Haemlan did as instructed but nothing happened. “I’m starting to think—” his words stopped when a single bright flash from the stone bathed his face in blue light. Even after a week of sharing the stone and the Thoughtcaster with hundreds of eager Cynmeren, Wyand was still startled every time the stone flashed so suddenly.
As the glare faded, Wyand blinked through the afterimage just in time to see Haemlan falling backward off of the log. Before the Guided could strike against the ground, Wyand managed to get his hands under Haemlan’s neck and slow his fall. Haemlan’s eyes were blank voids of pure white when Wyand looked into them; where the glow of the Guided had been unsettling, its unexpected absence was far worse. This isn’t normal! Wyand thought in a panic, uncertain how to help. “Haemlan!” he shouted, tearing the Thoughtcaster off his friend’s neck and prying the stone from his rigid grasp. “Haemlan!”
“I warned you both about this!” the Unwoven yelled as she and Adelea rushed out of the Wargarden to Haemlan’s side. “Move!” she commanded, and Wyand backed away. As Haemlan’s body convulsed, the Unwoven gently but firmly cradled his head in her arm to prevent him from causing any further harm to himself. Wyand helplessly shook his head as he watched the horror of the situation he had created.
“What happened?” Adelea demanded, steadying Wyand by gripping both of his shoulders.
“The Thoughtcaster…it normally causes a reaction after the first time someone uses it, but this….” Wyand trailed off as Haemlan’s shaking finally subsided. To Wyand’s relief, the familiar shifting glow of the Guided returned to Haemlan’s eyes as he gasped suddenly. Wyand and Adelea both knelt down beside him, offering whatever comfort they could. Bewildered, Haemlan looked from one person to the next as he struggled to catch his breath.
“Haemlan?” Wyand asked uncertainly.
“I—yes. Haemlan. That name is mine,” the Guided replied slowly. The Unwoven and Adelea stared at Wyand accusingly, but he was too preoccupied with Haemlan to notice.
“What happened?” Wyand said gently.
“Corruption,” Haemlan breathed. “Thoughts ripped apart, scattered, dispersed, broken, broken, broken.” His head drooped sadly as tears formed in his glowing eyes. Then his hand darted quickly to his neck, searching for the Thoughtcaster. When he spotted it in Wyand’s hand, Haemlan tried to lunge out of the Unwoven’s grip. She held firm, but it took considerable effort.
“Stay still,” the Unwoven cautioned.
“I need to go back!” Haemlan shouted. “I can fix it. Bring it all back.”
“You need to stay still,” the Unwoven insisted. Haemlan paused then and frowned before shutting his eyes tight. When they next opened, he stared back at the group with a look of confusion.
“Why are we on the ground?” Haemlan asked.
“You had a reaction to the Thoughtcaster,” Adelea explained.
“The Thoughtcaster! Where is it?” Haemlan demanded as he felt his neck. The two women stared at Wyand once again, adding more weight to the guilt he already felt.
“I have it,” Wyand said quietly, still ashamed of whatever pain he had just forced his friend to endure.
“Keep it safe, boy. Nothing else matters, you hear me? Nothing,” Haemlan said emphatically. “It is imperative that you share the knowledge of the Interface with every person you meet. It’s the only thing that can save this world.”
“What do you mean?” the Unwoven asked.
“We’ve fought the Penitent Faithful for generations, but nothing we’ve tried has ever truly freed them from the Cultivators and their poison. This can do it, we just have to bring Dism Slyde to the truth. This device…the wisdom it contains is undeniable. It will unite us all if we can just get the Smokedwellers to witness it for themselves.” Haemlan grew increasingly excited as he spoke until a fit of coughing forced him to pause. “When do you leave for the Distant Watch camps?” he asked after the coughing had passed.
“Six days from now,” Wyand answered.
“I wish it was sooner, but I understand the delay,” Haemlan nodded. “It takes time to prepare such a massive fighting force, and that includes you now too, Wyand. Here, help me up.” Wyand, Adelea, and the Unwoven all pulled Haemlan to his feet and assisted him over to his seat on the log.
“You said something strange a minute ago, something about being able to ‘fix it and bring it all back.’ What does that mean? What did you see in there?” Wyand asked after Haemlan was settled.
“I witnessed the same information and memories you experienced,” Haemlan said. “The difference is that I also received a Vision while I was accessing the Interface. I can’t describe its details for now—I fear what might happen if I affect the course of events already in motion—but the message was clear: we unify or we die.” Silence followed Haemlan’s proclamation; questions burned in Wyand’s mind, but he knew the Guided could not share their Visions unless instructed to do so by Leomar himself.
“I need to speak with you,” the Unwoven said suddenly, jarring Wyand away from his thoughts about Haemlan’s mysterious words. He looked to Haemlan, and the Guided nodded in reply.
“Go, both of you. I’ll rest here for a while,” Haemlan said tiredly.
“I’ll stay with him to make sure the log doesn’t roll out from under him again,” Adelea added with an uncertain smile. To her relief, Haemlan chuckled faintly after hearing her attempt at levity. Clearly not so amused, the Unwoven began walking towards one of the woodland paths. Wyand hurried after her without a word.
Beyond the first two twists in the path it was as though the Wargarden didn’t even exist in the midst of the dense foliage. The sunlight struggled through the canopy overhead, reducing the brightness of midday to an artificial dusk. Wyand fell in step with the Unwoven and glanced at her awkwardly from the edge of his vision, waiting for her to say something. They continued in silence until she suddenly stopped and spun towards him. “Now,” the Unwoven declared.
“Now…what?” Wyand asked hesitantly.
“Now you can explain everything. The answers you promised me,” she replied.
“Oh! W-what do you want to know?” Wyand stammered, knowing that this was sure to be a difficult conversation.
“More than anything else, I want to know why you let me believe you were Unwoven when it is clear to me now that you are not and you never were.”
“I didn’t say I was Unwoven—”
“You didn’t say you weren’t,” she pointed out, the indignation clear in her voice.
Wyand nodded in defeat. “You’re right,” he confessed, “but recall that I was gagged when you asked and I couldn’t do much more than grunt. Since I had no clue then what ‘Unwoven’ meant and I had no way to ask you to clarify, I assumed it just meant cast out. So, the easiest option I had was to agree that I was Unwoven just like you. Plus, you seemed like you needed someone that you could talk to freely, who didn’t care if you were Unwoven or not.”
The Unwoven stared at him angrily for a few tense seconds more, then she closed her eyes and exhaled tiredly. “You shouldn’t have lied to me, no matter what you thought I needed,” she said, beginning to walk away. “I don’t deserve your kindness, but I thank you for it anyway.”
“What kindness?” Wyand asked as he rushed back to her side. “Whether I was Unwoven or not, I still would have wanted to talk with you. I was just as scared and alone as you were, and in a lot of ways I still am. So, thank you for helping me adjust to this strange new life.”
The Unwoven stared into the distance as they walked. “It is strange, isn’t it?” she laughed.
“Very,” Wyand agreed, secretly thrilled by the sound of her laughter after so many days thinking he would never hear it again.
“When we were at the Council House on the night of the festival, we agreed it was wise to be cautious about making major decisions until we learned more about the Cynmeren,” the Unwoven said. “Do you feel you can trust them now, enough to follow them into a war we know almost nothing abou
t?”
“It’s difficult to explain, but I know I can trust them,” Wyand replied. “After linking with the Thoughtcaster, I’m certain that what these people believe really is true.” His eyes grew large as a sudden realization struck him. “Do you want to experience the Thoughtcaster for yourself?” Wyand asked eagerly as he retrieved the stone for her.
The Unwoven held up her hands to stop him. “No, I can’t,” she said, and Wyand slowly tucked the stone away with a look of disappointment. “I appreciate the offer, really, but after what just happened to Stormbrother Haemlan…. Do you really think you’re supposed to share the Thoughtcaster with everyone?” the Unwoven asked. “It seems incredibly dangerous.”
“It’s the best option we have,” Wyand replied. “I promise, if you witness the truth for yourself you will want to share it with everyone.” He started to offer her the stone again, but the Unwoven shook her head fervently.
“That is not meant for an Unwoven’s touch,” she said softly. Frustrated by her stubbornness but respectful of her wishes, Wyand tucked the stone away again. “I don’t think you should go into the desert, Wyand,” the Unwoven said bluntly after a few strides of silence. “I fear that unimaginable conflict will follow if you do.”
Wyand frowned. “If I go with the Cynmeren and we move quickly, the truth could save hundreds, maybe thousands, and prevent further bloodshed forever,” he countered. “You heard Haemlan—it’s the only hope we have of ever obtaining peace.”
The Unwoven shook her head slowly, appearing to be at odds with her own thoughts, then she nodded suddenly. “I don’t agree with it, but if that is what you believe, then I support your decision,” she said.
Wyand was stunned; from what he knew of the Unwoven, it was incredibly difficult for her to support something she didn’t believe in. “Thank you,” he said, and without thought, Wyand embraced her. The Unwoven was frozen at first, then recoiled and pushed him back firmly. She glanced around the forest and appeared relieved that no one had seen the gesture. Wyand realized his mistake as soon as he saw the embarrassment in her eyes. She believes the Unwoven are unclean, he remembered. “Forgive me,” he said hastily. “I wasn’t thinking.”
The Unwoven said nothing, but Wyand saw the tears that welled in the corners of her eyes as she turned back towards the Wargarden. She stopped on the path, wiped her eyes, and faced him again. “It’s all right,” she said, her voice shaking. “You didn’t intend any harm, and once again I am thankful for your unwarranted kindness. Come on; we should get back to see how Haemlan is doing.” They walked back without a word, Wyand following the Unwoven at a distance of a few strides to avoid making her feel any more awkward.
When the Wargarden came back into view, Haemlan still sat on the log beside Adelea. He was laughing at something the Bloodsister had just said and appeared to be feeling much better than when Wyand had left. “Ah, they’re back,” the Guided said, pointing to Wyand and the Unwoven. “We were just talking about you, Wyand.”
“What about me?” Wyand asked with a note of worry in his voice.
“Since you have the armor and at least a basic understanding of the combat forms, it’s time for you to be formally welcomed into the Order of Blood. Are you prepared for that?” Adelea asked with a glint of mischief in her eyes.
“I’ll do my best,” Wyand replied. Adelea and Haemlan both laughed again.
“You’ll have to,” Haemlan said, standing with Adelea’s assistance. “I’ll be there to watch.”
“The ceremony will be held tonight, then,” Adelea said with a pleased nod. “Unwoven, will you watch your friend join his Order?”
The Unwoven looked down for an instant, then lifted her head with a confident smile. “Of course I’ll be there,” she proclaimed happily, then she turned to Wyand. “I owe him at least that much.”
26
Ryna stared at the reflection of the torchlight as it shimmered and rippled across the surface of her cup of Melsca. Though the day had been warm, an unexpected coldness had flowed down from the mountains at dusk and now lingered throughout Cynmere. One more sip, Ryna told herself, enticed by the warm wisps of steam and the pleasant aroma that accompanied them.
“To your health, sister!” Halwen declared before Ryna could lift the cup to her lips.
Ryna smiled as her friend approached. “To your health, Halwen,” she replied, extending the cup forward in acknowledgement. They drank in unison, though where Ryna enjoyed the Melsca in a few small sips, Halwen gulped down nearly half of her cup at once. Ryna frowned incredulously but said nothing. In the days since the festival and their first taste of Melsca, Halwen had sought out any excuse she could find to either dance or drink with the Handsisters. A part of Ryna envied her; in different circumstances where she wasn’t Unwoven, Ryna could see herself behaving in much the same way as Halwen did after a day of hard work.
Halwen at last lowered what remained of her cup of Melsca with a satisfied sigh. “Come on, it looks like they’re about to begin,” she urged, taking Ryna’s free hand and leading her towards the steady flow of people entering the Wargarden. Inside, droves of Cynmeren clung to the walls, leaving the center of the floor open for whatever events would soon take place as part of Wyand’s acceptance ceremony. Most wore the armor that marked them as part of the Order of Blood, but many curious spectators from other Orders stood among them as well. The familiar murmur of hundreds of conversations filled the enormous structure just as it had in the Council House the night of the festival. This time, however, there was a sense of heightened anticipation instead of simple celebration—these people knew something interesting was about to happen even if Ryna had no idea what to expect.
Halwen pulled Ryna farther through the excited crowd until she found a group from the Order of Hands. She quickly released Ryna’s hand and rushed over to the Handsisters amid shouted greetings and laughter. They were elated to see Halwen and eager to share a drink with her; Ryna received a few polite smiles of recognition, but nothing more. Let her enjoy it, Ryna told herself. In a few days’ time, she and Halwen would never see these people again. Ryna sipped the Melsca, savoring its bittersweet taste while she still could.
A surge of shouts spread from the entrance of the Wargarden a few moments later. Though Ryna couldn’t see through the mass of people, she knew Wyand’s arrival had to be the source of the commotion. As expected, he emerged from the crowd an instant later, accompanied by the woman from the Elder Council who Ryna had heard the Cynmeren refer to as the “Voice of War.” As the two of them walked to the center of the floor, the sound of the crowd reached its most frenzied level yet. Then, the Voice of War raised her hands and there was instant silence.
“We have spoken for this one, trained him, he now even wears our armor, but does any of that make him a Bloodbrother?” the Voice of War demanded as she looked around the Wargarden.
“No!” was the resounding reply from nearly every voice in the crowd.
“What can make him a part of our Order?” the old woman asked with a knowing smile.
“Blood!” the crowd shouted, and the Voice of War nodded in approval. She motioned to one of the Bloodbrothers by the entrance, who retrieved a practice staff and threw it to Wyand. He caught it with a confused expression and glanced at the Voice of War. She regarded him with a warm smile.
“It does not matter who you were or what you may have done before,” the Voice of War said. “Tonight, Wyand, you will learn what it means to be a Bloodbrother.” As the last words were spoken, time seemed to slow. Ryna suddenly noticed the Bloodbrother who had retrieved the staff now had one of his own that was pointed directly at Wyand. The man sailed through the air as the Voice of War stepped aside, leaving a very surprised Wyand alone in the center of the room. To Ryna’s relief, Wyand blocked the Bloodbrother’s attack just in time with a deafening crack as their staves collided. In the echo that followed, the collective silence of the crowd’s anticipation at last ended with a rush of renewed shouts.
&nbs
p; Wyand and the Bloodbrother moved in a blur across the floor of the Wargarden as they exchanged attacks. For the first few seconds, Wyand’s movements were purely defensive and the crowd laughed as he struggled. Every other hit bypassed Wyand’s staff and resounded with a sickening thud against his Sreathan plate. After one particularly sharp strike of the staff against his side, however, Wyand’s stance changed. In the moments that followed where Ryna could see his face, she was amazed to find a look of determination coupled with enjoyment.
Sweeping forward with the staff, Wyand pushed back his attacker amid a cloud of dust from the floor, then he rotated the other end of the staff upward sharply and caught the Bloodbrother directly under the chin. The crowd roared with a mixture of laughter and surprise; their jeers were now as much for the Bloodbrother as they were for Wyand. Stunned but smiling, the Bloodbrother backed away cautiously before throwing his practice staff into the air to Wyand’s left. One of the Bloodsisters was already racing towards Wyand when the staff was thrown, and she caught it effortlessly before beginning her attack.
Wyand faltered for an instant, which was unfortunately more than enough time for his latest opponent to complete a powerful swing. She slammed the staff against the left side of Wyand’s face, making solid contact from the bottom edge of his jaw all the way to the bridge of his nose. Ryna winced with everyone else in the room. The hit was staggering, knocking Wyand to the floor in a spray of blood. The crowd cheered wildly as they watched the hundreds of red spots soak into the dirt. Wyand scrambled to his feet, his face lined with blood, preparing for the next attack. The Bloodsister laughed before moving into a series of sharp rotations from left to right, high to low, all of which Wyand somehow managed to block. Ryna saw that Wyand’s determination remained, but his earlier enjoyment of this process was gone.
Their staves met again and again between moments of fleeting victory and stinging failure. Blood dripped from a small gash on the Bloodsister’s cheek; when she felt its warm wetness on her skin, she smiled broadly before attacking again and then backing away. From the crowd, another Bloodsister emerged with a staff at the ready as she charged towards Wyand. Ryna recognized the dark-haired woman instantly—Eyrie had joined the fight. Her movements were focused and relentless, the staff in her hands barely visible as it spun from one swing to the next. She and Wyand fell into a rhythm that reminded Ryna of the dancing she’d witnessed on the night of the festival. The crowd seemed to feel this rhythm as well, and as its intensity grew, they began clapping and stomping their feet in time with the sound of the fight.
Kingdomturn Page 57
