“Scur, how frequently have you felt sick today?” Wyand asked.
“I…I don’t know, Depthcarver. I feel like I’m wobbly all the time now unless I’m touching that stone. That’s how I knew to hand it to you,” Scur said. “I recognized your expression when the dizziness took you. The stone is the only thing that fixes that.”
Wyand pried the stone from his pick and passed it to Scur, who snatched it from Wyand’s grasp as soon as it was within reach. Relief instantly flowed across Scur’s face, and he reluctantly passed the stone back to Wyand. Wyand idly let the stone connect once more with his pick.
“Depthcarver, how do you make the stone do that?” Scur asked.
“I’m not making it do that,” Wyand replied. “The stone somehow sticks to the pick on its own. Only the Venerates can know how that magic works.”
Scur stared at the stone, his eyes following it hungrily as Wyand rotated the pick through the air. “Then maybe the Venerates can figure out how it makes us feel better, too,” Scur said. “And what’s making us sick in the first place.”
Wyand considered their situation: on the one hand, Scur was right that the Venerates would know more about this strange stone and its properties; on the other hand, Wyand was certain that the Venerates would react in the same manner that Edan and Stonecaller Galbrun had to Wyand’s account of events in the Lower Depths. At this point, Wyand knew that he and Scur were both in danger of being labeled as mad. He wished Keltin was back from isolation; Keltin had always known how to make sense out of even the most complicated problems. Seven more days, Wyand thought, still staggered by the severity of Keltin’s punishment.
“I’ll figure out a way to speak to the Venerates,” Wyand said finally. “For now, let’s keep this between us—the stone and our story of the collapse. All right?” Scur was still fixated on the stone. “Scur, do you understand?”
“Yes, Depthcarver. Of course,” Scur responded with a look of surprise.
“Good,” Wyand said. “Since you’ve been feeling sick more often than I have, take the stone with you on your next trip to the surface.” Wyand tossed Scur the stone, and the boy laughed when he found that he could make it cling to the side of the mine cart. “When you return, pass it back to me,” Wyand continued. “We’ll follow that pattern with every cartful of ore. As of right now, you and Grefstan will only work with me for the rest of the day. Where is Grefstan, anyway?”
“I sent him to go find Depthcarver Edan,” Scur said, blushing with embarrassment. “I told him that you requested Depthcarver Edan by name while you were lying on the floor. I don’t think he believed me, but he went anyway. Forgive my dishonesty, Depthcarver.”
“While I don’t agree with your deception,” Wyand said sternly, “you made the right decision by sending Grefstan away. We needed to talk without anyone else being involved. Besides, I could tell as soon as I saw Grefstan helping you push the cart that he was already irritated with you—probably because you tried to convince him about your recollection of the collapse. Is that about right?”
“Yes, Depthcarver. Grefstan said I was mad too, but at least he was still willing to help me. Unlike Adlig,” Scur responded with a frown.
“Don’t be too angry with Adlig,” Wyand said. “He remembers things the same way that everyone else does—everyone but us, that is. From what I’ve witnessed today, I’m certain both Depthcarver Edan and the Stonecaller himself are beginning to think I’m mad. Just don’t forget that I believe you, Scur, and I’ll help in any way I can. For now, though, we need to act as though nothing unusual is going on.” Scur nodded and delicately lowered the mysterious stone into his pocket. Wyand hefted his pick once more and Scur began loading ore; they both knew they didn’t have long to practice their imitation of normal behavior before Grefstan would return with Edan.
When Edan arrived, he dismissed Grefstan and found that Wyand was already engrossed in the rhythm of his pick. Edan had grown accustomed to Wyand’s focus, though, so instead of announcing his arrival he simply caught Wyand’s pick on the backswing. Wyand lurched forward when he realized his arms were unable to move, and his surprised shout immediately developed into laughter.
“Fine,” Wyand said as he released the pick and turned to face Edan. “You got me, again. I hoped you’d be tired of that trick by now.”
Edan grinned triumphantly as he returned the pick to Wyand. “There’s no trick to it,” he said. “You’re just incredibly predictable when you’re focused like that. I’m glad to see that familiar dedication of yours, actually. Grefstan had me worried that there was something seriously wrong with you.”
“Scur sent Grefstan to find you before I could stop him,” Wyand explained. “Really, the issue wasn’t worth all this trouble. I just got dizzy again, that’s it.”
Edan’s wordless gaze conveyed both his suspicion and his desire for more answers. Wyand withstood the attempt to extract information, however, until Edan finally sighed and looked away. “If you say so,” Edan said, irritated that his intimidation tactics seemed to work on everyone but Wyand. “But Wyand, that’s twice so far today that you’ve felt ill. Do we need to seek out the Venerates to see if they can help you?”
“No!” Wyand shouted, causing the Tailings to look up from the nearby pile of ore and waste rock. Wyand softened his tone to avoid further attention. “No, really. It’s just an annoyance at this point more than something to be worried about. I didn’t mean to pull you away from your efforts in the cage chamber.”
“‘Efforts’ is definitely the word to use,” Edan said dejectedly. “I would normally prefer to call it ‘progress,’ but we haven’t hit a good strike yet that’s worthy of that title. Not exactly how I want my first day as a Depthcarver to be remembered.”
“Nonsense,” Wyand said with a shake of his head. “Even if your group doesn’t find a single fist of ore today, you’re still leading them as a Depthcarver. That has never happened in Aldhagen’s history, so take pride in your new role and its challenges.”
“Thanks, Wyand,” Edan replied. “Even though I’m sure you’re secretly glad to hear that your group has extracted far more ore than mine.” Edan wasn’t wrong about that, since they were competing against each other, after all. Wyand quickly looked away as he tried to hide his smirk.
“I saw that,” Edan pointed at Wyand’s mouth. “Well, I suppose I should go at least attempt to catch up with your group’s progress. Anyway, you seem like you’re feeling fine now, but if I receive word about another dizziness episode, I’m dragging you to the Venerates myself.”
“Fair enough,” Wyand said. “I’ll see you on the way to Third Calling.” Edan agreed and departed for the cage chamber. As soon as Edan was out of sight, Wyand breathed in deeply and exhaled—he’d succeeded in convincing Edan that everything was perfectly normal. It didn’t feel right to mislead his old friend, but until Wyand could unravel the mystery of the collapse, it was for the best that he kept as few people involved as possible.
---
Wyand and Scur went the rest of the workday without experiencing a single episode of lightheadedness; their plan to regularly exchange the strange stone seemed to be working. Since Scur had proven to be much more susceptible to the ill effects associated with the stone’s absence, Wyand decided to let the boy carry it through both Third and Last Calling. When Reflection finally arrived, though, Wyand found himself regretting that arrangement. His head had ached since the middle of Third Calling, but thankfully his vision had remained clear so far. Wyand now sprinted to Scur’s living quarters so he could reclaim the stone and hopefully gain some relief.
He dashed through several groups of confused workers, their startled expressions barely having time to form before being lost in a blur. As the dark buildings of Aldhagen rushed past him, a memory suddenly flashed into Wyand’s mind. It was the face of Haemlan, a man who had been chosen for High Calling nearly six turnings ago. He was a cheerful worker, so it was easy to see why the Venerates had deemed him worthy of
High Calling. Haemlan was also a Carver, and had spent a great deal of time instructing Wyand in the ways of the mine. Wyand remembered walking the base of Aldhagen’s walls many nights with Haemlan, who had somehow found it easy to teach and make Wyand laugh all at the same time. What Wyand couldn’t understand is why he would think of Haemlan now, after the man had gone to serve the Venerates so long ago. It was a strange thing to remember, but Wyand had little time to consider its meaning. The dull ache behind Wyand’s eyes overpowered his unexpected memories and encouraged him to run faster.
When Wyand finally reached the door to Scur’s living quarters, his eyes quickly adjusted to the darkened room. Wyand breathed a sigh of relief when he found that Scur was already in his bed for the night.
“Scur,” Wyand said softly, in case one of the other Tailings was already asleep. “Scur, I need the stone.”
“Here, Depthcarver,” Scur said drowsily. Wyand saw the stone glimmer faintly from the light outside, and he eagerly scooped it out of Scur’s palm. The dull ache of the last few hours faded into nonexistence in moments as Wyand stood in the middle of the Tailings’ quarters.
“Thank you, Scur,” Wyand said with a relieved smile on his face. There was no response from Scur other than slow, rhythmic breathing. At least he was able to get some rest, Wyand thought. Now maybe I can do the same. Wyand backed silently out of the room after placing the stone carefully into his waist pocket.
The leisurely walk back to his own quarters afforded Wyand the first opportunity in many nights to truly enjoy Reflection. Hundreds of thousands of stars greeted him from the distant darkness as he looked skyward and smiled. With the stone confirming his memories, the worry and doubt he’d felt earlier in the day seemed insignificant. Wyand was sure now that his mind was sound, but the problem still remained of convincing everyone else that his version of events was the truth. Maybe if I show them what this stone can do, they’ll listen to my story, Wyand thought, considering who would be most likely to believe him. His normal choice would be Keltin—they always looked to one another for assistance with even the most unusual problems. With Keltin still serving his sentence underground, though, talking through this issue with him would have to wait.
Wyand knew that Edan would be willing to listen, but he also worried that Edan might consult the Venerates in an attempt to help. Since the Venerates’ recollection of the collapse conflicted directly with Wyand’s own, he knew he could not confer with them openly about the memories he shared solely with Scur. With the air of madness that easily surrounded a story like Wyand’s, it wasn’t difficult to imagine being cast out for defending such a tale. Silence and patience were his best options for now, though they were not a permanent solution. There was no easy answer, Wyand realized, so he decided to see if a night’s rest would reveal a clear path forward.
After completing his usual nightly routine, Wyand crawled onto his mattress and settled into sleep. The stone from the Cavern of the Winds rested against his chest while he slept; its presence was a constant comfort even to his slumbering mind. He slept soundly at first, but despite the stone’s soothing qualities, Wyand’s dreams quickly turned unsettling and his sleep became fitful.
Wyand dreamed of running through the night when he was very young, no more than two turnings old. He had shouted for the Venerates with every breath as he ran, but now he couldn’t remember why. The images of that night swirled in his thoughts like a fog, providing only brief glimpses of clarity.
He saw Haemlan facing a moonlit section of Aldhagen’s walls, his back to Wyand. This was during Reflection, Wyand remembered. Haemlan reached out to the stacked stone wall and searched for a handhold. Before Wyand could protest, Haemlan began climbing the enormous wall. Haemlan looked back over his shoulder, his ever-present smile encouraging Wyand to follow him. Everyone knew the walls were sacred, a gift from the Venerates during the earliest days of Aldhagen. Wyand’s fear of disrespecting the Venerates outweighed his urge to join Haemlan in scaling the wall.
“It’s all right, Wyand,” Haemlan had said. “But I wish you could see what I see. The higher I climb, the more beautiful Aldhagen becomes.” Haemlan breathed the night air in deeply and turned to continue climbing. Wyand waited at the base of the wall, watching Haemlan uncomfortably and wishing his mentor would be done with this adventure. He admired Haemlan’s bravery and strength, but his spontaneity was sometimes a burden. Wyand looked up again and found Haemlan nearing the top of Aldhagen’s wall. The courses of rock seemed to stretch away as Wyand watched, the capstones brushing against the stars themselves. Then a blinding green light burned away the stars and darkness alike. The light collided with Haemlan’s back and instantly faded as he fell away from the wall. The vision of Haemlan falling repeated itself over and over again, each time more slowly than the last.
Wyand screamed, but found that he couldn’t look away. Haemlan struck the ground and lay still, the back of his robes emitting a wisp of smoke. Wyand knew something horrible had just happened, but he had no concept of what it was. Then a word usually only heard in whispers burst into Wyand’s thoughts. Death, he realized, This is death. A faint green glow from the direction of the Hall caught Wyand’s attention, and he noticed a Venerate in the distance approaching with his staff pointing towards the spot on the ground where Haemlan had fallen. The end of the Venerate’s staff glowed the same color as the light that had just forced Haemlan off of the wall. Before the Venerate could get any closer, Wyand chose to run away as far and as fast as he could. The stones of Aldhagen’s wall filled the left side of his vision as he ran, until a path that led back to the living quarters came into view. Wyand screamed as he ran, until another blinding green flash brought with it silence and darkness.
Wyand’s eyes flew open wide, and he breathed in sharply. Shaking, he looked around and confirmed he was awake and safe in his bed. As the images faded, he now realized it wasn’t a dream at all—this was what really happened on the day Haemlan was chosen for High Calling. Wyand hadn’t shouted to the Venerates for help that night, he had tried to shout a warning to his fellow workers—a warning he was now determined to deliver. The phrase he had shouted that night was simple, but its words held within them an unimaginable importance.
“The Venerates killed Haemlan,” he whispered in astonishment.
---
This can’t be real, Wyand thought for the hundredth time. The Venerates love all workers, and all workers love the Venerates. Then the voice of truth whispered in reply, But Haemlan is still dead. Everything Wyand had been taught, his very foundations of peace and honor, were shattered every time he pictured Haemlan’s last moments. Wyand sat in his bed staring into the dark for hours, trying to process everything that had just been revealed to him and fighting through waves of self-doubt and indignation. Who am I to challenge the Venerates? he thought in one instant, then with anger in the next, How could they kill him?
All other emotions aside, Wyand found it nearly impossible not to succumb to debilitating paranoia after remembering the truth behind Haemlan’s disappearance. Every worker knew that conflict and violence ranked highest among the sins, so for anyone to cause death—especially a Venerate—was unthinkable. Even though it had happened many turnings earlier, the images from Wyand’s recollection brought back a profound fear of the Venerates and of mortality itself. That was the reason he had to stifle a scream when the door to his quarters flew open in the middle of the night.
“Wake up, Wyand,” it was Stonecaller Galbrun. “The Venerates have called for a Casting.” Wyand composed himself and was thankful that the Stonecaller couldn’t see his terror through the darkness.
“I will go to the Hall at once,” Wyand said. “Thank you, Stonecaller.” Galbrun’s nearly-imperceptible outline nodded and vanished from the doorway, once again leaving Wyand alone with his thoughts in the stillness. The memorized action of putting on clothing only provided Wyand a temporary distraction from the distrust that was now teeming in his thoughts. That means Losian i
s really dead too, Wyand realized suddenly, thinking back to the collapse and pausing as he tied his belt. His numb mind merely added this startling thought to the growing list of revelations it was forming; thankfully his body continued to move from memory towards the Hall.
Wyand opened his door and could barely distinguish the forms of other sleepy workers as they shuffled hurriedly towards the Hall. Outside of their footsteps, Aldhagen was completely silent; it was as though the night itself held its breath. Wyand reluctantly joined the procession even though he wanted desperately to be as far away from the Venerates as possible. He knew his absence would be noticed, however, and Wyand’s most crucial task right now was to avoid drawing attention until he had more time to think. If he was truly meant to question the integrity of the Venerates, he needed a clear strategy in place first. No further steps were yet defined in his plan to reveal the truth about Haemlan’s death, but Wyand knew his efforts would be meaningless if his impatience led to being labeled a heretic or a madman. For the memory of his friend, Wyand would wait to speak out until he was certain his words would not be wasted, even though he knew that meant enduring numerous encounters with the Venerates.
The sound of a thousand footsteps filled Wyand’s ears as he entered the Hall and began the walk down the spiraling hallway to Wracandyr. To speak during a Casting was forbidden, though he did nod to several workers he recognized. Everyone’s expression spoke of the same thought that always accompanied a Casting: Who’s being cast out and why? Wyand wondered the same thing, but another thought crept into his mind alone: What are the Venerates’ true reasons for casting this person out of Aldhagen?
Wyand reached the chamber that housed Wracandyr—the Exile Door of Aldhagen. It was a gloomy, unpleasant place that Wyand always dreaded entering because of what it represented. The river rushed angrily beneath dozens of balconies that stretched along its banks for the length of the chamber. There were no assigned locations to stand during a Casting; instead the workers would fill each balcony beginning with the downstream end of the chamber. Wyand followed the worker in front of him and found himself at a spot near the end of the river that clearly overlooked the Casting Platform. Many minutes of standing in silence would pass before the chamber would be filled by all of Aldhagen’s workers. Wyand squinted as he looked around briefly. The light windows in this place were different than in the Last Calling chamber—here they were much brighter and angled upwards at the back of each balcony from low on the walls. The end result was unsettling to witness, since this intense backlighting washed away all detail from each worker’s face. Hundreds of dark outlines stared down at the river—their eyes invisible, their mouths silent.
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