“I need to get away from all of this for a while,” he replied awkwardly, making certain to look anywhere but at her as they walked. “I need to find a task, something to occupy my body and empty my thoughts. First, though, I’m going to the Order of Hands.”
“Why there?” Eyrie asked with a hint of disapproval. “Wouldn’t you rather meet your new Bloodbrothers and Bloodsisters first?”
“I…yes,” Wyand stammered, “but I need to apologize to someone.”
“The Unwoven,” Eyrie nodded in sudden understanding. “She’s a stubborn one.” Wyand swallowed uncomfortably, but knew he couldn’t deny her point. “Fine. We’ll go to the Order of Hands, then,” Eyrie sighed. Wyand thought to protest, to tell her he would go speak to the Unwoven alone, but something about Eyrie’s mannerisms made it clear that she wouldn’t be leaving his side any time soon.
Dozens of pairs of eyes watched Wyand and Eyrie as they made their way down the slippery path towards the covered boats. The guards from the Order of Stone were ever-present, and although they were motionless and silent in their concealed lookouts, Wyand felt certain he heard several of them snicker as he passed. The steady rain discouraged any delay, so Wyand ignored the guards and focused instead on reaching the boat as quickly as he could.
Once he and Eyrie were seated in the dry space beneath the canopy, she reached for the rope that tethered their boat to the mooring post then stared at Wyand silently. She was clearly waiting for him to do something, though Wyand had no idea what she expected. Then he spotted the oars, and he suddenly realized what Eyrie wanted. That’s fine, he thought. Rowing is just the sort of task I need right now. He quickly retrieved the oars and placed their tips into the water. When he glanced at Eyrie, she smiled triumphantly as she finished untying the boat.
Rain pelted the canopy overhead and blew in sheets across the lake as Wyand and Eyrie moved towards the far shore. The cold wind bit into Wyand’s soaked clothing, and more than once he had to pause rowing when fits of coughing seized him. I may need some of Thirna’s cure for myself, he worried. She was right about the rain bringing cold weather and sickness with it. Curiously, Eyrie showed no sign that she even acknowledged the cold; when Wyand looked at her, he noticed that the rain appeared to only stay on the surface of her armor. Instead of soaking in, the water beaded on the surface and flowed from one plate to the next. Though he loathed the idea of wearing something made from parts of dead creatures, he was secretly envious of her presumed comfort.
After securing the boat and slogging through the patches of mud and standing water that lined the edge of the lake, Wyand reached the cleansing shelter where he had worked with the Unwoven several hours earlier. It felt like an entire turning had passed since they last spoke, and he knew he owed her an explanation for lying about his name. The Unwoven clearly hadn’t been at the shelter in some time—the vats were empty and the fires had long since been extinguished. Determined to make things right with the Unwoven, Wyand began walking towards the central Hand dwelling where he was certain she would be working.
Eyrie gripped Wyand’s shoulder to stop him just before they left the confines of the cleaning shelter. “When you find her, talk to her, apologize, argue, whatever, just do not discuss what occurred in the Council Chamber today,” she warned him. “Leomar didn’t swear us to secrecy, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. Also, we didn’t exactly ask him if we could leave.”
“You said it was all right!” Wyand exclaimed.
“I said they wouldn’t notice if we left,” Eyrie countered. “That doesn’t mean they won’t be furious when they finally figure out we’re gone.”
“Why…why would you let me unintentionally offend the Elder Council? I didn’t want any trouble….” Wyand stammered.
“I could tell you wanted to leave, so I encouraged you to take action,” Eyrie replied with an uninterested shrug of her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re going to be spending an unbelievable amount of time with the Council over the next few days, I’m sure. Just don’t discuss any of what happened with the Unwoven, all right?” Wyand fumed, but nodded in agreement before tromping back out into the cold rain. He didn’t wait to see if Eyrie followed him, and at the moment he didn’t care.
The sick chamber was packed with coughing, weary-eyed workers, all suffering from the illness that the rains had stirred up. Wyand made his way through the crowd swiftly, searching for any sign of the Unwoven but finding none. He glanced into one of the sick rooms as he exited the main chamber and nearly ran into Halwen for the second time in less than a day.
“Oh! We really need to stop meeting like this,” she said with an exasperated laugh as she steadied her tray of cups. Wyand could tell from the smell and color that they were filled with the remedy he’d help Thirna mix earlier that day.
“Where’s the Unwoven?” he asked abruptly.
Halwen’s expression darkened instantly. “She’s busy. Most of the Handsisters are busy right now, Wyand,” she said pointedly.
“She’s angry with me?” he asked.
“Very,” Halwen replied. “But it’s not just that. She’s helping tend several members of a Distant Watch who just arrived. Their injuries are…significant.” Farther down the hallway, Wyand noticed one of the Handsisters leaving a sick room with her hands full of rags dripping with blood. He immediately knew where to find the Unwoven.
“You can’t interrupt them right now!” Halwen protested, but Wyand stepped past her. Feeling the beginnings of another fit of coughing, he grabbed one of the cups from her tray and hastily emptied it into his sore throat as he walked. Halwen faltered, too stunned and too angry to speak. Wyand didn’t wait for her to compose herself before he hurriedly entered the sick room. Instantly, he knew he’d made a mistake.
“Out!” five Handsisters shouted in unison as soon as they saw him, but Wyand froze in place when he saw the Unwoven. She stood over one of the injured men, blood coating her arms up to her elbows, struggling to apply a new bandage to his chest before the cloth soaked through again completely. She looked up at Wyand, her gaze shifting from worry to hurt and anger. Beyond the pain he saw in her expression, though, beyond the blood that stained her skin and clothes, Wyand was stunned by how beautiful she looked. He stepped towards her amidst incredulous stares from five very perturbed Handsisters who couldn’t believe his audacity and foolishness.
“I owe you some answers,” he said as he approached.
“Yes, you do,” she said as she turned her focus deliberately back to the wounded man. “But not now.” The Unwoven pressed down firmly on the bandage and avoided meeting Wyand’s gaze. He moved closer, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “I said not now!” the Unwoven snapped. Wyand recoiled and backed into the bed beside the man she was tending. “Please, just leave, Wyand,” the Unwoven said sadly, peeling off the bandage in frustration and starting over again with a fresh one.
Wyand edged slowly towards the door in stunned silence until a hand suddenly gripped his left wrist firmly. Turning back, he realized it belonged to another injured man lying in the bed behind him—the bed that he had just jostled.
“You…” the man wheezed.
“Forgive me for waking you,” Wyand apologized hastily, trying to free his arm. “I’m leaving.”
“Stay,” the man commanded in a whisper as he tightened his grip on Wyand’s wrist. Wyand glanced worriedly at the Handsisters, who made it clear through their expressions that they viewed him as both an intruder and a nuisance. Even at that, though, they weren’t going to pause in their critical tasks just to help Wyand escape this man’s grasp. As if sensing Wyand’s desire to get away, the injured man pulled him closer. His breathing was labored and his mouth struggled to form words, but none reached Wyand’s ears at first.
“What was that?” Wyand asked gently. The man’s tanned face developed a determined frown and his eyes opened halfway before he spoke again.
“I wish you could see what I see, Wyand,” he declared, and Wyand
spotted the familiar swirling glow of the Guided in the man’s eyes. There was a deeper familiarity there too, though—one that Wyand had felt certain he would never see again. His jaw suddenly fell slack as he stared at this wounded man with greying black hair. A memory from many turnings earlier flashed through Wyand’s mind: a memory where he watched this man fall to his death from the top of Aldhagen’s walls.
“Haemlan,” Wyand breathed in disbelief, and a smile of confirmation darted across the man’s face before he returned to sleep and released Wyand’s arm. Wyand stumbled back into the hallway until Eyrie took hold of his shoulders to keep him from falling backwards.
“Are you ill?” she asked.
“That’s not possible,” Wyand whispered.
“Actually, it’s very possible considering how many people are already sick today,” Eyrie pointed out.
“No…I mean Haemlan,” Wyand explained as he slowly took control of his thoughts. “That man in there, that can’t be him. It isn’t possible.”
“It’s him,” Eyrie said with a puzzled frown. “He’s been in Cynmere since I was a child. Do you know him?”
“I knew him in Aldhagen,” Wyand replied shakily, “but then I watched him die.”
Eyrie laughed. “Clearly not. Haemlan’s one of the few Guided I actually like to spend time with. He joins a Hunting Watch every chance he gets and, more importantly, he knows how to handle himself should that Watch encounter conflict. I respect him, and I promise you he is very much alive.”
Wyand stared into the sick room in awe, his mind ablaze with a thousand new questions as he watched Haemlan sleep. He stepped towards the entrance again, but Eyrie stopped him with a gentle but firm grip on his arm. “I think you’ve irritated the Handsisters enough for one day,” she cautioned him. “Besides, we should get moving if we’re going to visit the Order of Blood before Leomar notices we’re gone.” Wyand resisted for an instant, then nodded once he admitted she was right.
“Do you know what happened to Haemlan? How he was injured?” Wyand asked as they walked back to the main sick chamber.
Eyrie shook her head. “That’s a story he’ll have to tell once he’s healed,” she said. “All I know is that he had a Vision several days ago that called him to one of the Distant Watch camps. He said something about needing to ‘speak for peace,’ but that was it.”
“Halwen used that phrase too—Distant Watch. What is it?” Wyand asked.
Eyrie sighed, trying to find the right words. “They are a…complicated group. Their main role is to serve as Cynmere’s first line of defense against the Cultivators and their forces in Dism Slyde. The Distant Watches raid convoys and capture any scouts before they can discover Cynmere’s location. Beyond that, though, the people of the Distant Watch are forced to endure much harsher conditions than those in Cynmere. They survive off of what they can scavenge from the Plateau Desert and the convoys, and sometimes that isn’t much. Combine that lack of sustenance with the constant threat of attack and you are left with a group that is prone to paranoia and violence.”
“Why were they forced into the desert?” Wyand asked.
“No one forced them there,” Eyrie replied as she and Wyand made their way through the crowd in the sick chamber. “People join the Distant Watch by choice. For many, it’s a chance to feel like they are having a direct impact in the fight against the Cultivators. For others, it’s a test of character, a proving. There are even those who join to atone for past failures and feelings of guilt. At one time, it was viewed as a ritual of cleansing to join a Distant Watch, but now…. So many of them have adopted radical beliefs that we can barely call them Cynmeren any longer.”
Wyand at last understood why Haemlan had been called to spend time with the Distant Watch. “They kill,” he said hollowly.
“They kill,” Eyrie confirmed. “Although it can be called an act of defense some of the time, more and more it’s used for retaliation or anger against the people of Dism Slyde.” She and Wyand stepped back into the rain.
“Leomar mentioned ‘our wayward brethren from Dism Slyde’ during my assessment. Why are we fighting them?” Wyand asked as he and Eyrie slogged through another puddle of cold rainwater.
“Those Murk-blinded fools are the reason Aldhagen is still enslaved,” Eyrie spat. “Somehow, they make the Cultivators’ poison in Dism Slyde, you see, then transport it back to Aldhagen so it can be added to every piece of food the workers eat. What’s worse, their convoys take some of the tainted food back with them so that Dism Slyde remains under Cultivator control too. They view the Murk as a sacred item—a ‘blessing’ from the Cultivators—and they won’t touch any food that doesn’t reek of its vileness. Since Dism Slyde is constantly under a layer of cloud, it’s impossible for them to grow their own food. That means the people there are totally reliant on the Cultivators for sustenance.”
“They don’t even know they’re being poisoned….” Wyand realized. “How did you figure all of this out?”
“Hundreds of turnings spent raiding their convoys,” Eyrie replied. “Between the items we’ve recovered and the people we’ve cleansed as a result of those raids, most of Dism Slyde’s secrets have been revealed. Since the early days of Cynmere, we’ve sought to sever Dism Slyde’s ties to Aldhagen and thus remove the Murk’s effects completely.”
“Instead of raiding convoys, why not destroy the Murk at its source in Dism Slyde?” Wyand asked.
“You don’t think we’ve tried?” Eyrie said incredulously. “That valley is well defended and impossible to enter undetected. Thousands of Cynmeren have lost their lives attempting direct assaults on Dism Slyde. It…it’s a very dark place.” Eyrie’s voice waivered as she spoke, and for an instant Wyand thought he saw fear in her eyes. They trudged on in silence towards the Blood dwellings since it was clear there would be no more discussion of Dism Slyde for now.
“Do you have any idea how close you came to being forced into the Order of Night?” Eyrie asked suddenly a few moments later.
Wyand stared at her with a look of shock. “No,” he said slowly, shaking his head in confusion.
“You were one vote away from becoming a servant of peace for the rest of your days,” Eyrie said quietly. “If the Council had divided four against four, then Leomar would have been granted an additional deciding vote. Since you show no ability as one of the Guided, he could not have spoken for you. The Order of Night would have been the only remaining option.”
“I see,” Wyand said, thinking through the situation as Eyrie had explained it. “Thank you for believing in me,” he added awkwardly.
Eyrie shrugged. “Our Order recognizes value where it’s been earned,” she said bluntly. “You caught our attention enough to be spared from becoming a Nightbrother. Beyond that, though, you still have much yet to prove before we can ‘believe in you,’ as you put it.”
“Of course,” Wyand mumbled, embarrassed but understanding of Eyrie’s evaluation of him.
“Being new doesn’t make you any less of a Bloodbrother, though,” Eyrie hastily added an instant later after seeing the disappointment on Wyand’s face. He nodded in thanks, but nothing more was said for many strides. When they at last reached the Blood dwellings, Eyrie led Wyand down a narrow but well-trodden path through the woods. They eventually came to a clearing with a large circular structure in its center that was coated in moss and vines. It was built using the same materials as the other structures in Cynmere, but to Wyand this one seemed sturdier somehow. “The Wargarden,” Eyrie announced proudly. “The oldest Blood dwelling and also one of the first structures ever built in Cynmere. This is where we’ll teach you how to fight effectively and without causing unnecessary harm.”
It was warm and dry inside the immense building, but eerily dim and quiet. The layout of the Wargarden was simple and lent itself to maximizing the available floor space beneath its ancient beams. A lone woman stood in the middle of that floor, holding what appeared to be a long wooden staff. Without warning, she leapt in
to the air, spinning and flipping from one part of the room to the next as she swirled the staff around her. She wore the heavy armor typical of a Bloodsister, yet her movements were unhindered, precise, and nearly silent, especially with the sound of the rain masking what little noise there was in the enormous room. Wyand stared in fascination until the woman was still again, then he realized he had seen her before.
“Impressive as always, Adelea,” Eyrie said from Wyand’s left. Adelea turned slowly to face them; beyond a few beads of sweat on her forehead, there was no visible indication that she had just put on such an amazing physical display. Wyand caught himself noticing details about her that he wouldn’t have thought had any value prior to witnessing Grigg’s memories. She was young, not more than two turnings older than Wyand, with hair that reminded him of the deep red embers of a bed of coals. Her neck was smooth and sleek, and from what Wyand could tell through the armor, Adelea was lean and very fit. His thoughts drifted back to Lissara, but Wyand hurriedly shook them away before he was caught staring at yet another Bloodsister.
“I’ve seen you fling yourself around this room before too, Eyrie,” Adelea said with a smirk, then she glanced at Wyand and frowned slightly. “Why is the Newfallen here?”
“He was summoned today,” Eyrie explained, and Adelea’s eyes widened. “The Council has spoken—meet Bloodbrother Wyand.”
Adelea’s look of total shock faded suddenly into a delighted smile. “Why not,” she laughed in disbelief, walking forward and tossing the staff to Eyrie. “Welcome, Wyand.” Before he knew what was happening, Wyand once again found himself in the arms of one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen. He refused to breathe for fear of detecting the scent of vandula blossoms again and stirring up yet more memories of Lissara. “That didn’t take the Council long, did it?” Adelea asked as she stepped back and released Wyand from the awkwardly pleasant confines of her embrace.
Kingdomturn Page 51
