“What now?” Wyand spun to face the boy, who cowered from the irritation that Wyand knew his expression and voice currently conveyed.
“S-s-stormbrother Fadian wishes to speak with you immediately,” the boy stammered. “He said to m-meet him at his spot by the lake. You’re supposed to know what that means.” Before the last word was out, the runner had turned and was headed back the way he came.
“Thank you,” Wyand shouted after him, but the boy had already vanished into the woods. “I’m beginning to understand why Holt wants nothing to do with the Guided,” Wyand muttered to himself as he trudged towards the lake. He ignored the feeling of hunger that tugged at the pit of his stomach, especially when he walked past one of the other dwellings and smelled the unmistakable scent of hot sweetbread.
When he neared the lake’s edge, Wyand quickly found Fadian in the exact spot where they had spoken on the day Wyand had finally been freed from the cage. As expected, the Stormbrother stared out towards the Council House with the tan cowl of his robe obscuring his face from view. Fadian extended a hand as Wyand approached, a hand that held a pouch of gifla. “Fine morning, Wyand,” Fadian said without turning his head.
Wyand’s spirits and opinion of the Guided instantly improved. “Fine morning, Stormbrother,” he replied, eagerly seizing the pouch and taking out the first few pieces of gifla. Its savory, smoky taste was a better way to start the morning than simple sweetbread could ever be. “You wanted to speak with me?” Wyand asked between bites.
“Not specifically with you, no,” Fadian said as he turned away from the lake. “I need to access the Thoughtcaster.” The Guided’s eyes weren’t currently glowing, but the fervor Wyand saw in them was equally startling.
“Ah,” Wyand answered simply, and retrieved the stone from its place beneath his Sreathan plate. He then removed the Thoughtcaster’s chain and passed both items to Fadian. “Just remember that the first linking can be painful when it ends,” Wyand cautioned him.
“I recall Leomar’s experience,” Fadian said, then he lowered his hood and slipped the chain around his neck. Wyand shielded his eyes as the blue glow of the stone began to pulse brighter and brighter until it released its typical blinding flash of light. Fadian took several steps back, seeming off-balance, and sat down hard in the sand along the shoreline before Wyand could catch him.
“Fadian!” Wyand exclaimed, placing his hands on the Guided’s shoulders to steady him.
“I could have gone deeper,” Fadian whispered as he stared at the Thoughtcaster, then he shook his head and passed the ancient device back to Wyand. He continued to cling to the stone from the Cavern of the Winds, however, and appeared mesmerized by its pulsating glow. “I was wrong about this stone and its purpose,” he admitted quietly. “I assumed it would serve as the means of defeating the Cultivators and freeing this world, but it is so much more. A storm approaches, Wyand, with a fury none of us can begin to imagine. Each time we use this stone, we draw the chaos of the unknown closer to us, and soon we will be forced to face it. The pulse of this stone will be our end and our beginning; it is the heart of the storm that swirls around us even now.”
Despite the chill in the morning air, sweat beaded on the shaved sides of the old man’s head as he stared out at the lake. After the last of the glow faded from the stone, he passed it back to Wyand absently. “I’ve seen what I need to see. You may go,” Fadian said as Wyand helped him to his feet. Wyand backed away slowly, still not convinced that Fadian would remain upright without support. Fadian lifted his tan hood back into place, then glanced over his shoulder at Wyand—the Stormbrother almost seemed surprised to find someone still standing nearby. “Keep a watchful eye, Wyand. Change is upon us,” Fadian cautioned him, then he resumed his silent study of the things only his eyes could see.
Wyand continued on to the Order of the Axe, then to the Wargarden after Third Meal, but no matter the task, his thoughts remained fixated on Fadian’s words throughout the day. Without conscious thought, Wyand looked to the eastern horizon numerous times for signs of an approaching storm, but the same overcast sky remained in place as it had for the past day and a half. The low clouds had the feel of weight to them, as though rain or snow was imminent, but none ever came. It was the same sensation Wyand now felt any time the stone shifted in his pocket. Change is upon us.
He returned to his bed in the Blood dwelling after Last Meal, hopeful that sleep would finally free him from Fadian’s cryptic words from earlier in the day, but sleep would not come. With every stirring of branches, Wyand listened intently for the sound of distant thunder. A storm approaches. The words echoed in his mind as loud as the Calling chimes, then they would slowly fade into silence. Each time this happened, Wyand convinced himself that the wind would finally subside long enough for him to fall asleep, and each time he would be disappointed seconds later by another gust.
After what seemed like mere seconds of rest, Wyand’s eyelids struggled open when he felt the light of morning upon them. The other men in the Blood dwelling were either already gone or finishing the process of getting dressed for the day. Wyand was confused at first when he saw the Bloodbrothers wearing light grey field clothes instead their sets of Sreathan plate, but then he remembered that this was the day of the festival that would celebrate his group’s departure from Cynmere. This festival was to be an all-day event because of the significance of finally sending the Thoughtcaster and the stone to the forefront of the conflict with the Smokedwellers.
We leave tomorrow, Wyand realized, and a sudden wave of panic scoured away the last remaining traces of sleep. He hurriedly felt his neck and his nightclothes and was relieved to find both of the sacred objects exactly where he’d left them. Today was sure to be a day of countless requests to witness the Thoughtcaster’s truth, especially since it would be leaving Cynmere for an undetermined length of time. Wyand rolled upright and retrieved his field clothes from the chest at the foot of his bed rack. For the first time since becoming a Bloodbrother, he tied a thick red sash to his waist that signified his Order. After putting it on, he had a strange sensation that he was forgetting something as he exited the Blood dwelling, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Then he paused on the path and looked down at his field clothes—this was the first morning he hadn’t worn his set of Sreathan plate since receiving it five days earlier. He didn’t realize its presence had become such a comfort until being faced with its absence.
The shore of Cynmere’s central lake came into view and Wyand was forced to step carefully around the large mud patches that remained from the rains of the previous three days. It’ll be easier to travel this path by boat if there really is another storm on the way, Wyand thought with irritation as the edge of his boot slid into another puddle. One of the large boats used as a transport to and from the Council House was nearing the shoreline, but a group of twenty people or more was already awaiting its arrival. Seeing this, Wyand opted to use one of the nearby small boats that was little more than a strip of bark. It meant more work for him, but it also meant fewer questions.
Even from halfway across the lake, Wyand could hear the drums from somewhere inside the Council House as they set the pace for each new song. He rowed somewhat lethargically, hoping to find a quiet corner somewhere within the enormous structure where he could regain some much-needed sleep. As he neared the mooring posts on the western end of the landmass, though, Wyand knew in an instant that he would find no rest today.
A man wearing the typical brown field clothes of an Axebrother squinted towards Wyand’s boat, then pointed excitedly before shouting to a group of people waiting near the mooring posts. Suddenly, there were dozens of Cynmeren from almost every Kindred Order standing in the sand, all waving to Wyand and cheering for his arrival. Wyand exhaled slowly, then paused his rowing long enough to offer a wave of his hand back at the expectant crowd. At Leomar’s order, Wyand had spent the last eleven days sharing the Thoughtcaster with anyone who asked, but the number of Cynmeren who had ye
t to request access was still staggering. This group in the sand was a good indication of how Wyand would be spending most of his day.
“Fine morning, Bloodbrother!” the man in brown field clothes shouted as Wyand’s boat neared the bank. Before Wyand could protest, the man slogged into the frigid waters up to his waist just so he could finish pulling the small vessel to one of the mooring posts.
“Fine morning, Axebrother,” Wyand replied, masking his irritation as best he could. “You don’t need to do that, really. I can handle it.” He can’t be more than a turning younger than I am, yet he’s treating me like I’m a member of the Elder Council, Wyand realized in disbelief.
“For the man who breathed life back into the Thoughtcaster, this is the least I can do,” the Axebrother replied with a respectful bow of his head. He finished tying the rope to the post, then waited expectantly as Wyand stepped ashore.
“Would you like to witness the Thoughtcaster’s truth?” Wyand asked a moment later when he realized what this man wanted. The Axebrother practically jumped with excitement, then extended his hands to receive Cynmere’s most sacred relics. As the stone flashed, Wyand kept his hands at the ready in the event this man’s return from the Interface was unpleasant. Thankfully, though, the Axebrother inhaled once and opened his eyes without any indication of losing his balance. A look of pure joy washed over the young man’s face and was followed closely by a steady flow of amazed tears.
“The Old Kingdom—Provenance—is real!” he exclaimed, passing back the relics. Wyand nodded in agreement. “And we’re finally going to be able to reach out to them!” the Axebrother continued.
“I never said that,” Wyand protested. “The beacon is somewhere in the Hall, so unless you know a way to get back in there and avoid the Cultivators in the process, we may not be able to contact Provenance anytime soon.”
The Axebrother seemed deflated for an instant, but his joy quickly returned. “With the stone you brought to us and the wisdom of the Thoughtcaster, I’m certain we will find a way,” the man said proudly.
Wyand nodded again, though his mind was filled with doubt. He watched the stone as its blue pulses receded beneath the surface, and Fadain’s words once again resonated within him. The Stormheart, Wyand thought, deciding that’s how he would internally refer to the strange object from that moment on.
As expected, the other members of the crowd rushed to Wyand as soon as they saw the first flicker of the stone’s light. Wyand didn’t have to say a word; the Axebrother eagerly instructed each person on how to access the Interface, what to ask the Monitor, and how to avoid the corruption. Soon, the entire crowd shared an expression of euphoric awe as they laughed and embraced one another. Wyand slipped away while they remained in this distracted state with shouts of “Provenance!” and “Old Ones be praised!” following him as he at last made his way towards the path to the Council House.
Guards from the Order of Stone maintained their vigil as Wyand passed between the two watchtowers. Where he normally expected to find motionless stares that somehow still conveyed disdain, Wyand was surprised to find looks of pride accompanied by an occasional approving nod. I haven’t done anything! he wanted to shout, but he knew these people now viewed him as some kind of hero just for reactivating the Thoughtcaster. And the Stormheart did that, he added to himself. Wyand forced himself to smile and nod in return, but he hurried up the path to escape their stares as fast as he could.
Wyand joined a steady stream of people as they moved up the hillside towards the Council House. Several recognized him along the way, but he was thankful no one else asked to witness the Thoughtcaster as he passed them. When he arrived at the entrance to the main hall, a Stonebrother and Stonesister stood on either side of the doorway. The woman recognized him instantly, her eyes hinting at the smile she was forced to suppress, but the man stared past him coldly as though Wyand wasn’t even there. Wyand was surprised by the Stonebrother’s lack of reaction, but was relieved that at least one person in Cynmere either didn’t know who he was or didn’t care.
Then Wyand realized the man wasn’t ignoring him at all—there was something wrong with the Stonebrother’s eyes. They appeared dark and lacked detail, almost as though they were hollow. They’re missing, Wyand realized with alarm. His eyes are missing. The thought itself was disturbing enough, but it was made worse by the fact that this man was assigned to a lookout position. Wyand’s steps faltered amid the confusion of the scene in front of him; as he stumbled, the sounds of the festival faded away into silence.
Wyand winced as a searing spike of pain suddenly formed in the left side of his head. When he looked up again, the Stonesister was gone and the Stonebrother lay on the ground in a pool of blood. The man’s green sash was held fast to the ground by a small dagger that had been stabbed through it. A faint wisp of smoke emitted from the tattered end of the sash as it whipped above the man’s body in a breeze that Wyand couldn’t feel. Then Wyand blinked and the horrific scene disappeared.
The Stonebrother and Stonesister watched Wyand with concern as he stood panting a few strides from the entrance. “All is well, Bloodbrother?” the woman asked.
Wyand’s thoughts raced. “Not enough sleep,” he answered with a forced laugh, praying that was the cause of the terrifying experience.
The two guards nodded in understanding. “A warm cup of Melsca should fix that,” the Stonesister said reassuringly. As Wyand entered the Council House, he glanced at the man’s eyes a final time, but there was nothing unusual about them now; they stared out with the standard level of apathy he’d come to expect from the members of the Order of Stone. Wyand shook his head to clear the remnants of the disturbing images from his thoughts, then he felt the sounds of the festival wash over him.
Music from the Order of Song hummed above a steady rhythm from the far side of the main hall as people laughed and talked together throughout the space. The smells of warm Melsca and sweetbread with hivespice drew Wyand to a table on the right side of the hall. Before he had moved three strides, however, a woman from somewhere within the crowd shouted, “He’s here!” and the sound of cheering replaced all others. Wyand mustered a pleasant smile and waved as he continued towards the table covered in food and drink, praying that no one from the crowd desired access to the Thoughtcaster right away.
“You look hungry, Wyand,” Leighelle smiled as she appeared between him and the table of food. “Here.” She offered him a steaming cup of Melsca and a plate with two pieces of sweetbread stacked on top of it.
A lingering memory of the dead Stonebrother was thankfully pushed aside as Wyand’s mouth watered. “I am,” he replied simply, which made Leighelle laugh for reasons he didn’t understand. She led him to the side of the main hall and sat beside him on one of the long benches while he ate. The food and drink were gone in an instant, much to Leighelle’s delight.
“Impressive!” the Handsister exclaimed with another laugh.
“I had forgotten that I was hungry. Thank you, Leighelle,” Wyand said. He prepared to reach for the Stormheart, assuming time with the Thoughtcaster would be her next request, but Leighelle surprised him.
“Let’s dance, Wyand,” the Handsister suggested, and before Wyand could protest, she had already lifted him by his hands and led him onto the floor of the main hall. In the weeks since arriving in Cynmere, Wyand had avoided dancing until now. He understood the principle of moving to match the rhythm, but there appeared to be an established set of patterns that his body did not yet know. “Just watch what I do, then copy it,” Leighelle shouted above the music, and Wyand nodded silently. Maybe this would occupy his thoughts enough to wash away the memory of the eyeless Stonebrother, or at least silence Fadian’s words for a while.
As the Order of Song shifted to a new pattern, Leighelle’s body swayed in time with each drum beat. Wyand found himself mesmerized by the shifting of her long white robes, and a sudden memory flashed into his thoughts of Lissara dancing with Grigg in much the same way. Without thin
king, Wyand began to sway with her, which brought an encouraging sparkle of intrigue to the Handsister’s dark blue eyes.
The speed of the music increased, and Leighelle suddenly rushed past him, spun, then rushed back. On the next series of beats, Wyand copied her movements and the two of them spun around each other flawlessly. Wyand began to notice the Cynmeren’s dancing followed the same principles as the practice forms he had studied with Adelea: each move had its own counter, and the only way to succeed was to always watch your opponent. Leighelle would add some new flourish every time the pattern of the music repeated, and on the next cycle, Wyand would copy what he had seen.
By the time the song reached its peak, Wyand and Leighelle twirled around each other with intricate steps, claps, jumps, and spins. When the last notes ended, she leapt forward and hugged him fiercely. “You are a fast learner, young man,” she said with a sly grin, and Wyand laughed in reply. He had to admit it had been a fun experience, plus he hadn’t heard Fadian’s warning in his thoughts once, so that was a welcome relief.
Leighelle ushered Wyand back over to the benches by the wall where another cup of Melsca was already waiting for him. Wyand suddenly noticed a group of Handsisters had gathered by the benches during the song; their grins and stares made it clear they were waiting for him as well. Leighelle must have felt his shoulders sag, because she turned to him a step later with a smile that seemed a bit too sweet to be genuine. “What is it?” she asked with exaggerated innocence.
“You all want to use the Thoughtcaster, don’t you?” he sighed.
“Of course!” the Handsister replied with a laugh, then she pulled Wyand close and continued in a quieter tone. “We all want the same thing, Wyand. Unlike most others in Cynmere, though, I’m at least willing to put forth a little effort before I just start making demands. Yes, I want to use the Thoughtcaster, and yes, those women from my Order want to as well.”
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