Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  “Kingdom be found. That means it works,” Craed whispered, mostly to himself. He shook his head, then seemed to regain his focus. “Good, then you understand its importance. Keep it somewhere safe,” he said with a nod. “None of that matters for now, though. Come on—it’s time to train.”

  Silax and Aemetta refused to meet Keltin’s eyes as they followed Craed to the waiting Legionnaires. Now that he knew details of a portion of the mysterious journey that brought Silax and Aemetta to Dism Slyde, Keltin found that he had even more questions for them. How did they know to escape the haugaeldr in the smoke? What made them trust Eredun? What did it feel like when the cofa took effect? Perhaps he could get them to reveal more of their secrets over the next eight days. With the newcomers’ primary tasks being to observe the Legion and maintain the thuribles, Keltin felt certain there would be ample opportunities for discussion throughout their search for Cynmere. Tomorrow, he thought. I’ll try asking them more tomorrow.

  23

  “Steady, Mainwright,” Ryna cautioned as she caught Stora from falling forward once again. The Mainwright’s health had shown signs of improvement over the past two days, but the path around the lake was filled with roots and rocks that made stumbling all too easy. As night approached, the walk became increasingly dangerous, but Stora had insisted that she needed the time out of her bed.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” Stora snapped disgustedly. She brushed off her robes and walked ahead a short distance, leaving Ryna standing alone in shamed silence. In spite of every effort to keep her former mentor comfortable over the course of the past week and a half, Ryna knew the Mainwright would always treat her this way. The Unwoven were unclean, unnecessary, and disappointing. Still, whether Ryna deserved Stora’s criticism or not, it stung to be constantly reminded of past failures.

  “Forgive me, Mainwright,” Ryna replied at last, hurrying ahead of Stora to clear the path as much as possible.

  “I’ve told you before: there is no forgiveness for your kind,” Stora explained as she walked past.

  “Of course, Mainwright,” Ryna said from where she knelt on the ground. “It will be time for Last Meal soon. We should probably get you back to the Handsisters, shouldn’t we?” Ryna asked.

  “Not yet,” Stora replied with a dismissive wave over her shoulder. “We need to go a little farther.”

  Ryna sighed quietly, but followed the Mainwright without complaint. The first hints of the night breeze rippled across Ryna’s robes as she and Stora neared the Axe dwellings. It’s going to be chilly again tonight, Ryna thought worriedly as she watched the sun brush against the peaks to the east. Tomorrow will undoubtedly be another busy day tending to the sick. She glanced down and realized that the Mainwright had turned off of the path and was walking quickly towards one of the covered work areas used by the Order of the Axe.

  Stora appeared to be searching for something as she moved from one part of the shelter to the next. The Axebrothers and Axesisters had already departed to their dwellings for the upcoming meal, but coals still glowed a dull red in several of the fire troughs. Ryna lost herself for an instant as she moved through the familiar sights and smells of the forge with a fond yet painful feeling of reminiscence. That life is over, she reminded herself. Ryna is gone.

  Almost as though she had heard Ryna’s thoughts, the Mainwright called for her a moment later. “Unwoven!” Stora said in a hoarse whisper, and the word dug into Ryna’s skin like an ember. “Come over here.” Ryna found the Mainwright standing beside one of the log piles just beyond the edges of the shelter. She pointed at something on the end of one of the logs. “I want you to carry these two climbing hatchets back to the Order of Hands for me,” Stora commanded.

  Ryna was baffled. “It will be as you say, Mainwright,” she said slowly, “but may I ask why you need them at the Order of Hands?”

  “You may not,” Stora replied in an overly-sweet tone, her false smile fading quickly into a disgusted frown. “I don’t need to explain myself to an Unwoven. Carry them. Now.”

  Ryna nodded obediently and retrieved the slender-bladed hatchets from the log. Maybe no one will miss these, she tried to reassure herself. It didn’t work; it still felt wrong to take someone else’s tools without asking first. She tucked the handles into her sash, one against each hip, then turned back to the Mainwright. Stora nodded once in approval before departing without a word for the path around the lake. Ryna followed, the hatchets weighing heavily on her waist and her conscience.

  There were very few people on the path during Last Meal; Ryna was grateful for that as well as for the fading daylight that made it more difficult to see the hatchets fixed to her waist. She didn’t want to try to explain the presence of such strange objects in the possession of someone who had absolutely no reason to be carrying them. Ryna sighed in relief when the Hand dwellings came into view, but Stora stopped suddenly and dashed Ryna’s hopes that their walk was almost finished.

  “We’re nearing the end of our time here,” Stora said quietly as she stared into Ryna’s eyes. “Events are in motion that will finally free us from the grasp of these heretics, but I need you to do something else first. You’ve grown close to the boy, Wyand, yes?”

  Ryna faltered from the unexpected question. “I don’t…he is a friend. Nothing more,” she replied awkwardly.

  The Mainwright curled her lip in disgust. “I don’t care about whatever emotions you may feel for him. Can you get close to him?”

  “Yes, Mainwright,” Ryna answered in little more than a whisper.

  “Good. Then I want you to take the Thoughtcaster and that stone from him,” Stora instructed. “Bring them to me. They are relics that must be delivered to the Fyrnraed; workers were never meant to harness such power. Look at what knowledge from the Thoughtcaster has done to these Cynmeren fools already. They believe the Venerates are evil, inhuman liars who enslaved the people of Locboran and Aldhagen long ago. Now the Cynmeren feel empowered in their beliefs by the ‘truths’ the Thoughtcaster has shown. Their confidence is dangerous, and it will only lead to conflict. You can help me prevent that.”

  Ryna’s thoughts raced as she searched for a response to everything the Mainwright had just said. Though the idea of somehow returning to the Fyrnraed sounded mad, Ryna had to agree with Stora’s main point: the Thoughtcaster had inspired the people of Cynmere to take action, and the whispered rumors of recent days spoke of fighting that would soon take place in the Plateau Desert. At the center of all this was Wyand—he’d unwittingly brought hope to the Cynmeren, but now his stone and the Thoughtcaster threatened to instigate a war. That level of violence was unthinkable. “I don’t want there to be any conflict,” Ryna admitted. “Do you really think we can prevent that?”

  To Ryna’s surprise, the Mainwright reached out and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Of course we can,” Stora said soothingly, “but only with your help, Ryna.” At the sound of her old name being spoken by the Mainwright, Ryna felt a chill run across her skin. For an instant, she was back in the bannuc forge in Locboran, talking with the woman she had aspired to emulate for more than six turnings. Perhaps speaking the name had been a mistake, but the Mainwright didn’t correct herself. She also didn’t remove her hand or complain of suddenly feeling unclean.

  Mesmerized, Ryna nodded. “I will help you, Mainwright,” she said. “I’ll always help you.”

  Stora smiled in genuine satisfaction. “I’m glad I can rely on you,” she replied. “When I tell you to go, your task must be done quickly. They plan to take Wyand into the desert with the Thoughtcaster in one week’s time. We have to act before that can happen, and you and Halwen must be ready to leave as soon as the stone and the Thoughtcaster are in my hands.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good. Now, pass me one of those climbing hatchets before we’re close enough to the Hand dwellings for someone to see us,” Stora commanded. Ryna pulled one of the hatchets free and passed it to the Mainwright. In the light of one of the to
rches along the path, Stora examined the implement from handle to blade tip, holding it up at different angles to check for straightness and balance. “A decent piece of work,” she nodded, “…for an untrained group of heretics. It will have to do, I suppose. Pass me the other one.” Stora glanced at the other hatchet, then tucked both of them into the inner layers of her robes. Ryna frowned, but said nothing. If it would somehow help prevent conflict, the Mainwright could have as many bizarre tools as she wanted.

  Once Stora was comfortably in her bed, Ryna turned to go retrieve food for the two of them. “Ryna,” the Mainwright said softly, and Ryna froze in the doorway. She looked back at Stora, trying to conceal her smile. “When you perform the task we talked about, make certain neither object touches your skin. Wrap them in a cloth, wear gloves, or do both just to be safe. Whatever you do, just remember that those things have a kind of power only the Fyrnraed should possess.” Ryna nodded and left the room, still smiling to herself.

  24

  “You’ve gotten better,” Tir chuckled from the side of the cart as he watched Keltin guide the nysks. Keltin smiled at the praise, but remained focused on the path ahead. This cart was slightly larger than the one he had guided with Tir’s help the last time they were in the desert, and Keltin had learned quickly it took more effort and time in this cart for an input at the control handles to take effect. Even after spending most of the morning guiding the nysks, the act of changing direction still felt awkward to Keltin and usually caused the cart to lurch briefly from side to side. He steered around a cluster of rocks, but once again the cart swayed back and forth after Keltin adjusted the nysks’ course.

  “Keep it steady back there!” Craed shouted from the front of the cart. He glared back at the steering platform and shook his head when he saw it was still Keltin who guided the nysks. “He’s not trained for that,” Craed muttered just loud enough for Tir and Keltin to hear, then he turned away to watch the desert again.

  “What do you think I’m in the process of doing?” Tir shouted playfully at Craed’s back, but there was no response. Keltin glanced over to Tir uncertainly. “Stay. You’re doing fine. Just ignore that one,” Tir reassured him.

  “I could use a rest anyway,” Keltin said, not wanting to cause any further irritation. Tir lifted himself reluctantly from the floor of the cart and assumed control of the guiding posts. As Keltin stepped away, Tir leaned close to him.

  “Watch this,” the Vessel Guard whispered. “Silax! Aemetta! Would either of you like to learn how to guide the nysks?” Both of the newcomers spun to face Tir from their positions on opposite sides of the cart, an excited smile from Aemetta and an eager nod from Silax confirming their interest. Craed turned to stare at Tir as well, though his expression was one of pure exasperation. Tir smiled broadly in reply until the Legionnaire faced forward once again. Keltin bit his lip and looked away to avoid laughing at Craed’s frustration.

  Silax was the first to take control of the nysks, with Tir directing him over his left shoulder and Aemetta watching silently over his right. Keltin had been thirsty for the last hour or more, so he used this opportunity to descend into the lower level of the cart for a water container. The narrow ladder creaked with each step as Keltin entered the relatively cool and dark confines of the lower level. Thankfully, the entire cart creaked and groaned any time it swayed, so the added sound of the ladder wasn’t enough to awaken any of the people currently sleeping on the floor of the lower level.

  Keltin stepped carefully past two of the five members of the Shroud Legion that Craed had selected to complete the scout group’s ten participants. At Craed’s instruction, they were to rest during the day and keep watch at night. Since Silax was awake and occupied, Keltin decided he should probably sleep now too, because when the Legion kept watch later that night, they would expect the thuribles to be burning. Sleep sounded like a fine idea to Keltin anyway, especially because he had spent most of the last night in Dism Slyde awake and nervous about the journey east.

  He finally reached the cabinet with water containers in it and took a few long sips from one of the paired sections of wist reed. It was far from cold, but the water was still refreshing compared to the stifling heat of the desert beyond. Thin slits of light lined the floor from narrow gaps in the walls of the lower level; Keltin used their faint illumination to search for a vacant spot to sleep. It was less than ideal, but he found that the only unoccupied section of the floor was directly beneath the ladder. Keltin sighed, but his drowsiness far outweighed his disappointment. Using his pack of clothing as a pillow, Keltin settled into place and stared at the ceiling of the lower level. Though the wooden floor beneath his back was uncomfortable, the swaying of the cart lulled him to sleep in minutes.

  ---

  Keltin awoke to the sensation of sliding across the floor just before he bumped into the ladder that led to the upper level. Confused and worried, Keltin crept up the ladder with one hand on his isen. He peered at the steering platform and was relieved to find Tir back at the controls. Craed stood beside him, scanning the desert in front of them intently. Sheathing his isen, Keltin emerged into the daylight of early afternoon.

  “What’s going on?” he asked groggily.

  “Cynmeren camp nearby,” Craed answered, his sunken eyes darting from one side of the cart to the other. He pointed toward a cluster of tall, jagged rocks in the distance beyond the front-left corner of the cart, and Keltin saw a thin tendril of smoke rising from somewhere within the formation.

  “Don’t worry, Sleeper, they haven’t seen us,” Tir added.

  “That camp was cleared out less than a month ago. They shouldn’t be back yet,” Craed muttered. He pulled out a small version of the map from the High Conduit’s chambers and traced a route from Dism Slyde to their current location. His finger moved south past what had to be the nearby rock formation, then turned sharply east. “The original plan had us stopping here to replenish our water supply,” Craed said. “Since that won’t be possible, our only option is to press to the next water location near the base of the Eastern Hills once we’re safely around this camp. Any of the other closer spots with water would add an extra day to our journey, and we can’t afford that.” Tir nodded in understanding.

  “There’s another option,” Silax offered quietly from the left side of the cart.

  “And what’s that?” Craed asked skeptically.

  “Kill them,” Silax reasoned. “Take the water and whatever other supplies they have that we need. This way ensures that even if they have seen us, they won’t be able to report our presence here to anyone else.” Craed opened his mouth to respond, then glanced towards the jagged rocks again.

  “That’s not our purpose here, Craed,” Tir warned him.

  “I know, but—”

  “If you know, then don’t do it.”

  “It would be that many less that we’d have to fight later,” Craed argued.

  “Don’t do it,” Tir replied again. “Let’s move past them without drawing blood. Speed and stealth—you Legionnaires are supposed to breathe for that sort of stuff, aren’t you?” Craed hesitated, staring hungrily towards the Cynmeren camp again before finally nodding in reluctant agreement and returning to the front of the cart. Tir grumbled to himself as he refocused on keeping the cart pointed due south.

  “Is that what happened with Eredun?” Keltin asked Silax as they both watched the stone formation slide slowly past.

  “It was a similar situation,” Silax replied. “We had no other option, though.”

  “We don’t know how many of them are over there,” Keltin pointed out.

  “That doesn’t make any difference. With six members of the Shroud Legion, you, me, and Aemetta, we could purge Cynmere itself if we needed to,” Silax said darkly, peering out at the horizon with a crazed look in his eyes. Keltin stepped away, leaving Silax with whatever thoughts currently occupied him.

  25

  “All right, Wyand, now it’s your turn. Call her over to you,” Ad
elea instructed. Wyand stepped forward and cleared his throat nervously, struggling to make his mouth form the shape Adelea had told him would produce the proper sound. The scrid clicked its jaws together impatiently as it awaited the next command; seeing the enormous tusks moving so rapidly only added to Wyand’s anxiety. According to Adelea, the scrid only responded to instructions conveyed through the use of “An’ymb Glor,” a form of language composed of a mixture of clicks, growls, and cries that each carried a different meaning to the animals. Wyand pressed his tongue against the roof of his closed mouth and pulled it back sharply towards his throat three times. The scrid’s jaws stopped for an instant as it regarded him, then it resumed the impatient chattering.

  “Better,” Bloodsister Adelea laughed, “although you basically just told her to relax. Now try clicking four times.”

  Wyand nodded and did as instructed. After four rapid clicks, the scrid became alert, tusks clicking eagerly as it scuttled forward to stand in front of Wyand. The massive outer jaws parted, and the dark red inner jaws slowly extended outward. Wyand reached up hesitantly until his hand was close enough for the scrid to smell. The creature inhaled twice loudly, then retracted its inner set of jaws.

  “Very good,” Adelea said. “She obeyed your command and has accepted your scent. Now you can climb into the seat.”

  Wyand stared up at the enormous animal and swallowed loudly. He stepped around one of the tusks and placed his hand gingerly against the scrid’s side. It didn’t flinch; in fact, the animal seemed happy that the person who summoned it was about to climb aboard. Wyand used the thick rope attached to the nearest tusk to pull himself up into position on the scrid’s back. Once again, it clicked happily and showed no sign of irritation, even when faced with Wyand’s inexperienced touch.