Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  A sudden commotion from Cynmere’s entrance made Wyand and Eyrie spin around sharply. There was shouting, Wyand could hear that, but he couldn’t distinguish any words. People were massed around the watchtowers, and they were looking at something on the path beyond. Then Wyand spotted the unmistakable Watch helmet worn by a member of the Order of Blood riding atop a scrid.

  “One of the Watches is back!” Eyrie exclaimed, and she began running towards the group of people at the entrance.

  “Does that mean they found the captives?” Wyand asked hopefully. Eyrie nodded as she ran by his side with a look of stunned delight. Wyand heard another surge of cheering as the procession of scrid and Watch members made their way through the entrance and came to a stop near the edge of the lake. As he and Eyrie joined the elated crowd, though, a Bloodbrother on one of the scrid had removed his helmet and was attempting to shout something over the sound of the other workers.

  “They found the Smokedwellers!” someone exclaimed, and a surge of cheers followed. “Cynmere is saved!” another man cried out, and the crowd’s joy continued.

  At last, the frustration became too great for the Bloodbrother and he had the scrid slam its tusks against the ground with a series of deep, resonating thuds. “Silence!” he yelled, and the crowd finally began to realize something was wrong; their cheers faded into confused murmurs. “We don’t have the escaped captives,” the Bloodbrother announced, and worried silence suddenly surrounded him. “We found other Smokedwellers in the Eastern Hills, though, and we captured several of them. Please, clear a path. We must speak with the Elder Council immediately.”

  Wyand watched absently as the scrid dropped their cages and four bound men were pulled free. A storm approaches. “Did anyone see the captives?” Wyand asked, and several workers echoed his question.

  The Bloodbrother eyed him tiredly. “They were spotted, yes, but they boarded a nysk cart before we could intercept them.”

  “They escaped?” a woman shouted, and the Bloodbrother quickly raised his hands for quiet before the commotion could begin again.

  “Several Watches are in pursuit of the cart,” the Bloodbrother reassured her, as well as the rest of the crowd. “I have faith they will overtake it before the Smokedwellers reach the Plateau Desert. Now, please, move aside. We must get word to the Council.”

  As the Watch passed, Wyand studied each of the bound and gagged captives warily. They were each secured with several layers of tightly-bound cord—clearly, these Smokedwellers had offered incredible resistance before being captured. The first two men wore dark grey hooded robes; their eyes were sunken and glittered with hatred everywhere they looked. The third man’s robes were shades of tan and grey with a curious patch of red draped over each shoulder. His hood was back, revealing a face tanned by many long days spent in the sun. He stared defiantly at the Cynmeren, and though his mouth was gagged, he made sounds that Wyand knew represented words that were anything but pleasant. The last captive wore the same dark grey as the first two, but Wyand lost sight of every other detail when he spotted the man’s face.

  “Silax?” Wyand whispered, and the Feller’s eyes leapt to him. There was an instant of murderous rage in his stare, but then the unsettling smile of madness crept calmly around the edges of his gag. Silax nodded to Wyand and proceeded with the rest of the captives to one of the large boats waiting at the edge of the lake. Wyand struggled to breathe as he stared down at the ground. Silax is alive. Why is he with the Smokedwellers? How did he get here? His racing thoughts overlapped and blended together until nothing coherent remained.

  “You know him?” Eyrie asked, jarring Wyand from his stupor.

  “It’s…more than that,” Wyand answered slowly. “Silax is the reason I left Aldhagen.”

  Eyrie tilted her head, but remained focused on the boat full of captives. “You despised him that much?”

  “Not exactly. He tried to steal the Stormheart from me. We fought, then we both fell into the Great River,” Wyand explained before shaking his head in disbelief. “I thought he died, but seeing him with the Smokedwellers is worse somehow.”

  “Nonsense,” Eyrie replied. “You’re proof that anyone can be cleansed and proven if given proper motivation.” Wyand said nothing, but his troubled stare proved his lack of confidence in her words. Eyrie suddenly took hold of his arm and began leading him away from the crowd at Cynmere’s entrance. “Since the Watches haven’t returned with the other captives yet, you and I will continue with our current task. We need to find Ryna.”

  Wyand dug his heels in after a few steps and brought Eyrie to a stop. “With these new arrivals, you know the Council will send for me soon. I should just go back now and wait until they need the Thoughtcaster.”

  “No. You need to witness Ryna’s reweaving,” Eyrie said stubbornly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want you there.” A hopeful smile flickered beneath Eyrie’s otherwise stern expression, and Wyand knew instantly that he had been defeated.

  “Let’s go,” he sighed, and their walk past the ruins of the Stone dwellings resumed. In the daylight, the broad devastation was even more shocking than it had been in the darkness of the hours just before dawn. Wyand counted only six Stone dwellings that remained untouched by the terrible blaze; scores of charred stone foundations dotted the ground to the north, as did thousands of piles of ash that had been trees only a day ago. Workers had already begun the process of removing the ashes and clearing ground so the materials and tools needed to build replacement structures could be brought in.

  Horrifying memories of the night before assailed Wyand as he walked with Eyrie past the firebreak. Dark patches and streaks in the dirt marked places where he knew many of the Cynmeren had taken their final breaths or suffered injuries from which they would never recover. A firm squeeze from Eyrie’s hand encouraged him to continue moving, but Wyand realized he would never be able to walk by this place again without his mind being sent back to that night. He closed his eyes, trying to push away the horrible images, but the darkness only made the details of what he remembered that much more vivid.

  Beyond the firebreak, the landscape returned to a comforting blend of forest and clusters of underbrush; even though it had escaped the fire, however, this area had been marred by the attack in a different way. All along the path, workers picked through the hundreds of haugaeldr carcasses, searching for remnants that could be useful. In the background, the Order of Hands buzzed with people as they hurried from one building to another, some carrying medicine and bandages, others carrying large bundles that Wyand knew could only be the bodies of the deceased.

  As they neared the Blood dwellings, Wyand was struck by how vacant the area was. Aside from a handful of other workers in the distance to the north, he and Eyrie were the only people within a hundred strides. Everyone else is either clearing the destruction or out scouring the Eastern Hills, he remembered. Even though he would be joining the Watches soon whether the captives were found or not, Wyand still felt guilty for not being a part of the ongoing search.

  The sound of saws and axes biting into wood drew Wyand’s attention farther east as he made his way past the Order of Blood. When he and Eyrie came around a curve in the path, they were amazed to find the Order of the Axe filled with almost as much activity as they had seen at the Hand dwellings. It seemed that every Axebrother and Axesister who was able to carry a tool was putting it to use against one of the dozens of large piles of logs stacked beneath work shelters scattered throughout the Order.

  It was one thing for Wyand to witness proof of the Cynmeren belief that all human life is precious, but to see that same level of care applied to trees was astonishing. Every log, every branch, every leaf, had a unique purpose, and now it was the task of the Axebrothers and Axesisters to discern what that purpose was for each piece. Under the first shelter Wyand passed, enormous logs were being shaped into beams that would undoubtedly be used to reconstruct the Stone dwellings and any other structures damaged
during the attack. At the next shelter, bark was meticulously sliced away from the trunk of each raw log in long strips before being carried away for use as wall material.

  Seeing so many people working with such seamless effort and incredible speed reminded Wyand of some of his best days in the mines. As much as he longed to stay at one of the shelters and become a part of the process, though, the goal for now was to find Ryna. After three more shelters without finding her, Eyrie at last stopped and asked a group of Axesisters if they knew where Ryna was. A seated old woman from the group paused her work on an arrow she was carving and frowned up at Eyrie. “We don’t know anyone called ‘Ryna,’” she said, then she resumed her carving amid nods from the rest of the Axesisters.

  “The Unwoven girl,” Eyrie clarified.

  “Ah, that one,” the old woman replied without looking up. “I didn’t think she had a name. She came by here about twenty minutes ago carrying a water bucket for anyone who was thirsty. We sent her on to the next shelter.”

  “Thank you, Sister,” Eyrie said hurriedly before pulling Wyand towards the path and the next group of workers. Not finding Ryna there either, they pressed deeper into the forest. After rounding a curve in the trail, Wyand and Eyrie spotted Ryna walking towards them. She slowed, her look of surprise quickly replaced with one of shame.

  “What are you doing here?” Ryna asked quietly as her eyes shifted from one patch of ground to another. Her left arm was bound tightly against her chest, and a now-empty water bucket hung from her right hand. She looked exhausted, but that was true of everyone in Cynmere after enduring the madness of the night before. Wyand wanted to show sympathy for Ryna in her current state, but he still felt too betrayed by her secret actions with Stora to offer anything but silence.

  “The Council has changed your punishment slightly,” Eyrie explained. “Stay still and close your eyes.” Wyand glanced at the Bloodsister worriedly, but Eyrie smiled mischievously and stepped forward. Ryna breathed in sharply when she felt Eyrie move behind her and take hold of her hair. All Wyand could see was Eyrie’s hands darting from side to side and Ryna’s long blonde hair vanishing behind her. A moment later, Eyrie stepped back with a satisfied look on her face. She flicked the newly-tied sima over Ryna’s right shoulder and walked back to stand with Wyand. Though Wyand still was not adept at the reading or the weaving of Lar’ymb Sada, he knew the simple knots Eyrie tied represented the name ‘Ryna’. “You may open your eyes now, Ryna,” Eyrie said.

  Ryna’s eyes fixated on Eyrie; she tilted her head as her left hand slowly raised up from the bandages to trace the knots in her sima. A look of shocked recognition brought the beginnings of a smile to her face, but then Ryna winced and tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “What does this mean?” she asked, trembling as she traced the knots over and over again. “If this is somehow part of my punishment, it is exceptionally cruel.”

  “It’s not part of your punishment,” Eyrie replied soothingly. “People need to know your name, Ryna. Now they will.” Ryna was silent, lost in the feeling of the sima against her fingertips. “The change to your punishment is that you will join my group in the desert. You will perform the most menial and grueling of tasks, and I will evaluate your character. If the captives aren’t found, we leave at midday today. Go and inform whoever tasked you with collecting water that the Council demands you elsewhere. We will meet you at the main path.” Ryna nodded numbly and ran back towards the lake; Wyand and Eyrie followed at a slower pace.

  “Is that it, then? She’s rewoven?” Wyand asked.

  “That’s it, although in the eyes of the Cynmeren she was never truly ‘Unwoven’ in the first place. She has always been Ryna to us, we just didn’t know to call her by that name.”

  “So, why did you want me here so badly?”

  Eyrie smiled to herself. “Because I wanted you to see that forgiveness, even in its simplest form, holds far more power than the most complex form of hatred ever could.”

  “I-I don’t hate her!” Wyand exclaimed. “I just don’t trust her.”

  “That’s understandable, given what you’ve experienced,” Eyrie nodded. “Let me be very clear, though: in order to achieve the task that will soon be set before us, we must all learn to rely on one another completely. There can be no doubt, no mistrust—any issues must be addressed immediately or weakness will form. Weakness leads to hesitation, and hesitation leads to mistakes. In battle, mistakes are the only weapon that will always cause death.”

  “I understand,” Wyand said quietly as he wondered if a true battle could possibly be more terrifying than the attack on Cynmere had been. “I will try to forgive Ryna for misleading us.”

  “Good,” Eyrie smiled. “It seems you may have others to forgive in the meantime, though.” She nodded towards the nearest shelter, and Wyand sighed when he spotted a runner speaking with an Axebrother there. The runner noticed him and immediately raced over.

  “Bloodbrother Wyand!” the young girl called. “The Council Guide requires your presence immediately!”

  “Thank you,” Wyand said with the most convincing smile he could muster, then he turned to Eyrie. “I’ll be back when the cleansing of the latest captives is finished.”

  “We will gather in the Wargarden when it’s time to depart. I suppose we can’t leave without you.” Eyrie rolled her eyes sarcastically, but her playful smile was what captured Wyand’s attention. As he hurried towards the Council House, Eyrie’s face flashed into his thoughts over and over. A voice in the depths of Wyand’s mind whispered that Lissara had looked at Grigg that way, too. Wyand brushed the memory aside—this was different, Eyrie was a friend and a respected member of his Order, not to mention an incredibly skilled fighter. Still, he couldn’t deny that he was secretly beginning to enjoy seeing her smile.

  ---

  Wyand cautiously entered the Council Chamber after pushing open the ancient door. Only a handful of torches were lit, and even with the addition of the grey morning light from the openings in the wall, the entire space was filled with shadows. Wyand expected to find the Elder Council gathered and the new group of captives standing before them; neither was the case. Stormbrother Leomar stood in the chamber with two Stone Guards, and he looked up with a worried frown as Wyand approached.

  “Has there been any word of the escaped Smokedwellers?” the Council Guide asked in a flat voice, clearly already expecting to be disappointed.

  “No, Stormbrother,” Wyand replied.

  Leomar nodded tiredly before walking closer. “You already know why I asked you here. I assume you have the Thoughtcaster and the Stormheart with you?”

  “I do,” Wyand said slowly. “Forgive me, Council Guide, but where are the new captives?”

  “Follow me,” Leomar answered, and he led Wyand past the Woven Wall to the far end of the chamber. Between two of the shelves stacked high with books there was a door that Wyand had never noticed. “With the cages gone because of the fire, we needed somewhere to house the captives until they could be cleansed,” Leomar explained as he motioned for one of the guards to lift the massive bar that held the door shut. The Stonebrother complied while the other retrieved a torch from one of the wall sconces. “There is a place that few Cynmeren talk about, and that even fewer still have actually seen. It is called the Hollows.”

  The door creaked in protest as Leomar pulled it open, revealing a narrow staircase that spiraled down into total darkness. Both Stonebrothers started down the stairs with the Council Guide close behind. Wyand followed reluctantly. “What are the Hollows?” he asked, his voice echoing against the walls of the narrow corridor.

  “They are a place to hide our failures,” Leomar said quietly, and as he spoke, a faint light appeared on the stairs below. After a final twist in the corridor, Wyand stepped out behind the Council Guide into a rounded passage that was close to six strides in diameter. Though it was a larger space than the staircase, Wyand couldn’t escape a sensation of pressure—the tunnel felt cramped and made him w
ant to crouch as he walked even though he knew he could stand easily. Torches dotted the walls, but they were spaced so far apart that it would have been impossible to see without the aid of the light the Stonebrother carried.

  The floor and ceiling undulated together in a meandering route that no sane person could have carved. At times, Wyand struggled to keep from sliding down a steep incline, whereas at others he thought the path had ended only to find that it curved abruptly upward and continued on. Small openings appeared on either side of the tunnel, and from their darkened depths, Wyand thought he heard the sound of muffled voices.

  The Stone guards stopped beside the first opening and Leomar turned to Wyand. “Keep your distance until I tell you to approach,” the Council Guide warned him, then the old man moved close to the opening. “Present your hands,” Leomar commanded, and the sound of shuffling footsteps quickly followed. A pair of gnarled, dirty palms shot out from the darkness with such speed that Wyand leapt back in surprise. From the light of the Stonebrother’s torch, Wyand watched a bearded face emerge from the shadows and press itself close to a set of iron bars that sealed off the recess from the rest of the tunnel. Silent contempt twisted the old man’s face as he stared back at Leomar.

  “Who is he?” Wyand whispered, stunned by the idea of someone living in such a place.

  “He is one of many—a proven fighter from Dism Slyde who failed his cleansing,” Leomar explained. “Sometimes, the influence of the Cultivators is too strong to wipe away, even after many turnings. Any who fought in their name and were captured are brought here if they still claim loyalty to the Cultivators once the effects of the Murk are gone.”

  “How many more are like him?” Wyand asked.

  “Dozens, currently,” Leomar sighed. “Over the turnings, thousands have been contained here.”

  “That’s awful,” Wyand breathed.

  “These people are threats—we can’t set them free, but we also believe we must not kill them. There was no other choice but confinement. Until now, that is.” Leomar extended his hand towards Wyand and ushered him closer to the prisoner. “Prior to this morning, I had every intention of keeping you away from this place. In honor of Fadian, though, I will try to see things the way he did.” The Council Guide shifted uncomfortably. “You will use the Stormheart in an effort to cleanse every person here, and then share the Thoughtcaster with each of them. I pray for success; this is the only chance they have left of ever leaving the Hollows.”