“You’re welcome!” Holt called without looking up from his work. Wyand smiled and used the shovel to dig a short trench beside the mound. He poured the water into the trench and worked the red soil
by hand into a thick, pliable mud. One clump after another, Wyand coated the twigs and branches with a layer of mud to seal in the heat of the upcoming fire. Every half-stride around the base, he left small patches of the kindling uncovered to serve as “breathing holes” once the fire began. When he reached the top of the mound, Wyand pressed down the underlayer of branches but left mud off of it for now—this is where his fire would begin.
Wyand stepped back from his work and nodded to himself after inspecting it. He retrieved the small shovel and walked over to Holt’s work area under the shelter. “May I use some of your coals?” Wyand asked.
Holt finished hammering a fist-sized ring into shape, then put it back into the fire. “It’s ready?” he asked.
“I think so,” Wyand replied, looking over his shoulder towards the mound. Holt squinted at the pile, then stepped back from the forge and offered it to Wyand. The heat of the fire trough quickly dried the sweat on Wyand’s arms, and even in the few seconds it took to load the shovel with coals, his hands and face were red from the fire’s intensity. Holt watched silently as Wyand carefully transported the shovel of smoldering coals to the waiting mound of wood. After dumping the coals into the kindling at the top of the pile, Wyand quickly packed more twigs over them to trap as much of the heat as possible. In seconds, the small wisps of smoke turned into a roaring spout of flame.
“You remember well,” Holt said from Wyand’s side. “We’ll check the progress at dusk, and once the coals are ready you can seal them up for the night. Let’s see what else we can find for you to do in the meantime.” Wyand was thankful to stay busy, since losing himself in the rhythm of each task throughout the day kept his chaotic thoughts silenced for a short time. In simple labor, he found order, structure, and answers, but most importantly he found a refuge from the overwhelming fear that waited in the depths of his mind. Until he could discover more answers and develop a plan for returning to Aldhagen, Wyand decided that he would rely on his work as a means of stability and comfort. There was no sin in that.
17
From its tiny hole high in the wall, another wax ant appeared and briefly examined the scene beneath it with far more interest than the room’s two other occupants. Stora was unconscious once again, and Ryna stared back at the wax ant with a mixture of boredom and disgust as she maintained her vigil by Stora’s side. Many long hours had passed since the Mainwright last awoke, and during that time Ryna had seen at least fifteen wax ants peer through that same hole. None had entered the space, thankfully, but seeing the filthy little creatures so close to someone with open injuries felt unsanitary. Since there was nothing else in the tiny room to occupy Ryna’s attention, though, spotting the curious wax ants had become somewhat of a game to keep her awake.
“You know, it’s considered good fortune for the little workers to look over you while you sleep,” one of the Handsisters whispered from the doorway. Ryna’s body jerked in surprise, but at least she stayed in her seat this time; it was only slightly less embarrassing than leaping upright again after being startled by one of the near-silent Handsisters.
“Little workers?” Ryna asked quietly. The Handsister—Leighelle, if Ryna remembered correctly—regarded her with a sweet, yet somehow condescending, smile.
“The wax ants,” Leighelle said, pointing to the tiny hole. “Their interest in your friend means she will heal soon, Sister.”
“Don’t call me that,” Ryna said flatly.
“It’s been two days. I can’t just refer to you as ‘Unwoven’ forever, now can I?” Leighelle asked with yet another smile. Her feigned cheerfulness was infuriating.
“It’s the only name I have.”
“Do you actually believe that? Even now, after remembering so many lies, so much pain suppressed by your Fyrnraed?” Leighelle whispered incredulously. Her brown braid with its intricate knots of colored thread hung mockingly in Ryna’s face, whether she intended for it to or not. Seeing Leighelle’s name and task woven so beautifully into her hair irritated Ryna almost as much as the woman’s forced smiles. Almost.
“I do believe that, because I am still faithful to the Fyrnraed,” Ryna snapped in a hoarse whisper. “I don’t care what you people choose to believe—that is between you and the Lifegivers. I am Unwoven, and as soon as my Mainwright is well enough to travel, Halwen and I are taking her away from this place.”
Leighelle glanced at Stora as she stirred, then her sickening smile and furrowed brow turned to Ryna once again. “Do you plan to seek safety somewhere else?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And what if there is no safety to be found, Unwoven? What then?” Leighelle demanded, the smile suddenly vanishing from her face. The earlier kindness in her dark blue eyes retreated behind a look of frustrated scrutiny. Ryna faltered, unable to find any answer that made sense. In truth, she still had no idea where she, Halwen, and the Mainwright would go. The Cynmeren made it seem like their home was the only refuge offered in this land beyond the walls.
“Don’t forget who rescued you from death in that valley. And don’t forget who is healing your Mainwright, either,” Leighelle cautioned her, then she moved to Stora’s bedside. “Here, it’s time to change out her bandages again.” No other words were spoken by either woman as they worked together to dress Stora’s wounds, although Ryna caught herself unconsciously reaching towards the bone weapon dangling from her sash several times.
When they finished, Ryna sank back into her woven seat with an exhausted sigh and Leighelle finally left to check on her other charges. One of the wax ants peered cautiously from the recessed shadows of its hole, as though it had sensed the tension in the room and wanted no part of it. Ryna stared angrily at the little creature until it at last disappeared back into the bark wall.
“That was…difficult to listen to,” Halwen whispered as she slipped into the room. “Are you all right?”
“Fine,” Ryna said quietly through clenched teeth.
“I don’t want to make you feel any worse…”
“Then don’t.”
“What if she’s right, though? What if this really is the only safe place outside of Locboran?”
Ryna fumed in silence for a moment. “I find that hard to believe, don’t you?” she whispered.
“We found death hard to believe until we watched what happened to Kiorla and then learned about Celina,” Halwen reminded her as she sat next to Ryna. Ryna shook her head and looked away, fearful that tears might form if she thought about her fallen friends any longer. Halwen caringly put her hand on Ryna’s shoulder. “I miss them too,” she said.
Ryna looked back at her friend, then stared down at the floor. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she breathed.
“For now, it’s easy,” Halwen reassured her. “We stay here, let the Handsisters cure the Mainwright, then we’ll decide what to do after that.” Halwen smiled.
“You make it sound so simple.”
“It is! The Handsisters took us in, they saved the Mainwright, and they’ve given us food and water without asking for anything in return other than some assistance with daily tasks. I know it’s hard to believe, but I think the Cynmeren are good people.”
“I still don’t trust them,” Ryna said, shaking her head. “But we’ll stay for now.” Halwen’s smile beamed—it was clear that she liked it in Cynmere, even though its people were a constant reminder of Celina’s death. That, and they didn’t practice Callings, which immediately led Ryna to be suspicious of them. Halwen suddenly reached into the white robe that she had been given by the Handsisters and removed a small pouch. She offered it to Ryna, who seized it eagerly; the smell of gifla was hard to resist after tasting its goodness.
“You know, the Handsisters would feed you and get you new clothes too if you were willing to help them a little,” Halwen said. “I can’t just keep taking food for you. They’ll eventually notice.”
Ryna swallowed another piece of the gifla. “My place is here. You know that,” she replied. Halwen
sighed and looked at Stora resting in the bed.
“She’s not the only injured person being tended by the Order of Hands,” Halwen said after a moment in silence. Her eyes grew distant as she spoke. “I helped treat two men today from something called a “Hunting Watch” who arrived here not long before we did. They needed far more than bandages to heal their wounds—one of them even lost a hand. Can you imagine that? It’s just…gone.” She paused, shuddered, then continued. “They were fighting something, though I don’t know what. When I asked Leighelle what could do this, all she said was ‘pure evil.’ There are dozens more just like those two men, and that’s only the people that I’ve seen personally. Who knows how many people the Handsisters are actually tending right now. My point is, if you won’t agree to help in exchange for food and clothing for yourself, will you agree to help to keep us safe from whatever this ‘evil’ is?”
Ryna could see genuine fear in her friend’s eyes. This new information made her feel guilty for staying in the same room for the past two days, but the Mainwright’s safety still remained Ryna’s primary concern. “I’ll think about it,” she replied softly.
Halwen frowned, but she nodded in acceptance a moment later—she knew that was as much of an answer as she was going to get from Ryna for now. Her
earlier smile returned suddenly. “Leighelle told me today that I would make a fine Handsister,” she whispered excitedly.
Kingdomturn Page 33
