Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  A third and final person, this one a man near Ryna’s age, struck a pair of small sticks against a row of metal strips that hung from a wooden frame roughly a stride across. The length of these strips diminished rapidly from one end of the frame to the other, and each shorter piece produced a higher-pitched tone than the last. With every shift in the music’s rhythm, the man slid the sticks from one end of the frame to the other several times, creating a descending cascade of overlapping tones that vibrated in a similar fashion to the Calling chimes.

  Ryna felt herself swaying in time with the music, slowly succumbing to its allure despite her best attempts to remain still. Minutes passed without thought other than a constant desire to keep listening. Each soothing hum of the cords and every pulse of the flat-topped tubes washed through her body with a surge of energy that demanded to be expressed. Blessedly, and yet strangely also to Ryna’s disappointment, the music ended in one final rush of sound, leaving its echo to fill the hall as well as her thoughts.

  After an instant of silence, cheers and applause erupted from the Cynmeren, and both Ryna and Halwen joined in without hesitation. Ryna suddenly realized as she clapped that there were tears streaming down her face; she turned to Halwen and discovered that her friend was crying too. They glanced at one another, laughing as they wept, both overcome by the beauty of what they’d just witnessed. Slowly, the applause diminished and the crowd resumed the earlier murmuring undertone of countless conversations.

  “And that is why I’m glad you both decided to come with us to the Council House,” Leighelle smiled as she and the other Handsisters approached. “The Order of Song always fascinates the newcomers, as do the dancers. But there’s so much more to see here, so much more to do before the night is over. Here, follow us. There’s something I want to share with you.”

  The Handsisters led Ryna and Halwen deeper into the crowd of people along a winding path towards the left wall. Between two of the sputtering torches, a large barrel rested on its side atop a wooden frame. People approached the barrel, turned a small handle, and poured a dark liquid into their waiting cups. A long slab of stone stood on four short pillars just beside the barrel, heated from its underside by a blazing fire. Each filled cup was left on the slab for a few seconds until steam swirled above its rim, then the owner would retrieve it. The set of actions that followed was curiously always the same—the cup was lifted close to the person’s mouth and nose, their eyes would close, and a small delighted smile would form just before the first sip.

  Leighelle quickly retrieved and filled three cups before placing them onto the heating stone. She turned to face Ryna and Halwen with a pleased smirk a moment later. “This is called Melsca,” she said as she handed them both a steaming cup. “It’s traditional to drink it with friends during the festival and to wish them good health for the coming days. So, to your health, Sisters!” Leighelle then took a long sip of the dark liquid before sighing contentedly and waiting for Ryna and Halwen to follow her example.

  Ryna lifted the cup close to her face and sniffed its vapors warily. A warm rush of spice and sweetness caused her eyes to open wide in surprise. Halwen’s face proved that she, too, had reached the same conclusion—the Melsca smelled delicious. Seeing Leighelle drink was reassuring, but Ryna hesitated with the cup resting against her lips. Halwen was not nearly so cautious, though, as she instead shouted “To your health!” and took a long sip, much to the delight of the Handsisters. With no other choice, Ryna laughed nervously and tasted the Melsca for herself.

  The smell of the vapors had not been misleading, as the same wonderful mixture of sweet and spice flowed into Ryna’s mouth. Any remaining chill she felt from the cold night air was completely brushed aside as she swallowed the warm sip of Melsca, and she sighed from the sudden feeling of comfort. A subtle hint of bitterness lingered on the back of her tongue, but other than that the experience was decidedly pleasant. She took another sip when she noticed Leighelle and Halwen doing the same.

  “Where does this come from?” Halwen asked with an amazed smile after taking another drink.

  “The details of the blend are a closely guarded secret of our Order, but the basic ingredients are simple,” Leighelle replied. “We take sap from the Scarwood trees—the same trees that grow from those thick roots you see up there,” she said, pointing to the ceiling of the hall. “Then we put it in a barrel with some water and mix that with a very small amount of the haugaeldr’s poison.” Leighelle studied Ryna and Halwen then, as did the rest of the Handsisters.

  Ryna spat immediately and threw her cup to the floor. “You’re joking, right?” Halwen smiled worriedly as she stared at Leighelle, who shook her head sympathetically as she tried to hold back a laugh. Halwen stared down at the cup she held, her lower lip quivering.

  “Why would you drink that?” Ryna demanded, still coughing as she tried to clear any bit of the liquid she could out of her mouth. The Handsisters all laughed then, including Leighelle, as though this had all been some elaborate prank. Ryna looked at them all with a mixture of anger and confusion, while Halwen continued staring silently into her near-empty cup.

  “Forgive us,” Leighelle stammered, slowly composing herself. “We’re not laughing at you, we’re laughing at your reaction. Every newcomer that knows what the haugaeldr are does the same thing you just did.”

  “So it was a joke then?” Ryna asked, eyeing them dangerously.

  “No. No joke,” Leighelle said, exhaling forcefully to keep the laughter from returning. “It truly is a mixture of Scarwood sap and the haugaeldr’s poison. And to answer your first question, we drink it because it tastes good and helps us relax. That’s the simplest answer. Beyond that, though, we drink the Melsca because our ancestors did the same thing in this very hall. Its taste represents the memory of those who went before us, and of everyone who has fallen victim to the haugaeldr’s embrace. Each time we taste a drop of the little monsters’ blood it proves that they can be defeated. Most of all, we drink it because it reminds us that we are alive.”

  There was a long pause as everyone in the group retreated into the memories conjured by Leighelle’s words. Ryna found herself watching Kiorla die over and over again in her mind. With her right hand on the bone weapon, she reached into her left waist pocket and felt Celina’s sima brush against her hand; it was the first time Ryna had touched the braid since recovering it from Eyrie the night she met the Cynmeren. In the stillness, Ryna heard Halwen sob once, then watched her suddenly lift the cup back to her lips. Leighelle rushed over and wrapped an arm around her.

  “The Melsca won’t take the painful memories away,” Leighelle said softly, “but it will help you make pleasant new ones.” Halwen lowered the cup, then smiled weakly and nodded before drinking again.

  Ryna moved without thought and picked up her discarded cup. She walked to the large barrel, drew more of the dark liquid, and let it rest on top of the hot stone for an instant. Then she drank it, slowly and deliberately. Painful memories aside, pleasant taste aside, Ryna wanted to savor the bitterness that followed. It reminded her that she was alive, but that she lived as an Unwoven. She smiled then, not from the sweetness, but from the knowledge that the bitter liquid came from dead haugaeldr. Until she could return to slaughter more of the horrid creatures by hand, its taste was a victory she would relish.

  Eventually, the brooding silence lifted and the group of Handsisters began conversing with Ryna and Halwen once again. They spoke of the journey through the Deadlands, the shock that all rescued Newfallen feel when they first reach Cynmere, as well as the subtle—and sometimes humorous—differences between the eight Kindred Orders. Even after the music started again, the earlier feeling of levity was slow to return. Once it did, though, Ryna found herself struggling to suppress her own laughter, especially when Halwen told the story of their first experience with the scrid’s belly cages.

  “…and there was an instant, right when that cage flipped, that I think he honestly hovered in the air,” Halwen s
aid with an excited smile. She had set her cup aside to tell the story, and her hands imitated each motion as she explained it. “Of course, that instant only lasted until he slammed into the slats,” Halwen’s face took on a mock surprised expression as she threw her hands up before clapping them together once sharply. The Handsisters fell against each other with laughter, and even Ryna chuckled to herself.

  “Old Ones preserve me,” a shorter man said over the sound of the music as he approached the barrel of Melsca with two cups. “When this many women are laughing at once, it can only mean bad things.” A smile creased the edges of his rust-colored beard as he spoke, and the glint of mischief in his eyes said that he knew this group well.

  “I thought you liked bad things, Holt,” Leighelle replied with a subtle smile of her own. The other Handsisters giggled into their cups.

  “That I do,” Holt nodded thoughtfully as the two cups steamed behind him. “So, what was the joke?” he asked an instant later, after shaking away whatever memories had filled his mind when he looked at Leighelle.

  “Halwen here was telling us the story of a clumsy Newfallen she traveled with to Cynmere,” Leighelle explained as she wrapped an arm around Halwen’s shoulder. “Apparently, the poor boy didn’t understand how the scrid cages work and managed to fall against the slats with enough force that they probably should have splintered.”

  Holt grunted in pained understanding, then peered at someone beyond Ryna’s shoulder. “Was that you, rock breaker?” Holt asked with an incredulous grin. Ryna spun and found herself staring at the Unwoven man from Aldhagen as he responded with an embarrassed nod. Before she knew what she was doing, Ryna flung her arms around him and spilled what little remained of her most recent cup of Melsca onto the floor behind him.

  “I’m glad to see you’re feeling better,” the Unwoven laughed as he somewhat-awkwardly returned her embrace. Ryna pushed herself back a moment later and stared up at him in shock.

  “Forgive me,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to laugh at you.”

  “It’s all right. I would laugh at me, too,” the Unwoven replied.

  “He’s a decent looking one,” Leighelle murmured behind Ryna, then she said loudly, “Holt, I feel like dancing. Sisters, Halwen, you should join us.”

  “Oh, dancing? I-I couldn’t do that,” Halwen stammered.

  “Nonsense,” Leighelle said as she took hold of Halwen’s hands. “Everyone can learn new things, especially with the help of Melsca. Speaking of new things—Holt, what did you do to the side of your head? Something foolish, no doubt....” Her words were lost as the music grew louder. Halwen glanced back at Ryna with a final look of excitement and terror before she disappeared with the Handsisters into the crowd.

  “These people have some strange customs, don’t they?” the Unwoven said, shaking his head as he turned back to face Ryna.

  “More than I could’ve ever imagined,” Ryna agreed. “But you know more about that than I do at this point—I heard about the horrible ‘cleansing and proving’ ordeal. I’m glad to see you passed their test without being harmed.”

  The Unwoven looked away. “I wasn’t harmed,” he said, “but the same can’t be said for Holt. That gash on his head was my fault.”

  “It didn’t look that bad.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen it before the Handsisters healed him.”

  There was an awkward pause as they both watched the crowd. “If I made you uncomfortable, forgive me,” Ryna said quietly.

  “No, no. It’s not that,” the Unwoven insisted. “I just don’t like what this place has done to me.”

  “I understand that,” Ryna said in wide-eyed agreement. She wanted to continue, to tell him that she loathed everything about Cynmere and would leave right now if she could, but then she remembered Stora’s task and the penalty that came with failure. “But we’re here for now, so we might as well learn whatever we can,” Ryna said instead. Her face burned as she forced herself to smile reassuringly.

  The Unwoven looked into his cup with a troubled expression. “Oh, I’ve been learning things,” he said quietly a moment later. “More than that, though, I’ve been remembering things. Horrible things about life with the Venerates—Fyrnraed, Cultivators, whatever you want to call them—that I thought were just dreams until I arrived here. The Cynmeren told me that all of those memories were real, and they seem to believe the Venerates are actually evil. The strangest part is that the explanation they gave me of how any of that is possible actually makes a lot of sense. I just…I don’t know what to believe anymore.” He stared down in silence.

  Ryna found herself torn between two answers yet again. Her devoted mind told her to chastise him for such a lack of faith, and to remind him that belief in the Fyrnraed was all that had kept him alive this far. Then Ryna suddenly realized that the memory of searing pain from past punishments in Locboran had draped a veil of doubt over her own beliefs, too. Why would the Fyrnraed cause such pain? It was a question she had asked herself over and over since the memories returned.

  “I don’t know what to believe either,” Ryna said truthfully, “but I also know that we have to be careful about making any decisions right now. We just got here, and the journey was filled with a thousand questions for every answer. The best idea is for us to recover, learn about these people, and form our own opinions when things have calmed down a bit. We’re safe to do that, I think.”

  “You’re right,” he sighed. “I wish I could keep my thoughts clear like you amidst all this madness.” He laughed tiredly and took another sip of the Melsca before walking over to sit on one of the benches along the wall. His brow furrowed as he watched Ryna approach. “If you think we’re safe, why are you still carrying that?” he asked, pointing to the bone hanging from her sash.

  “It’s a reminder of everything lost,” Ryna replied simply as she sat beside him. And because I think we’re anything but safe here, she added. Maintaining this deception took a great deal of focus, and it was becoming more difficult with every word she spoke.

  “You saved your Mainwright,” the Unwoven said encouragingly. “Is she recovering well?”

  “Faster than I thought possible,” Ryna replied, thinking back to Stora’s imposing manner even while she was confined to a healing bed. “She is full of surprises.”

  “That’s at least one piece of good news,” the Unwoven said before taking another sip from his cup. A moment later, the music faded from the hall once again and was replaced by the elated cheers of the Cynmeren. Beneath their shouts the rhythm continued, though it had shifted to a frantic pace maintained only by the man striking the flat-topped tubes. This pattern was not meant for dancing, that was clear by the crowd’s reaction, but Ryna had no idea what it signified. She noticed everyone had grown quiet and was beginning to exit the main hall via two side corridors.

  “Did you see that?” Halwen shouted as she approached. “I danced! Not very well, but I still did it! You have to try it, both of you, it’s so—”

  “We’ll dance again later,” Leighelle interrupted softly but with certainty. “That drumming means the Reclaiming Ceremony is about to begin. We need to follow everyone else. Now, please.”

  “What’s the Reclaiming Ceremony?” the Unwoven asked Holt quietly as they complied with Leighelle’s direction to follow.

  “It’s how we honor the dead,” Holt replied in a hoarse whisper loud enough for Ryna and Halwen to hear too. “Treat it like a Casting, and stay silent unless I tell you otherwise. Understand?” The Unwoven nodded, as did Ryna and Halwen.

  The sound of the crowd walking overwhelmed any remaining whispers as Ryna’s group passed into the corridor on the left side of the main hall. The stream of people flowed towards a wide staircase at the far end of the corridor that ascended around a slow curve before vanishing from sight. The thundering sound of hundreds of footsteps climbing those stairs fell into a unified cadence that echoed throughout the length of the corridor. A cold gust from one of the openi
ngs overlooking the lake blew across Ryna’s shoulders and swirled the flames on several of the torches as it continued up the winding passage. She looked out the opening towards the far shoreline at just the right moment to see it obscured by falling embers from the closest torch.

  At the top of the stairs, the passageway exited into the open night air beneath a broad wooden awning held up by two stacked stone columns. Ryna’s breath caught when she noticed a figure robed in all black standing by either column; these were not standard robes, not only because of their ominous color, but also for the veil that completely covered the face of the person beneath. A chill rippled across Ryna’s skin, and it was definitely not just from the icy breeze that stirred the torches once again.

  Each of the unsettling figures held a long wooden trough filled with something, though the contents were too dark to distinguish in the dim light. As Ryna watched, the workers that passed by reached into the troughs and then immediately touched their foreheads. She looked to Leighelle as she arrived at one of the troughs. After reaching in, the Handsister held up her hand in demonstration to reveal a dark stain on her first three fingertips. Then, in one quick motion, she pressed those fingers against her forehead and slid them down to form three vertical lines, the center being longer than the other two. She then nodded for Halwen, Ryna, and the Unwoven to do the same.

  Halwen was the first to comply, without showing so much as a shred of the anxiety she’d always exhibited in Locboran. After completing the actions Leighelle had demonstrated, Halwen turned back to Ryna with an excited grin and a set of dark lines on her forehead. The Unwoven followed her example, although he hesitated after examining the dark substance on his fingers. When Ryna saw the mark resting above his brow as well, she sighed and approached the trough. She shuddered when she glanced up at the hooded figure; the complete absence of facial features was unnatural and left her wondering if she was being watched or not. Not wanting to linger at the trough any more than she had to, Ryna pressed her fingers into the dark substance and held them up in front of her face.