Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  With the two steaming cups in hand, Wyand exited the dimness of the brewing room and climbed a set of stairs that led back above ground level. As soon as he reached the main hallway, he could already hear sounds of coughing and general discomfort coming from the central sick chamber where the Cynmeren had gathered. When he rounded the corner, Wyand nearly spilled the cups as he tried not to run into Halwen.

  “I’ll take those,” she said with a laugh as he passed her the cups. “Keep them coming; we have more than twenty people waiting for relief now.” Wyand peered incredulously past her into the sick chamber and discovered that Halwen hadn’t been exaggerating. The room was filled with bleary-eyed Cynmeren, all coughing, sneezing, and clearing their throats as they watched Halwen expectantly. “Let’s hope this works,” Halwen said, and spun in a blur of white robes to assist the two nearest Cynmeren. Not wanting to make these people suffer any longer than they had to, Wyand rushed back to the brewing room to repeat the process.

  When every cup had finally been handed out, Wyand stood beside Halwen at the entrance to the sick chamber to take a brief look at what they had done. The mood of the room had shifted profoundly; where before there was discomfort and impatience, now the people talked and laughed as they sipped on their steaming cups. “Amazing,” Halwen said quietly, and Wyand nodded in silent agreement. This was yet another miracle to add to his list; even if these people didn’t believe in the Venerates, they had clearly learned some of their secrets.

  Knowing Thirna to be very particular about newcomers and the speed with which they completed a task, both Wyand and Halwen resumed their duties after another instant of fascination. When Wyand returned to the brewing room, Thirna had the long spoon in hand and was painstakingly filling containers with the remedy. “Did it work?” the Handsister asked without taking her eyes off of the steadily-pouring liquid.

  “Yes, Thirna.”

  “Of course it did. There will be others who need this in the days to come,” she said, capping off another container. “I, however, do not need your assistance any further to complete this task. Find Leighelle, assist her with whatever she needs. I will send for you if I need your help again.” She waved towards the door, and Wyand knew to depart without a word.

  Wyand found Leighelle silently changing out the blankets in one of the sick rooms that was occupied by a man with a large bandage wrapped over his eyes. The Unwoven assisted in the task, although her movements weren’t nearly as quiet as Leighelle’s. The man in the bed shifted in his sleep and both women instantly froze in place. Leighelle stared accusingly across the bed at the Unwoven as they waited, but the Unwoven denied the blame with an indignant shake of her head. When the man began to snore softly again, they hurriedly finished placing the blanket over him.

  Wyand entered the room slowly, but the old wooden door frame creaked with unexpected loudness when he placed his hand against it in passing. He froze, then was forced to meet the accusing gaze of not only Leighelle, but now the Unwoven too. Wyand hunched his shoulders in embarrassment, but then heard the blessed sound of the injured man still snoring. Leighelle pointed to the main hallway, and Wyand backed out as quickly as he dared, followed closely by the two women. He eyed the door frame with a mixture of anger and distrust before finally reaching the safety of the hallway beyond.

  “Are you testing every entryway for rot, or just the ones attached to rooms where people are asleep?” Leighelle snapped quietly, standing less than a hand-length from his face. Wyand had no immediate answer, and Leighelle sighed. “It doesn’t matter. You can be as loud as you like while you’re outdoors sanitizing bandages.” Leighelle turned to the Unwoven. “Sister, he’s your burden now,” she said, then spun and vanished into the next sick room.

  “I hate when she calls me that,” the Unwoven muttered as she and Wyand walked to the main sick chamber to retrieve the first few sacks of bandages in need of cleaning.

  “Why don’t you spend time with one of the other Orders?” Wyand asked, hefting one of the bags over his shoulder. “As a woman, you’re free to move wherever you want during the day.”

  “I’ve been elsewhere a few times,” the Unwoven replied, “but my place is here with the Mainwright until she is well again.”

  “You’ve told me that before,” Wyand said as they reached the main entrance and stepped out into the rain. “You also told me that we should learn as much as we can about these people so we can decide what to do next. Have you given up on that idea?”

  “It’s not…. No, I haven’t,” the Unwoven stammered, brushing a dripping strand of sand-colored hair off of her face. “I want to learn more,” she said, then continued more quietly, “I just feel guilty every time I leave the Mainwright. It’s madness; I know the Handsisters would never harm her, but I feel uneasy when I’m away from her for very long.”

  “Understandable,” Wyand nodded. “Though I am beginning to learn who the Cynmeren are, I still don’t trust them either.” They arrived at the vacant cleaning shelter in silence and emptied their sacks of bandages into a large vat of boiling water. It was a relief to be out of the rain, but the smell that the bandages released as they were being cleansed was a nauseating mixture that hung in the air of the small shelter like a fog. Wyand stirred the vat while the Unwoven scraped a handful of powder off one of the nearby Whitestone blocks and dumped it into the water. Soon, the horrendous smell had diminished enough for Wyand to stop breathing exclusively through his mouth.

  “Tell me what you’ve learned so far,” the Unwoven requested a moment later as they waited for the batch of bandages to be sanitized.

  Wyand laughed. “So you can go wherever you want, at any time, yet you want me to explain this place to you? That doesn’t exactly seem fair.”

  “Please?” the Unwoven said with absurdly wide eyes and a mocking little smile. Wyand knew he was being manipulated, but it felt good to actually be useful for once instead of always feeling like he was in someone else’s way. Besides, this was the first opportunity for him to speak with the Unwoven since the night of the festival, and he was eager to share all of the oddities of Cynmere that he’d discovered.

  “Fine, fine. You win,” Wyand said, lifting his hands in defeat. “Have you tried something called ‘hivespice’ yet?” The Unwoven nodded hesitantly and Wyand grinned. “You won’t believe where it comes from….”

  ---

  Wyand and the Unwoven talked for nearly an hour as they boiled every bandage they could find; the task was mindless, but the conversation was delightful and made them both willing to use any excuse to work together for as long as they could. Beyond the confines of the cleaning shelter, the rain continued the steady process of turning the clearing into a mess of thick mud and pools of standing water. Each slogging trip to and from the boiling vat allowed the rain to soak deeper into their clothes until Wyand and the Unwoven were shivering noticeably as they huddled close to the fire. Wyand was in the process of explaining the normal events of his day, but the Unwoven stopped him when he explained the daily lessons with the Order of Song.

  “You go there every morning, yet you still can’t read the Knot Language?” the Unwoven asked with a disbelieving smile.

  “I’m getting better!” Wyand said defensively. “One of the Songsisters even said I’m almost caught up with the other students.”

  “Yes, but you also said the other students are all less than two turnings old,” the Unwoven pointed out teasingly.

  “And that’s two turnings more than I’ve had to try to learn the slag-blasted language!” Wyand shouted. He shuddered from the cold as he spoke, which caused his voice to falter midway through the exclamation. The Unwoven’s eyes grew wide and the corners of her lips twisted into an uncontrollable smile before she finally couldn’t contain her laughter any longer. “It’s not that f-funny!” Wyand stammered through chattering teeth, which caused the Unwoven to only laugh harder. Wyand threw his remaining bandages into the water and tromped back out into the rain, too embarrassed to spe
ak.

  “Anger only makes the task more difficult,” a gravelly voice cautioned from the path ahead. Wyand was startled to look up and find Fadian standing directly in front of him, rain dripping from the edges of his cowl.

  “Fadian! Where did you come from?” Wyand asked.

  “The Council House, which is where we are going right now,” Fadian replied. “You’ve been summoned, Wyand.”

  “Who’s Wyand?” the Unwoven asked as she approached.

  Wyand spun to face her, his eyes wide with panic. The Unwoven looked confused, but there was a shadow of anger hiding in her expression as well. You should’ve told her sooner! his conscience screamed, but it was too late for that now. The damage was done, the Unwoven knew Wyand’s true name, and it had clearly hurt her deeply to discover that he’d been lying this entire time.

  “I wanted to tell you sooner,” Wyand began.

  “Who is Wyand?” she demanded.

  “I am,” he admitted, wincing as he watched the last traces of her earlier laughter fade into betrayed sadness.

  “It’s time to go, Wyand,” Fadian said urgently. Wyand backed away from the Unwoven reluctantly; with each physical step, he felt the emotional distance between them growing larger.

  “I’ll explain everything when I get back,” Wyand promised as Fadian ushered him towards the forest path.

  “Yes, you will,” the Unwoven replied with a fervent nod.

  Wyand met her eyes a final time. Forgive me, he pleaded silently, then he turned to walk with Fadian. The edge of the lake arrived much sooner than expected, overfilled as it was by the unceasing downpour. One of the small rowboats waited in the shallows, but it looked very different than the boats Wyand had used previously. This one was outfitted with a long, wide section of bark that was suspended a stride above the main body of the boat by four forked poles. Wyand was puzzled by the strip of bark until he stepped beneath it and realized the interior of the boat was perfectly dry despite the rain.

  “What does this summons mean?” Wyand asked as he rowed across the lake. The rain pelted the bark overhead and the lake beyond, creating a deafening layer of sound that made it difficult for Wyand to hear his own voice, let alone Fadian’s reply. He strained to listen as Fadian spoke.

  “It means the Elder Council feels you are ready to join an Order,” Fadian explained.

  Wyand paused rowing mid-stride when he understood what Fadian had just said. “Isn’t that…sudden?” Wyand asked. “I’ve been here less than a week.”

  Fadian shrugged. “When it’s time, it’s time,” he said. “The Elder Council always knows what needs to happen.” Wyand rowed in silence then, lost in thought about the Kindred Orders and wondering which one would claim him. In the back of his mind, he was reminded that it didn’t really matter which Order he joined, as long as it permitted him to eventually return to Aldhagen.

  A handful of boats like the one Wyand rowed were tethered to the short posts that lined the western shore of the central landmass. Workers walked to and from the boats, sometimes alone, sometimes in sparse groups of two and three. Fadian directed Wyand to one of the vacant posts, and they tied the boat in place. Waves from the churning lake jostled the boat as they exited and sprayed cold water onto the backs of Wyand’s legs, but he was too nervous to notice.

  In the daylight, the path to the Council House appeared far more imposing than it had on the night of the festival. Seemingly undisturbed by the constant rain, guards from the Order of Stone stood in silence at the base and on the top of both stone watch towers, motionless except for their green sashes which occasionally fluttered in the light breeze. Though the guards’ eyes remained fixed on the far horizon, Wyand could feel that they were looking down at him as he passed. In each twist of the path, in every stone outcrop, he found more sets of eyes watching him from lookouts carved into the hillside itself. Eager to be done with the feeling of constant scrutiny, Wyand quickened his pace and was thankful that Fadian matched it without hesitation.

  Wyand shook off some of the rain as they passed through the entrance to the Council House. It was eerie to walk past the main festival chamber and find it empty, where just a few nights earlier thousands had gathered to celebrate, laugh, and dance. Now the only sound belonged to small rivulets of water as they steadily trickled down the root-covered walls and dripped into shallow channels in the floor. None of the torches were lit yet for the night—even with the overcast sky, there was still enough light in the space to see, courtesy of the hundreds of small openings that lined the walls.

  After ascending the dim staircase and then briefly entering the rain again in the central clearing, Wyand and Fadian finally arrived at the base of the ancient Scarwood tree. As they walked down the short hallway, Fadian put a hand on Wyand’s shoulder and paused before entering the Council Chamber. “Do not say a word unless you are questioned,” the Guided instructed, eyes swirling intensely between blue and green. “When you answer, only answer that which was asked. Above all else, never speak anything but the truth.” He studied Wyand as he spoke, still seeming to search for something.

  “I understand,” Wyand replied before turning his head away from Fadian’s probing gaze. The Guided grumbled to himself, then stepped forward and opened the door to the Council Chamber. Unlike the rest of the Council House, every sconce in this chamber was aflame, each lending its light to the great tapestry in the center of the room—the Woven Wall. At the base of the Wall stood a group of eight people, four women and four men, that Wyand had only seen from a distance during the festival, and he suddenly understood that they were the Elder Council. All conversation ceased when they noticed the door opening, and each member of the Council turned to regard Wyand and Fadian in silence.

  Fadian escorted Wyand towards the group, then stopped abruptly and leaned close to Wyand’s ear. “Stay here,” he whispered before stepping away and addressing the Elder Council. “At your summons, I have brought you Wyand the Newfallen.” The tallest man from the group of eight nodded, and at the gesture Fadian walked forward to stand by the man’s side at the base of the Woven Wall. With growing anxiety, Wyand stared back at the group of eight that had now become nine. His eyes met with those of the tall man, and Wyand suddenly noticed the swirling colors that marked this member of the Council as one of the Guided as well.

  “Do you know where you are?” the man asked, making it clear there would be no introductions, no discussion, only questions.

  “The Council Chamber,” Wyand responded, struggling to speak through the sudden dryness that had overtaken his mouth. It was difficult for him to talk to eight people without having names for any of them, especially knowing how much respect and power they commanded in Cynmere. He studied the knots in their sima, but his eyes still could not read the names captured within.

  The elderly Guided nodded. “And do you know why you are here?” he asked.

  “Because you summoned me,” Wyand said honestly.

  There was a long moment of silence. A small smile flickered across the Guided’s aged face before he could suppress it, then he glanced to Fadian and shook his head. “Must you always make the Newfallen think their words are wicked things when used in our presence?” Fadian looked away awkwardly with a faint grin of his own but offered no reply. The older Guided turned his attention back to Wyand. “Do you know why we summoned you?” he asked.

  “You believe that I am ready to join an Order,” Wyand said, but felt a twinge of doubt when he noticed the man shaking his head.

  “We do not believe that you are ready, I know that you are ready,” the Guided corrected him. “The visions of your arrival were revealed to me, and to many of the other Guided as well. Though none of us knew your face, your name was whispered into our minds many turnings ago, long before your life began. We do not yet know your purpose here, but we know that it holds great importance.” As the Guided spoke, Wyand suddenly felt like there were thousands of unseen eyes in the Council Chamber, all fixated on him as they waited in
the shadows.

  “Even so,” the Guided continued, finally breaking the silence, “there is a process which must be followed. You are meant to be assessed by the Kindred Orders this day, that is known, but first the Orders must each speak of your character as they have observed it.” Wyand frowned as the man spoke. “What is it?” the Guided asked.

  “I haven’t spent time with all of the Orders yet,” Wyand admitted quietly.

  The Guided smiled. “No, but they’ve spent time with you, whether you know it or not,” he said mysteriously. “Let’s hear what they have to say. Does the Order of Stone have a witness?” An ageless bald man stepped forward from the Council group, the end of the dark green sash around his waist nearly brushing the floor as he walked. Though he wore simple grey robes instead of the typical overlapping plates, Wyand knew that sash labeled him a Stonebrother.

  “It does,” the man said with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder. “We call Stonebrother Carnan.” The Council Chamber door swung open and Wyand heard footsteps approaching from behind him. He wanted to turn around, but a glance from Fadian told him that would be a mistake. Carnan walked past Wyand an instant later and took up a position immediately beside the older man from the Order of Stone. When Wyand saw Stonebrother Carnan, he realized he had met the man before—Wyand would never forget that face. Carnan was one of the two boatmen who had escorted Wyand throughout the entire journey to Cynmere, and it had been his muscular shoulder that sent Wyand tumbling across the sand the night they met the group from Locboran.