Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  “To be assessed by the Elder Council,” Wyand said, lost in the glowing blue and green of Leomar’s eyes.

  “Why are you in Cynmere?” Leomar pressed.

  “I was brought here,” Wyand answered quickly.

  “Why have you stayed?”

  “I…didn’t think there was anywhere else I could go.”

  “Do you wish to return to Aldhagen?”

  “No…” Wyand faltered. “Yes. Eventually.”

  “For what purpose?” the intensity of Leomar’s eyes washed away everything else in the Council Chamber until Wyand realized it was pointless to resist any longer.

  “I want to reveal the truth about the Venerates,” Wyand blurted out. “And I want to help my people become free like you.”

  Leomar looked surprised and for an instant his eyes lost their glow. “That is a noble cause,” he said quietly. “But there is no future in it; our history has proven that. Any attempt…to reach….” Leomar trailed off suddenly and gripped the side of his head, wincing from what appeared to be considerable pain. Then his head jerked back sharply and a brilliant flash of green erupted from his eyes as he stared at the ceiling. His mouth hung slack, his body twitched, but for some reason no one in the Council Chamber but Wyand seemed concerned. A moment later the strange display ended, and the old man grunted as he slumped against Fadian. “Share your Vision,” the Council Guide panted.

  “Leomar...?” Fadian asked uncertainly, but the man wouldn’t repeat himself, he just nodded in exhausted silence. Fadian frowned, then ushered Leomar over to the Voice of War and the Voice of Peace. They supported the Council Guide as Fadian returned to the center of the Chamber. He regarded Wyand briefly with an expression of both fascination and wariness before following Leomar’s command.

  “In the Vision given to me, I saw the hooded figure of a man standing alone in the desert,” Fadian began, speaking loud enough for the entire Elder Council to hear. “I watched him plant a glowing seed in the arid sands, a place where nothing but death can live. With his own blood he nourished it, urging it to grow, until at last a single shoot emerged. Satisfied that his task was finally done, the man collapsed beside it, laughing even as he fought to breathe. In a single instant, that shoot developed into a tall and powerful Scarwood tree, towering high over the burning desert and blessing the man with its shade.

  “Revitalized, he leapt to his feet. But instead of relishing in his gift of second life, he turned on the Scarwood and plunged a knife deep into its untouched bark. Again and again he struck, and from every wound a new root emerged until at last the sand itself was lost, buried by the Scarwood as its roots extended ever farther until they were beyond sight. As I watched all of this, a gathering storm lined the horizon. In its thunder I heard a single name echo across the distance—that name was Wyand.”

  There was silence, and all eyes fixated on the owner of the name that now filled every mind in the Council Chamber. Fadian turned to face Wyand as well. “I don’t know if that man was you,” he said, “but you are somehow intertwined with his story. I am certain that you carry an incredible burden; there is a truth inside you that is screaming to be released.”

  “A burden?” Eyrie asked, suddenly stepping forward to stand with Fadian. “You said you think he is carrying a burden?”

  “Of some kind, yes,” Fadian replied. “Why?”

  “The stone,” Eyrie exclaimed, and at the word Wyand felt his stomach turn. “I just remembered that he had a stone in his pocket when we found him in the center of the Lake of Skulls. Since he had carried it throughout the fall, that made the stone his by all rights, so we returned it to him after the initial inspection and thought nothing else of it. It was just a stone.”

  “Why would someone drowning hold onto a weight they didn’t need?” Leomar demanded, then gazed at Wyand once again. “What is this stone?” Wyand felt his heart pounding with sudden fear.

  “It’s nothing,” Wyand lied. “Like Eyrie said, it’s just a stone.”

  “Do you still have it?” Fadian asked, stepping close to Wyand once again.

  “I…yes,” Wyand confessed. There was an unexpected sensation of heat from Wyand’s waist pocket then, and he knew if he reached down he would find it coming from the stone. Not now! he begged, but the heat continued. This can’t happen now!

  “Why?” The questions were coming so fast it was impossible for Wyand to fabricate believable answers.

  “I’m…not sure,” he said, attempting to back away from Fadian, but the Guided gained ground on him with every step. I have to run, get out of here! The stone could kill them all, just like it killed the Venerate!

  “Let me see it,” Fadian commanded, extending his hand.

  “No!” Wyand shouted. “I mean I can’t. You need to stay back. Please.”

  The Guided pressed forward, heedless of Wyand’s warnings. “The stone,” Fadian said again. “Now.”

  Desperate to avoid the bloodshed that he knew was soon to follow, Wyand could only think of one option. He reached into his pocket and prepared to throw the stone with all of his strength away from the Council. Perhaps then they would have a chance of survival. When his fingers touched the stone, however, he felt a surge of cold energy coursing through his arm, his chest, and into the Thoughtcaster around his neck. Wyand tried to scream, but found himself unable to move, unable to speak. Time seemed to slow and his vision began to fade as he watched Fadian reach towards him.

  “Wyand, you must—” the Guided said sternly, then his voice was lost to the darkened silence that enveloped Wyand’s mind.

  ---

  The sound of the wind was deafening as it buffeted Wyand’s robes, then there was suddenly stillness. He opened his eyes and found himself no longer in the Council Chamber, instead standing on a pale white slab of stone. It had been meticulously cut into a perfect square and carved with intricate spirals and swirls; the longer Wyand peered at the carvings, the finer the details became. Work of this quality would have taken a lifetime, and yet there were squares identical to this one on all sides that each contained the same level of craftsmanship.

  The stones formed a paved pathway that led to a recessed courtyard, and in its center stood a large, ornate fountain. Water cascaded between three stacked basins, yet it made no sound. Wyand frowned as the impossibility of the situation became clear—the water wasn’t moving at all, it was suspended in mid-fall. Too mesmerized to be afraid, Wyand walked towards it.

  Wyand’s footsteps sounded strangely hollow as he moved slowly forward; it was as though the echo tried to reverberate but was cut abruptly short each time it began. Adding to the unreal feeling of this place, Wyand noticed that there was no source of light visible to explain the gentle glow that illuminated the path. He walked between rows of cracked pillars carved with a level of skill that rivaled that of the floor stones, some supporting the remains of massive archways. Wyand glanced through one of these archways and saw that the floor stones came to an abrupt and jagged end directly beneath it. Beyond the path there was absolute nothingness, as though reality itself ended at the edge of the arch.

  A flicker of light in the archway revealed that there was something else beyond its limits. For an instant, the pathway continued through a series of arches that had not been there a moment earlier and led towards a towering structure in the distance. Lost in wonder, Wyand stepped into the first archway and prepared to follow the new path. A sudden, inexplicable feeling of dread made him hesitate, however, and as he watched, the structure and archways vanished once again. Beneath his left foot, the broken edge of one of the floor stones was the only thing that kept Wyand from tumbling into the unfathomable darkness below.

  Against his will, Wyand stared down into the void. He had the feeling of being drawn towards it, and somehow he knew if he stopped resisting its urging pull for even a second, the nothingness would seize him. An eerie rumble drifted up to his ears from the depths, as though an enormous storm brewed far beneath him. There were dim flashes
of grey amid the blackness, but none of them had the look of true lightning. He strained his eyes—there were moments where he thought he could see the shadows writhing in the wake of one of these flashes, but any time he was close to resolving an image, the gloom would reclaim it. Terrified of what would happen if he fell into whatever waited below, Wyand finally broke free of the desire to leap off the platform and stepped back quickly.

  “What is this place?” he panted, backing towards the main pathway as he watched the distant archways flicker in and out of existence once again.

  “This is the Interface,” a familiar voice said. “More accurately, it is all that remains of the Interface.” A chill crept up Wyand’s spine as he turned to find the speaker. There, by the impossible fountain, stood a Venerate. “Peace to you, Wyand.”

  “And you, Venerated One,” Wyand stammered as panic seized him. No! his terrified mind screamed. This is some sort of trap. The Venerates will punish me if I stay here. I have to find a way out!

  “Please, I know you are frightened,” the Venerate smiled as he walked closer. “But I will not harm you, Wyand. This is not a trap, and I am not what you call a ‘Venerate.’”

  Wyand backed away nevertheless. “What are you then? Where have you taken me?” he demanded.

  “I am the Monitor of this device,” he replied soothingly. “And you have not been taken anywhere. Your consciousness is currently accessing the Thoughtcaster you wear around your neck in the physical realm. This place—the Interface—is how your mind interprets that linkage. Think of it as a sort of dream where information can be shared between your mind and the Thoughtcaster.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wyand said, continuing to back away. “I want to leave.”

  “As you wish,” the Monitor nodded. “But, please, before you go, the last user to access the Interface requested that I share his story with the next user. He said it was very important and that it would explain the ‘true history of Aldhagen.’ His name was Grigg.”

  Wyand froze in his retreat when he heard the name. Curiosity surrounding Aldhagen’s past as well as Cynmere’s enigmatic founder tugged at Wyand until he at last conceded. “What is his story?” he sighed.

  “I will show you,” the Monitor responded delightedly, and before Wyand could protest, everything was shrouded in blackness once again.

  ---

  The shadow of the Hall of the Venerates blocked the burning sun as Wyand walked the familiar path towards the entrance to the Calling Room. How did I get here? he wondered, disoriented by the sudden shift in location. Wyand attempted to stop on the path to gather his thoughts, but his body continued walking against his will. He panicked, then tried to look at his legs to discover what was happening. When his eyes would not respond either, terror began to take over.

  There is nothing wrong, the Monitor’s calming voice broke in from somewhere adjacent to Wyand’s mind. You are currently witnessing Grigg’s thoughts and memories as he experienced them. Do not try to control anything; you will always fail. Remember: everything you see and feel here has already happened, so it cannot be changed. It can be a confusing sensation at first, but you will grow accustomed to it quickly. Relax, and remember that you are free to break this linkage any time you choose.

  How? Wyand demanded.

  Think about returning to the Interface, and it will be done, the Monitor replied.

  Wyand considered ending the strange experience immediately, but then he nearly laughed at its absurdity. I am Grigg, Wyand realized suddenly as he stared out at Aldhagen through the dead man’s eyes. Wyand still maintained cognizance of himself as a separate person, but every sensation, every thought, every memory Grigg possessed settled into Wyand’s own consciousness like a fog of shared awareness. It was a terrifying but exhilarating feeling to be able to witness events through another person’s mind, so Wyand decided to let it continue for now.

  He watched the image of Aldhagen shift as Grigg looked towards his left arm. Hanging on his shoulder and hobbling with every step was another worker—Hamel, Wyand suddenly knew the man was called. Grigg was worried when he looked at his friend, and urgency increased his pace as he studied the other man’s injuries once again.

  “Healing will fix it,” Grigg said encouragingly, but Hamel only shook his head tiredly.

  “Not this,” Hamel groaned. “Nothing can fix this.” Grigg knew his friend was probably right, but he couldn’t agree openly without causing them both to completely lose hope. Hope was the only thing the people of Aldhagen had left, given the desperation that surrounded this Kingdomturn offering. This was the third turning in which the crops had failed, and the Venerates had promised if the people all worked diligently through Kingdomturn that the rains would return.

  Hamel’s illness stemmed from the offering itself—the Venerates had demanded that workers from all tasks transition to working in the Lower Depths to assist the miners with gathering the offering. Since there were no crops to harvest, that meant Fieldsmen like Grigg and Hamel were called to swing picks as well. This turning, the Venerates wanted strange yellow-green crystals that were somehow used to keep their magic working; crystals that were hard to obtain, and even harder to transport safely. Acrid fumes from broken crystals brought a sickness with them, and anyone who worked in the Depths for more than a week harvesting them was sure to need healing. Hamel had worked in the Lower Depths exclusively for twelve days straight, and inexplicable wounds now covered his arms, neck, and face.

  One of the Venerates stood by the entrance to the Calling Room. “You seek healing,” he said, pointing his staff at Hamel. “Come with me.” Grigg helped his friend limp over to the Venerate and then turned to leave. He glanced back when he stood at the entrance to the Hall and was disheartened to see the Venerate leading Hamel down the corridor towards the Last Calling chamber instead of up to the higher levels where healings normally took place. Worried but faithful, Grigg brushed aside his concern and began the journey back to his own work in the Lower Depths.

  Everything faded into darkness and Wyand could no longer feel the peculiar sensation of Grigg’s mind weighing on his own. Is that it? Wyand asked, surprised to find himself hopeful that it wasn’t.

  There is much more, the Monitor reassured him. Would you like to continue?

  I’ll stay a little longer, Wyand said. He was still fearful of this place—“the Interface,” as the Monitor had called it—but the feeling of reliving brief moments from Grigg’s life was undeniably thrilling. An instant later, Wyand’s vision returned, bringing with it the layer of thoughts he had come to recognize as belonging to Grigg. The man stood in a small structure—his home, Wyand realized—at the edge of a bed. In that bed lay a young child who was scarcely older than a single turning, and at the sight of the boy a staggering spike of emotion drove into Wyand’s core.

  Pride overwhelmed all other feelings, but it was followed closely by joy, hope, and concern. Grigg’s pride was built around a form of ownership that was unfamiliar to Wyand, as though the man somehow viewed the child in front of him as his most valuable possession. Then a word suddenly entered Wyand’s thoughts—son. It was a small word, but the weight it carried with it was profound. This boy belongs to Grigg, Wyand thought in amazement. This is his son. His name is Taerius. Flashes of memory burst into Wyand’s mind as he thought about the name, including an image of the day Taerius was born. Wyand’s senses couldn’t process the overwhelming surge of information; in a panic, he longed to return to the Interface.

  ---

  “You’re back,” the Monitor said with a note of surprise.

  Wyand stared into the distant blackness through one of the arches, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Fadian was right,” he whispered, still unable to fully grasp the countless truths revealed simply by seeing Grigg’s son.

  “Yes, Fadian was right,” the Monitor replied. “All people possess the gift of life. I see that you viewed an object called the Woven Wall once. Do you now have a better understanding of its si
gnificance?”

  “Families,” Wyand laughed incredulously. “Parents, children, siblings. Every word is new to my mind, yet their meanings feel like they’ve always been a part of me somehow. The Woven Wall shows the families of Cynmere throughout its history, but the process of creating those families….” Wyand shook his head again.

  “You are shocked,” the Monitor said, “but the act of giving birth is as natural for your kind as breathing or eating.”

  “It didn’t look natural,” Wyand shuddered.

  “Focus on living the moments Grigg wished to share instead of becoming lost in the thousands of other thoughts attached to them,” the Monitor advised. “Then you will be able to witness the remainder of Grigg’s memories comfortably.”

  Wyand sighed. “What makes you think I’m even considering returning to his memories again?”

  “Because yours has been a life of questions, and now you are finally finding some answers,” the Monitor smiled. “You have the mindset of an adventurer, a seeker of the unknown. Embrace it and discover all that Grigg has to show to you.” Wyand knew the Monitor was right—even with the startling revelations and unpleasant memories, Wyand wanted to know more about Grigg’s story. He nodded a moment later and the blackness instantly returned.

  ---

  Grigg stood over Taerius, gently cradling the boy’s hand in his own. “It’s all right, son,” Grigg said soothingly, but he could already see new tears forming in the corners of Taerius’ eyes. The sight of the boy crying brought physical pain with it, a kind of pulling deep in the core of Grigg’s chest. He wanted to help, to somehow ease his son’s distress, but Grigg didn’t know how.

  “Why did they make Ferran go away?” Taerius sobbed yet again, and just as before, Grigg had no good answers.

  “The Venerates always have a reason,” he replied, but the explanation only caused Taerius to cry harder.