Kingdomturn Read online

  Kingdomturn

  Book One

  of

  The Fractured Visions

  MATTHEW A. WILLIAMS

  Copyright © 2020 Matthew A. Williams

  All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or otherwise transmitted by any means without the prior written consent of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover design by Brigitte Huson © 2020

  brigittemarie.etsy.com

  All other illustrations by Matthew A. Williams © 2020

  ISBN: 978-1-7350489-1-8

  For Sarah, my unwavering tether to the hidden world of inspiration.

  CONTENTS

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  EPILOGUE

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would not have been possible without the assistance of all of its draft readers. Special thanks to Sarah, Mom, Dad, Sam, Fred, Zach, Sean, Dale, Cory, Nate, and Gray. Your input (and patience!) transformed my ideas into something I’m proud for others to read.

  PROLOGUE

  The twin moons peered down at the sprawling city of Paz Lumina. “Neptune’s Eye,” the locals called it, when the smaller of Corazon’s two moons eclipsed the larger. The flood tide would be here soon—this thought brought a smile to Curator Gerrick’s face. Seeing the roads of Paz Lumina transform into canals, the buildings shift seamlessly into their elevated positions, was a masterwork of engineering that Gerrick had not witnessed in a very long time. When was the last time I saw Neptune’s Eye? he wondered idly. It seemed an eternity. Then again, after the process one had to endure to join the ranks of the Order, many memories felt almost ancient. Focus, Gerrick reminded himself. A Curator must never forget his purpose.

  Most of the townspeople reveled in celebration of the coming tide. The flood tide signified the end of the work year for most commoners since the fields of the lowlands would remain under water for the entirety of the next season. Balconies and rooftops across the city shone with the dim lantern lights of citizens returning the gaze of Neptune’s Eye. The scene was calming from a distance, but the closer one was to the city itself, the easier it was to realize that the mindset of Paz Lumina was anything but peaceful. Whispers of revolution electrified the once-calm capital city, especially on the night of a flood tide when change was already at the forefront of everyone’s mind.

  Gerrick turned his head slightly and the vision of Paz Lumina vanished. It was replaced with that of an isolated hillside far outside the city. Only the wealthiest of merchants and businessmen had homes in such an exclusive area—a place where the changing of the tides meant nothing more than another good excuse to throw a party. He stared at one rooftop in particular, waiting for the faintest hint of light. The rooftop belonged to a palatial estate—quite likely the largest in Paz Lumina. Guard towers silhouetted in the moonlight reminded Gerrick of the influence and power associated with this place, and of the grim result that awaited any who tried to forcefully enter. Thankfully, Curator Gerrick was on a hilltop over fifteen kilometers away. Patience, he thought to himself. The time would soon be coming.

  Several long minutes passed as Gerrick studied the scene before him. It was just as the report had said—a large party of the Corazon ruling elite had gathered inside the main dining hall; as such, guard details on the roof and surrounding wall-tops passed at three times their normal frequency. Teams of four walked back and forth while Gerrick watched, until they finally stopped their rotations. The guards fanned out so they were evenly spaced, looking outwards from all four sides of the massive rooftop.

  Light from the rooftop doorway abruptly spilled into the darkness as guests moved into the fresh night air for drinks, dessert, and a much-anticipated speech. A large table was set to accommodate more than fifty, and an elevated platform with a lectern awaited this evening’s speaker. The occupants of the dining hall one by one transitioned outside until finally the only people left indoors were house workers and the cook staff. All the party-goers began immediately to take their seats; there would be no casual mingling this evening. For many, this was the first time they had ever had the chance to see the Sovereign of Corazon speak in person, let alone socialize with the man in his home. Curator Gerrick wondered if they knew of the atrocities committed by the man they idolized—the leader of their world. Did they realize that this same rooftop still bore the echoes of the most recent round of firing squad victims? No, the cleaning staff of this house and the Sovereign’s social engineers were equally skilled at making evidence disappear through the expert application of bleach and misinformation, respectively. Thankfully, the Order had information sources of its own to sift through all the lies that shrouded this man with false honor.

  Hector Carados, Sovereign of Corazon, appeared in the doorway. The rooftop erupted with applause as he made his way to the lectern, though Gerrick could not hear even a hint of the sound from his current position. He was thankful to be far removed from that group, so eager to absorb the lies of a corrupt leader and spread them to their own nations. The Darganfyd Curators were revered as the guardians of truth and freedom for all humanity, and as such, it was each member’s sacred duty to ensure no ruler or governing body misled its people. The horrors marring Corazon’s recent untold history were enough to make any informed observer cry for revolution; the fact that Curator Gerrick once called Corazon his home world made him seethe with righteous fury. Change was long overdue, and he would bring it to the people of this world—his people.

  Instead of allowing his disgust and hatred to control him, Gerrick channeled this fervor into studying the rooftop and preparing for the next step. He inhaled slowly, to steady his hand. Gerrick did not enjoy the act of ending someone’s life; that had been the hardest part of the transition process to attain Curator status. No matter how many times he had performed this sacred duty—even against someone as vile as Carados—there was still an instant of doubt before pulling the trigger. He exhaled in an effort to push aside the thousands of reasons that flooded into his mind trying to convince him not to take a life. The man has a family…. No! Gerrick shouted at himself internally. He thought instead of the citizens watching Neptune’s Eye as it neared its peak. He thought of the families torn apart by the Carados regime. The flood tide was imminent. He steadied his Extraction Rifle and adjusted its range to match Carados’ forehead precisely. Nothing blocked the extraction pathway; there would be no collateral damage. Though he knew the Sovereign could not see him—no one could currently—Ger
rick looked Carados in the eyes one final time through the scope of the Extraction Rifle.

  Focus, patience, action. This was the Curator’s chant, taught to every initiate on their first day in the Order. Curator Gerrick took those words into himself as he drew a deep breath.

  There was no sound when the Extraction Rifle fired, nor light or recoil of any kind. The trigger was pulled and the job was done. Hector Carados stopped mid-sentence, staring through dead eyes at a stunned audience, as a thin column of dust shot silently forward from the center of his forehead. The column drilled deeper into his furrowed brow as the boundary between dust and flesh quickly made its way to the back of his head. Eyes still wide with disbelief, the Sovereign of Corazon slumped forward onto the lectern. Neptune’s Eye shown victoriously through the extraction wound, and cast a grim spotlight onto the now-fleeing party guests. Curator Gerrick turned to look upon Paz Lumina once more before silently departing. The flood tide had begun.

  Deep within the darkened stillness, a single pinpoint of light burst into existence. Though its destination was unknown, the path it travelled was clear. It hurtled through untold vastness, stirring the emptiness in its wake.

  We felt this disturbance, and we observed.

  1

  The walls surrounding Aldhagen cast long shadows across the city in the early morning sunlight. Wyand stood in the doorway of his quarters, enjoying the calm and examining the approaching bank of clouds beyond the towering city walls. The day was going to remain cool, most likely with rain. Good, Wyand thought. The crops are nearing their peak and need as much water as they can get. Even though farming was not his task, he still enjoyed secretly knowing when a harvest would be more bountiful than usual. Surely the Venerates could forgive such a petty sin.

  The bell for First Calling sounded from the center of the city, and its message echoed throughout the living quarters. The morning quiet was quickly overrun by the sounds of hungry workers ready to begin their daily routines. Wyand watched Aldhagen burst into life as its citizens all began moving to the base of the great citadel—the Hall of the Venerates—for the First Calling meal. The Hall punctuated the otherwise uniform horizon, and served as the meeting point for each of the four daily Callings.

  Wyand joined his fellow workers in their trek to First Calling, eager to hear the morning message and fill his now-grumbling stomach. For a day of honorable work, one needed a full mind as well as a full belly—First Calling would address both of those needs. Greetings and small conversations filled the air as Wyand passed by row after row of living quarters, each one housing workers of a different task. While he walked, Wyand finished tying a tight sima that would keep his hair from hanging down around his shoulders. The braid was simple enough to tie, and Wyand always felt more prepared for the day of work once his sima was firmly in place.

  “Peace and honor, Wyand,” a voice shouted over the crowd. Wyand turned to see Keltin approaching from one of the rows of dormitories to his left. He and Wyand had been in the same learning group since they were children in the Hall and had shared each morning for nearly eight turnings. When they were very young, Wyand and Keltin had looked almost identical: the same smile, the same green-brown eyes. Now it was easy to place Keltin as a field worker based on his dark skin and rust-colored hair.

  “Peace and honor, Keltin,” Wyand returned. “The day looks promising for farming, doesn’t it?”

  “And what would a rock breaker know of the needs of crops?” Keltin replied, a grin following as he began walking by Wyand’s side. Wyand opened his mouth to reply, but the bell sounded again, much louder now that the Hall was so close. Instead of returning the banter, Wyand just shook his head and chuckled as they quickened their pace. It would be shameful if they were the last to be seated for the morning message.

  Long before he reached the doorway of the Calling Room, Wyand could make out the unmistakable aroma of fresh sweet bread. Today was shaping up to be a wonderful day indeed. He and Keltin passed through the doors of the Calling Room and made a path between rows of tables to the seating area for their learning group. Secretly, Wyand hoped the message would be short today; his hunger for sustenance outweighed his hunger for enlightenment. This was not a fitting thought during a Calling, though, so he forced it from his head quickly to avoid shaming himself. The rest of the learning group smiled and offered quiet greetings as he and Keltin took their usual seats. Wyand felt a sharp pang of guilt for being the last to be seated, even if it was just within his own group and not the Calling Room as a whole. Thankfully, the seats at all of the tables in the semicircular Calling Room faced the central speaking platform, so none of his friends could see him blush.

  The last of Aldhagen’s workers dashed in just before the final bells of First Calling sounded. The final bells rang loudest of all—three resonating chimes that seemed to make the air itself shimmer from the sound. It was within this moment, the echo of the chimes still lingering like a comforting mist, that the Venerates entered the room. Despite countless mornings that had begun in this fashion, Wyand was still fascinated by the luminous grey robes and ornate staves that adorned each Venerate. The rustling of curtains behind the speaking platform as each Venerate passed through them was the only sound that could be heard. Somehow, the footsteps of the Venerates left no audible trace as they moved in perfect synchronization onto the platform. Wyand had wondered many times how such a feat was possible; but then, how could a miner ever hope to understand the secrets of deities? Instead of pondering the impossible silence of their stride, Wyand chose to sit in awe of the Venerate procession. It was reassuring to view the Venerates’ actions as beyond comprehension, even the small mysteries such as this.

  The procession ended, with each Venerate standing at the edge of the speaking platform facing a different section of the audience. The morning message began as all of the Venerates chanted in unison:

  Open your eyes and give thanks to the dawn!

  Open your ears and heed the message!

  Open your minds and let the truth reign!

  The audience responded:

  May the light illumine our every task!

  May our thoughts reflect the Lifegivers’ words!

  May peace and honor guide us in all things!

  Now that the workers had prepared themselves for the message, each of the Venerates spoke in succession. One of the Venerates facing away from Wyand began.

  “Peace and honor, men of Aldhagen.”

  “Peace and honor to you, Venerated Ones,” the crowd replied.

  A second Venerate continued, this one nearly facing Wyand’s section. “We now give you a portion of our wisdom, so that you may gain some small understanding of your importance in this world.”

  “As you are all aware, the tasks you take on each day ensure your fellow workers will be healthy and strong for the days that follow,” said a third Venerate. “There are no trivial endeavors. Carry out your tasks with honor, take pride in each grueling step, and know that you serve Aldhagen well. Your work brings the harvest to the table; your fatigue shapes the steel of the axe. Without each of you always striving to achieve more than you did yesterday, this society will falter. To reject your task is to reject your people.”

  “Those who follow our guidance closely,” another Venerate said, “will one day be chosen for High Calling and will serve the Venerates here within our Hall. This is the promised comfort that awaits the diligent.”

  The Venerate facing Wyand spoke next.

  “This is a time for rejoicing! Soon, we will reach out to the Old Kingdom once more. Have faith this will be the turning that they hear our call, and will respond with an invitation of peace.”

  With a start, Wyand realized that only a few days were left until the Kingdomturn festival. The festival served to honor the greatest gift the Venerates could offer of themselves—to sacrifice a vast amount of their dwindling magic to reach out to the Old Kingdom of Man. The Venerates spoke of a Great Plague that swept through the Old Kingdom,
a terrible disease that left only a fraction of the population untouched. The Venerates arrived, having sensed mankind’s distress, and began the task of relocating survivors to a far-distant place that came to be known as Aldhagen. The beacon atop the Hall was activated every Kingdomturn, but for more than three hundred festivals no one from the Old Kingdom had responded. The people of Aldhagen were expected to remain vigilant and hopeful; but the more time that passed in silence, the louder the whispered truth became: the Old Kingdom was lost.

  Wyand felt a deep and hollow sadness bore into his core. The thought of being alone—the only city of man left in existence—made all of their work here in Aldhagen seem so futile. Yet this same feeling of isolation steeled his will to carry on. This was a common, although usually unspoken, motivation among all his fellow workers. If they truly were the last city of man, then above all else they had to survive as an honorable example of what mankind could be. Whether the Old Kingdom stood or not, the work they did here would not be forgotten. His determination renewed, Wyand focused once more on the morning message. The Venerates were preparing to give the benediction.

  “May patience and grace guide you through your endeavors, and may the work of your hands fill your spirits with peace and honor,” the Venerates said in unison. All heads bowed in the Calling Room as the benediction chimes sounded and the Venerates disappeared silently once more into the upper levels of their Hall. Wyand raised his head after the final resonating chime, and smiled broadly as the servers entered the room with sweet bread and cool water. He would work with great honor this day.

  ---

  Wyand rested his hand against the cold stone wall to soothe his burning fingers. Water trickled steadily down the face of the stone and flowed into the rivulet at his feet. It must still be raining above, he thought. No daylight could reach a corridor this deep within the mine, but Wyand was certain it was still overcast. Dim torchlight from farther up the tunnel provided his only illumination, though Wyand’s eyes had adjusted to the twilight. He’d been down here alone for the entire morning. The steam rising from his shirt reminded him just how hard he’d been working; he was proud to see it. If he could keep this pace for the rest of the day, he’d be several steps deeper into the new tunnel than he was already. From the size of the pile of rubble behind him, Wyand guessed that it was approaching Second Calling. Best get back to it before it’s time to head up, he told himself.