Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  This time was different, though, as the group did not pause once the Sentinels rejoined them. Wyand looked forward and discovered that the trees along the right side of the path dropped away ahead until he could see the top of another ridgeline far across a steep valley. The path suddenly shifted sharply to the left, but the scrid did not slow at all as they scuttled single-file through the turn. Wyand’s nausea reached a new extreme when the ground beneath the right side of his cage was replaced by open air and an unexpected view of the valley floor far below. To his relief, most of the creature’s legs still clung to the ledge as it rounded the turn; the inertia only carried the aft most segments of its body over the edge of the narrow path.

  As he caught his breath through the cloth in his mouth, Wyand heard the boatman above laughing quietly to himself, no doubt reveling in the sounds of surprise that had drifted up from the cage. The boatman’s laughter meant nothing to Wyand at the moment, though, because his attention was wholly captivated by the view he now had of the enormous valley beyond.

  A dark green river fifty times as wide as the Great River in Aldhagen divided the lush valley below and curved until it disappeared around one of the nearby mountains to the south. Endless forests of trees lined its banks, though the occasional glint of midday sunlight still offered hints of small backwater lakes beneath the dense canopy. As Wyand surveyed the marvels of the expanse, however, it was the river’s source that made his eyes grow large with wonder. Along the distant cliff that lined the far end of the valley, what Wyand could only describe as a wall of water cascaded down the face of stone in sheets of white spray. The thunder of its force was staggering, even from Wyand’s vantage several thousand strides away. For a few blissful moments, all thoughts of hunger, pain, and exhaustion were gone as Wyand was lost in fascination.

  Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the incredible view was gone, obscured by Spineleaf and underbrush once again as the scrid’s course moved away from the edge of the ridge. The path grew narrow as it wove between the bases of the mighty trees until it was nothing more than a meandering line of trampled dirt. Wyand frowned as something large enough to span the entire path passed directly overhead, plunging the area into twilight shadows before the muted sunlight of the canopy returned. Since he had no way to look back, he chose instead to search for answers in what little he could see of the way forward.

  Dark, enormous arches sporadically crossed over the path at heights that ranged from near ground level to dozens of strides overhead—that was undoubtedly what had caused the sudden shadow. Wyand struggled to understand what purpose such structures could possibly serve in a place this remote, until the scrid carrying him vaulted over the next arch and brought its detail close to Wyand’s face. In an instant, he could say with certainty that this was not the work of the hands of men, but rather a natural, living thing that had grown across the path in the shape of an arch.

  The deep fissures in the surface bark spoke of incredible age, filled as they were with dirt and small ferns that had accumulated over many turnings. It was impossible for Wyand to say whether this arch should be classified as a root, a trunk, or something else altogether, but its diameter rivaled the largest mineshafts he had ever known. As his eyes followed its winding course along the floor of the woods beyond the path, he noticed a cluster of wide fronds in the distance that extended upward from this unusual plant into the canopy above. Most surprising, though, was the discovery that each archway root extended from one frond cluster and connected to the next, then the next, meaning that the entire network of arches was part of a single massive organism.

  The minutes that followed were a dizzying mixture of wonder and discomfort as the scrid flowed through the forest, sometimes bounding from tree to arch and back, sometimes charging along the ground. Wyand’s fascination was renewed whenever one of the frond plants came into view, but his weary body protested each time the scrid jumped or abruptly changed direction. He longed to explore this place more, but first he would need a large meal and a long rest.

  A low rumbling filled the woodlands, shaking Wyand within his cage, and he searched excitedly for the great torrent of water he’d seen from the ridge. All at once, a soaring cliff face appeared through the foliage and the path turned sharply right towards a small clearing. The sun returned in full force as Wyand exited the forest, forcing him to squint from its painful brightness. As soon as he could see again, though, he smiled with amazement. A misty layer of spray hung in the air of the clearing and was continually replenished by the near edge of the wall of falling water. The surging water itself tumbled in a freefall that began far above and continued well below what Wyand could see from the clearing. Rocks polished smooth by the relentless flow glistened in the sunlight, and the same tiny ferns that coated the living arches in the forest clung to every flat surface visible along the cliff.

  Just as Wyand began to comprehend the scale and beauty of the formation before him, the scrid turned so sharply left that its direction was nearly reversed. Confused, Wyand searched for the Sentinels ahead and found their scrid ascending a dangerously narrow path beside the cascading water. Their course doubled back to the right again until they passed directly overhead, and Wyand knew to prepare for another abrupt change in direction. When the turn came, he was offered a brief view of the wall of water before it vanished once again after another sharp turn.

  This pattern continued dozens of times as the group climbed slowly up the steep cliff. Each time the direction shifted, Wyand could see a little farther into the distance until the tops of even the tallest trees were beneath him. After his first experience with the scrid on a path like this, he knew better than to look down through the slats of the cage for fear of his nausea returning. An icy blast of wind suddenly reminded him that he was still only wearing his tattered nightclothes, and those offered little protection from such bitter cold. Wyand shivered, thankful he at least had the sunlight to offer some warmth.

  Then, just as abruptly as the winding path began, it ended in one final turn to the right, revealing a large, flat valley nestled between two rows of steep mountains. In the center of the valley, a calm body of water almost the size of the entirety of Aldhagen brushed the base of the surrounding hills and spilled over the rocks to Wyand’s right. This lake was the source of the great cascade of water, and as Wyand surveyed its perimeter he was astonished to find hundreds of structures and people visible in the ancient forest that lined its banks. Sounds of these people going about their daily routines drifted to Wyand’s ears, but he was much more interested in the smells of their cooking that drifted to his nose.

  “A Watch returns!” a voice shouted from a stone tower perched at the northern edge of the cliff that overlooked the winding path into the forest below. The man held the same long stick that the Sentinels used and slowly eased an arrow forward without releasing it as he watched the group pass. Wyand looked right and found another Sentinel in an identical tower beside the rushing waters that fed into the great cascade. The Sentinels only studied Eyrie’s group for an instant before turning their attention back to the steep cliffside, as if they expected some threat to be following closely. Wyand hoped they were wrong.

  The scrid slowed as they neared the first structure at the edge of the lake; to Wyand, this small building looked like a bizarre assembly of every natural material that could be gathered from the surrounding area. Large stones, stacked in a similar fashion to the walls of Aldhagen, made up the base of the structure as well as a small set of stairs that led to an old wooden door. Above the stones, overlapping sections of bark held together with mud formed the walls, which extended up at least five strides. Each piece of bark stood on end and leaned inward slightly, giving the entire structure the shape of an elongated dome. From the top of this dome, faint wisps of grey smoke drifted into the wind and swirled down over the edge of the nearby cliff.

  When the scrid came to a stop, Wyand noticed hundreds of small, black creatures crawling in lines across the grou
nd beneath him. They resembled very tiny versions of the scrid, with far fewer pairs of legs. As Wyand’s eyes followed the path of these animals, he realized they were entering small holes in the bark walls of the structure, though he had no idea why. After climbing down from the scrid, Eyrie and the boatmen took special care to avoid stepping on these tiny curiosities, so they must have held some significance.

  The wooden door creaked open on its old hinges, and a line of eight people exited the building—five women and three men. Before Wyand could examine these people further, the scrid carrying him suddenly began the process of dropping the transport cage. Wyand clung to the floor slats desperately to avoid being slammed against the other side of the cage again, and this time he was successful. As soon as the boards creaked from making contact with the ground, the scrid’s small legs that held the cage in place released their grip and Wyand lowered himself down to rest on his back. The face of one of the boatmen loomed over him.

  “Out,” the man said flatly, and at the command Wyand scrambled on his back towards the cage opening before a boot could find his ribs. Once all the scrid were free of their cages, the majority of the boatmen led them towards a path that disappeared into dense undergrowth. Wyand stretched as he stood, but tried to be discreet about the display to avoid unwanted attention from the few boatmen that remained. He then sought out the group of eight people that came from the structure and found that one of the women was already addressing the group.

  She was tall and lean, with dark red hair bound in a tight sima tied close to her neck. A separate braid hung in front of her right shoulder that was adorned with elaborate colors and knots similar to those in Eyrie’s hair. As his eyes quickly scanned the group, Wyand realized that the other four women wore simas that were equally complex, though none of the three men wore a braid at all. The red-haired woman spoke to Eyrie with an air of authority that rivaled that of the Venerates themselves, but her words were soft and jovial.

  “…quite a few more in your company now than there were when you left,” the woman said, smiling as her green eyes regarded Eyrie. “This was a bountiful journey indeed.”

  “Yes, Bloodsister,” Eyrie replied. “We bring a great deal of new lives to Cynmere, though some are in a better state than others.” Wyand wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw several members of the group of eight eye him skeptically after Eyrie’s comment. If they had, it was only for an instant before she continued.

  “There is a woman, Stora, who will need immediate attention from the Order of Hands,” Eyrie said as two of the boatmen brought the unconscious Mainwright forward. Wyand was startled by how much Stora’s condition had worsened since the journey began—her skin was ash grey, her eyes sunken, her body limp.

  “With me,” an older woman from the group of eight said hurriedly, brushing past Wyand close enough for him to see the small streaks of grey in her night-black hair. She was short and light-framed, but exuded just as much of a commanding presence as the first woman that had spoken. Without hesitation, the boatmen carrying Stora turned to follow the white-robed woman.

  “Wait,” the Unwoven called after them. “Where she goes, we go.” The older woman turned back sharply, her exasperated gaze shifting in rapid succession from the Unwoven to the bone weapon in her hand and then to Eyrie.

  “It’s all right, Thirna,” Eyrie nodded. “They are proven.” The older woman—Thirna—eyed the Unwoven for an instant more, then sighed and threw up a hand dismissively as she turned away.

  “Fine, fine,” Thirna said over her shoulder, resuming her brisk pace as she walked away from the group. “But keep up, do as I say, and stay out of the way otherwise.” The Unwoven and Halwen nodded as they rushed to follow her and the boatmen. A faint cry emitted from the bundle in Eyrie’s arms as they left.

  At the sound, a plump woman in white from the group of eight with curly blonde hair and a permanent smile bustled forward to stand as close to Eyrie as possible without actually touching her. Her hands shook by her sides with excitement as her wide blue eyes stared at Eyrie, and that was when Wyand noticed something unfamiliar. This woman’s sima rested at a somewhat-awkward angle against a bulging chest that extended well past that of any other woman in the group, and as her portly frame jittered and shook, Wyand felt the sudden inexplicable urge to laugh uncontrollably. He thankfully suppressed the laughter, instead only coughing briefly through the cloth in his mouth.

  “Do you have something for me, Daughter?” the woman asked Eyrie with a knowing smirk.

  “I do, Cerelia,” Eyrie smiled. “Here. She’s a fighter.” Cerelia clapped her hands gleefully in front of her light green apron and took the bundle from Eyrie’s arms. As she did this, part of the cloth fell back and at last revealed Eyrie’s secret. Resting peacefully in the folds of fabric was the smallest child Wyand had ever seen. His eyes must have conveyed his amazement, because both women turned to look at his reaction as soon as the child’s face was visible.

  “And, so, you have your first answer,” Eyrie said, “though I know it only leads to more questions. In time, we will answer them all. Curiosity is the first skill learned here in Cynmere. Patience is the second.” Wyand nodded numbly, still mesmerized by this tiny person tucked against Cerelia’s chest.

  “You talk in riddles like you’re one of the Guided,” Cerelia laughed at Eyrie, then stepped close to Wyand. “Boy, this is a baby, and believe it or not you were a little one like this once too. We all were.” Eyrie pulled her back by the straps of her apron.

  “He’s not yet proven,” she hissed.

  “Oh, what real harm can it do for him to know?” Cerelia argued, still smiling. “He’d have figured it out soon anyway.” She winked at Wyand then and chuckled as she walked away, leaving Wyand dumbfounded and Eyrie fuming.

  “She’s Order of Dawn, Eyrie,” the red-haired woman said with a sigh as she watched Cerelia trot away happily. “They’re not known for subtlety.”

  “As always, Adelea, you’re right,” Eyrie replied, although she continued to stare in Cerelia’s direction with visible irritation.

  “Don’t let her impertinence lessen this victory for you,” Adelea chided as she moved to Eyrie’s side. “The important part is that you fulfilled your role as a Daughter of Mercy and spared the child from a horrible death in the Lake of Skulls. They are not all so fortunate.” There was a long silence as everyone in the group, Wyand included, thought back to the bone-covered shoreline beneath Wracandyr. Adelea at last ended the discomfort. “Come, tell me of your journey. I am sure the histories will sing of your mighty deeds.” Adelea smiled playfully at the exaggerated pronouncement she’d just made in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “It was just a lake run,” Eyrie said tiredly as they walked towards the small building lined with bark, but at least she was smiling now too. They were followed by three others from the group of eight—a young girl in a light grey robe who appeared to Wyand to be five turnings old at most, a tall, muscular woman with the same strange clothing as Eyrie but with a long green sash tied around her waist, and a lanky man in dark grey field clothes with long black hair hanging loose around his shoulders. The young girl produced a small piece of sharpened charcoal from her sand-colored hair and began scribbling furiously with one of her gloved hands on a long, thin strip of bark as Eyrie spoke. The muscular woman kept her face straightforward, refusing to acknowledge anything beyond her intended destination of the building ahead. It would be the long-haired man that stuck out in Wyand’s memory the most, though.

  As he approached, his eyes fixated on Wyand and an unsettling little smile crept onto his angular face. Wyand struggled to keep from looking away; something was not right about this stranger’s gaze. To further the discomfort, the man slowed as he passed until stopping abruptly in front of Wyand and spinning to face him. He was very tall, although he stood at eye level with Wyand because of an awkward curvature in his back. There was an unfamiliar aroma mixed with smoke and dirt that hung heavy in the man’s hair as
he leaned close to Wyand’s right ear.

  “We’ll be waiting for you,” he whispered before stepping back to smile at Wyand for an instant more. As the awkward man finally walked away, Wyand exhaled through the cloth without realizing that he’d been holding his breath. He stood motionless until at last hearing the old wooden door creak shut, meaning that the dark-haired man was gone for now. When Wyand mustered up enough courage to look around again, he discovered that he was alone with the two remaining members of the group of eight. To his dismay, they approached with lightning speed as soon as they saw him look their direction. Wyand snapped his head to face straight forward in an attempt to hide that he’d even glanced at these two men, but it was too late, they were already upon him.

  The two of them stood less than a stride in front of Wyand, studying him for what felt like hours as he desperately tried to stay calm and keep his eyes fixated on a point in the distance beyond them. From the edges of his vision, Wyand could still pick out details about these two men even without looking directly at them. The one in a tan robe stood at nearly the same height as Wyand, and had seen almost as many turnings as Galbrun by the look of his short grey hair. Curiously, that hair was only present in a thin strip along the top of the man’s head; the rest was shaved. The other was a short, slim man in brown field clothes who had rust-colored hair that looked and was cut close almost the same as Keltin’s. He had a narrow beard around his mouth, but was clean shaven everywhere else. His thick arms seemed out of place attached to such a narrow frame, but they spoke of undeniable strength.