Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  “What do you know of this man?” the Guided asked, pointing to Wyand.

  Stonebrother Carnan refused to look at Wyand, instead focusing solely on the Council members as he spoke. “When the Watch found him, he was like most other Newfallen. Noisy. Awkward. A burden,” Carnan said, his voice echoing in the chamber. “Then, after several days with us, he developed another trait: defiance. This came as a surprise, and I was forced to subdue him before he caused irreparable harm to the efforts of my Watch.”

  Wyand’s mouth hung open as he listened to the Stonebrother’s account of their journey together. Not only was this more than he had heard the man speak over the course of their three-day trek, the words he used made Wyand seem worthless at best and dangerous at worst. Wyand wanted to protest, to try to show the situation in a different light, but another stern look from Fadian cautioned him to remain silent.

  “Why did you become defiant?” the bald Stonebrother asked as he stepped past Carnan to get closer to Wyand. The man’s face was placid, but his eyes burned intensely as he waited for an answer.

  “I was afraid,” Wyand admitted.

  “Fear was merely the deciding point,” the Stonebrother said, shaking his head. “Why did you choose to become defiant?”

  Wyand searched for a more detailed explanation. “The boatmen had killed before, and I didn’t want to see the same thing happen to the group from Locboran,” Wyand said slowly, still gathering his thoughts. “I didn’t know at the time that the Cynmeren hate killing. If I had known that, I would’ve just remained silent….” He trailed off as the old Stonebrother raised his powerful hand. The man smiled, but shook his head once again.

  “That explains your concern, but not why you acted in defiance. Why did you choose to warn those women when you thought they were in danger?” The Stonebrother leaned close to him, trying to coax out some thought Wyand had not yet found.

  “Because I wanted to protect them,” Wyand said at last, unable to find any other answer to give. As soon as the words were spoken, the bald man smiled and returned to stand with the rest of the Elder Council.

  “Will the Order of Stone speak for this man?” the Guided asked. The Stonebrother glanced from Carnan to Wyand, then back to the Guided.

  “Absolutely,” his voice boomed. Wyand was stunned.

  The Guided nodded, then motioned to one of the four women from the Elder council. “Does the Order of Hands have a witness?”

  A spindly woman with a permanent scowl stepped forward, her long white hair bound in a tight braid down her back. “It does, Leomar,” she said with a voice that creaked like old wood.

  Leomar, Wyand thought. At least I know a name for the Guided now.

  “We call Handsister Leighelle,” the elderly woman said, and once again the door to the Council Chamber opened. Leighelle joined the old Handsister and then turned to face Leomar.

  “What do you know of this man?” the Guided asked

  “His desire to work is admirable,” Leighelle said. “And he is quite attractive, but those qualities alone are not enough to make him worthy of our Order. He completes any task I assign him, but he lacks the coordination and the delicate touch so often required to be an effective member of the Order of Hands.” Wyand waited for her to say more, then he looked to the old Handsister to see if she was going to ask any additional questions. She squinted at him, but nothing more was said.

  “Will the Order of Hands speak for this man?” Leomar asked, even though everyone in the chamber already knew the answer.

  “It will not,” the Handsister declared. Once again, Wyand expected there to be more of an explanation offered, especially after rejecting him outright. Instead, the Handsister and Leighelle quietly stepped back into line with the rest of the Council members and waited for the ceremony to continue. Wyand felt sweat forming on his palms despite the coolness of the air in the chamber; there had to be some negative implication that came from being denied by a Kindred Order, he just didn’t know what it was. Thankfully, Leomar moved on to the next Order before Wyand had time to worry for too long.

  “Does the Order of the Axe have a witness?” Leomar asked. A lean, muscular man with a short grey beard around his mouth emerged from the Council group. The lines on his tanned faced were so deep that his eyes were almost completely hidden, but Wyand saw a keen gaze shining within them despite their age.

  “We call Axebrother Holt,” the man said, and Wyand recoiled from how much the gravelly voice sounded like that of Stonecaller Galbrun. An instant later, Holt stood next to this man, awaiting questions from the Guided.

  “You oversaw his cleansing and proving, yes?” Leomar asked.

  “I did, Council Guide,” Holt said.

  “How do you judge his character?”

  “He is a fighter, whether he is willing to admit it yet or not,” Holt replied, smiling proudly towards Wyand, who felt increasingly embarrassed the longer Holt talked. “The first two days in the cage were as expected: he clung to the belief of peace even at the risk of self-harm and refused to take the actions necessary to earn food, let alone freedom. Something changed by the third morning, however, after a visit from Fadian during the night.”

  Leomar raised a quizzical eyebrow as he turned to Fadian. “What guidance did you provide that night?” the old Stormbrother asked.

  “I spoke the same wisdom we share with all of the unproven,” Fadian said. “I told him that to live in this world is to resist, to fight, no matter how unnatural it may initially feel.”

  “Anything else?” Leomar pressed.

  Fadian hesitated briefly. “I had a Vision earlier that night, and I shared a portion of its message with him.” There were several shocked gasps from the Elder Council and some of the witnesses after hearing Fadian’s last comment. Wyand didn’t understand what was happening until Council Guide Leomar spoke again.

  “You know that it is strictly forbidden for any of us to discuss the Visions with someone who is not yet proven. The results could be disastrous,” Leomar chastised Fadian. “So, what was it that you told him?”

  Fadian shook his head in denial. “I did not share the Vision itself, just the message,” he hastily clarified. “I told him to trust that he would know what to do when the time came to prove himself. Nothing more.”

  Leomar hung his head in clear frustration and gripped the bridge of his nose as he mulled over the situation. “It does not matter, for the purposes of this ceremony,” he sighed at last. “Fadian, you and I will speak in private when this is finished.” Fadian nodded in wordless acceptance. “Forgive me, Holt,” the Council Guide said. “Please continue.”

  “Whether it was because of the guidance or not, Wyand took the actions needed to get food the following morning,” Holt explained. “He struck out at me with a level of speed and force that I haven’t witnessed in many turnings; pain aside, it was very impressive.”

  “And what of his training since being released from the cage?” Leomar asked.

  “He came to us already accustomed to days filled with demanding physical labor, so the tasks of my Order are not beyond his abilities,” Holt answered. “He’s consistent and methodical, and above all he is able to focus to achieve his goals. There is much for him to learn to be an effective Axebrother, but that can be said of any Newfallen.”

  Leomar nodded thoughtfully, then posed the question that Wyand had come to expect. “Will the Order of the Axe speak for this man?”

  “It will speak for him, Council Guide” the old Axebrother announced without pause. He glanced in Wyand’s direction an instant later and nodded reassuringly. Wyand nodded back, grateful for the man’s unexpected confidence in him.

  “Does the Order of Dawn have a witness?” Leomar moved on. A round-faced old woman stepped forward with a kind smile as she looked at Wyand.

  “Not yet,” she said disappointedly. “But we would love the opportunity to spend more time with him. Dawn will speak for him.” She bunched her mouth into a delighted little grin a
s she continued to study Wyand. He tried to smile back, but he felt incredibly awkward all of a sudden.

  “Thank you,” Council Guide Leomar responded somewhat abruptly, sounding almost fearful of what the woman might say next. “That leaves only the Order of Song before we begin the Final Assessment. Do you have a witness?”

  “There is none needed,” replied one of the two remaining women Council members. She was tall, with silvery hair that draped onto her shoulders and reflected the torchlight on every side. Her face was smooth despite her presumed age, and her voice had a musical quality to it. “There are enough men in our Order as it is,” the Songsister said, “and it would be unfair to him for us to hold a newcomer to the same expectations that we set for the other Songbrothers close to his age. We will not speak for him.”

  Wyand could feel his legs starting to shake after being rejected by another Order. He looked to Fadian desperately, but the Guided stared blankly into the distance, refusing to meet Wyand’s gaze. “Three Orders have spoken for him, two have not. The Final Assessment will now commence,” Leomar proclaimed. He stepped forward, followed closely by Fadian and the two remaining members of the Elder Council who had not yet called witnesses.

  Leomar’s voice dropped to a more conversational volume as the group approached, but his tone still conveyed formality with every word. “You stand before representatives from the three oldest Kindred Orders: Storms, Blood, and Night,” the Guided said. “As Council Guide, I will speak for the Order of Storms, the Voice of War will speak for the Order of Blood, and the Voice of Peace will speak for the Order of Night.” Wyand nodded nervously, his heart racing with uncertainty. His eyes shifted from Leomar to the other two Council members—one a dark-haired woman, the other a skeletal old man with stringy white hair whose body seemed to be in a constant state of convulsion. A long scar on the woman’s jaw led Wyand to believe she had to be the Voice of War, which meant the frail man had to be the Voice of Peace. His assumption was confirmed an instant later.

  “I call forward Bloodsister Eyrie,” the Voice of War announced. “She found this man and carried him safely to Cynmere.” Wyand couldn’t help himself this time—as soon as the doors opened, he glanced toward the sound of the approaching footsteps. Now possessing a much better understanding of the deadly threat posed by the haugaeldr, Wyand had a grasp of the incredible risk Eyrie and her boatmen had taken to rescue him. He hadn’t seen her since their arrival in Cynmere, and where before he would have looked at her with fear and total distrust, Wyand now regarded her with a grateful smile. He knew he owed her at least that much.

  Eyrie strode into the chamber with the same confidence and focus she had displayed during the journey through the Deadlands; even in the presence of the Elder Council, she carried an air of natural authority that was impossible to ignore. Adding to that fact, she still wore the strange clothing of overlapping plates—“armor” as Wyand had learned it was called—that was assembled from parts of the scrid as well as something called a nysk. The sima that captured her name and position swung freely just above her right shoulder, whereas the rest of her braids were tied tight enough to remain motionless as she walked. Her eyes met with Wyand’s briefly as she approached, but in that instant he thought he saw a glimmer of happiness break through her otherwise rigid countenance.

  “Eyrie, as a Daughter of Mercy, how many people have you saved from Drugoth?” the Voice of War asked.

  “Thirty-eight,” Eyrie replied without any hesitation. It was clearly a number that was engrained into the forefront of her thoughts, and she said it with pride.

  “And how many have you watched die of the haugaeldr’s sting?” the dark-haired old woman continued.

  Eyrie look confused then, first opening her mouth to reply, then frowning to think over her answer again. “I don’t know exactly,” she admitted. “Perhaps more than a hundred.” Wyand was stunned by the answer and looked at her incredulously. Eyrie ignored him, though, remaining focused on the Voice of War.

  “Those that die—what do they do wrong?” the Voice of War asked.

  “Many are just unfortunate,” Eyrie said. “The haugaeldr find them before they are even conscious. But many more simply give up when they realize they are forever separated from the Cultivators.”

  “Did this man give up?”

  “No,” Eyrie responded quickly. “The exact opposite, actually. Even though he was weak, he resisted throughout our journey. It was clear that he wanted to survive; he just had no idea how to do so on his own. Whatever his motivation may be, you can see the fire of determination burning in his eyes even now.” The Voice of War moved close to Wyand then, eyes locked onto his own. Though she appeared intimidating from a distance, from as close as she now stood, Wyand realized the woman was nearly a head shorter than he. Still, her gaze held unimaginable wisdom and commanded great respect.

  “In a moment, I will ask you two questions,” the Voice of War said softly, the gentle creaking of age now audible behind each word, “and I want you to think carefully about your answers before you speak.” Wyand nodded in understanding and she proceeded with her first question. “Will you fight to preserve peace?” she asked.

  Wyand’s brow furrowed as he thought through the words. You can’t do both, he reasoned. One is the opposite of the other. The Venerates were liars, he knew that, but he still followed their teachings on the importance of avoiding conflict. Thinking of the Venerates, however, Wyand was suddenly reminded of the horrific memories that had been suppressed throughout the turnings he spent in Aldhagen. People being cast out for no reason, people dying and being forgotten, Haemlan’s murder.

  Where sadness had once been, now anger took root in Wyand’s mind and filled his thoughts. He heard the words Fadian had told him the night before finally earning freedom from the cage: to fight, to resist, doesn’t always require the use of violence. It means doing what you know is right, no matter the risk, simply because it is right. What the Venerates were doing to the people of Aldhagen wasn’t right, and it was time to put an end to it. He had already resisted them once on the night Haemlan died; now it was time to do so again. Wyand would fight to preserve peace for his fellow workers.

  “I will,” Wyand said with stunned clarity. The Voice of War raised an eyebrow in faint surprise and glanced at Eyrie, who appeared just as stunned by the response as Wyand had been.

  “Will you suffer so that others may live?” the Voice of War continued.

  Wyand needed far less time for this answer, but he still forced himself to think before speaking. “Yes,” he said with certainty.

  The old woman searched his eyes after he spoke, then backed away with a nod. “I believe him. The Order of Blood will speak for him,” she declared. Many members of the Council nodded behind her, seeming to concur with the assessment so far.

  The Voice of Peace then took the woman’s place, his gaunt form shaking with each tentative step. When he came to a stop, his gentle, surprisingly high-pitched voice addressed Wyand. “I will also ask you two questions,” the man said. “Take as much time as you need to answer.” There was a pause as he smiled at Wyand before beginning. “Will you always strive to avoid violence?” the Voice of Peace asked.

  Wyand weighed this question against those asked by the Voice of War. Once again, Fadian’s words came back to him: violence is only used when all other forms of resistance fail. “I will,” Wyand replied.

  The Voice of Peace smiled broadly. “Do you hereby dedicate your life to the pursuit of peace?” he asked.

  Ultimately, an end to all conflict remained Wyand’s goal. Any violence, any fighting that he might be forced to endure to free the people of Aldhagen would be driven by necessity, not desire. “I do,” he said.

  The Voice of Peace nodded amidst his constant shaking. “I believe him too. Night will speak for him, of course,” he said sweetly, then he shuffled back to stand with the Voice of War.

  “Lastly, you will be assessed by the Order of Storms,” Leomar announce
d, stepping forward with Fadian. “These will be the hardest questions to answer, but it is imperative that you do so truthfully. First, though, there is something you must do.” The Council Guide reached into the neck of his robe and pulled out a thin chain with a small circular object attached to it that shone as though made from some sort of metal. He removed the chain from around his neck and passed it to Wyand. “Put this on,” Leomar commanded.

  Wyand stared down at the object, uncertain what to make of it. It was thinner than a piece of sweet bread and small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, yet it had a considerable weight to it. The overall shape was circular, but as Wyand studied it, he noticed three thin, vertical lines etched into the dark grey face of the circle. The longest extended down from the center of the circle, wrapping around to the back side of the object, with two shorter lines beside it. He suddenly recognized the pattern—it was a reflection of the ash mark he had placed on his forehead as part of the Reclaiming Ceremony a few nights earlier.

  Leomar noticed Wyand’s fascination and smiled patiently. “It is known as the Thoughtcaster, and it belonged to Grigg himself in the time before Cynmere’s founding,” he explained. “We call the pattern on its surface the Mark of the Guided; it symbolizes the Visions and the truth that they reveal to individuals with the ability to receive them. Every person in Cynmere has worn that necklace as part of the Final Assessment, and now it is your turn. It somehow kindles the inherent ability to experience Visions in the few people that possess that gift. Beyond any question we ask of you today, the Thoughtcaster will dictate whether or not you are meant to join the Order of Storms as one of the Guided.”

  Wyand cautiously placed the chain around his neck and adjusted his shoulders and back to compensate for the disproportionate weight added by the small object. Leomar smiled, then his eyes suddenly blazed with swirling blue. “Why are you here?” he demanded, staggering Wyand from the unexpected force. Wyand blinked and recovered quickly, then reluctantly met the Council Guide’s stare.