“You talk as though you think we’ll stay here forever,” Ryna replied with a skeptical glance.
“I just meant if we do stay,” Halwen said quickly. “The idea that I could work in the Order of Hands is exciting. That’s all. I was excited.” She trailed off, looking dejected as she stared into the corner of the room. As always, though, she recovered quickly. “The Handsisters also told me there is some kind of festival happening tonight that we should go to.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not? I want to learn more about these people.”
“Who will look after the Mainwright?” Ryna demanded.
“Some of the Handsisters will stay here to tend all of the injured. They said they can manage without us.”
“I’m not leaving her, especially not to go to some festival. You abandon her if you want, but I’ll be right here.”
Halwen recoiled from the accusation and stood up abruptly to leave. She spun in the doorway to face Ryna. “How can you be so…” Halwen’s lips bunched together tightly as she contemplated her next word, and her eyes fixated on the bone weapon still lashed to Ryna’s side, “…stubborn,” she spat. Then, with an agitated swirl of her white robes, Halwen was gone.
Ryna exhaled loudly as Halwen left; this day had proven to be far more frustrating than expected. She glanced back to the tiny hole high in the wall and was relieved to find no wax ants staring back at her for once. They would be back again, though, Ryna was certain of that. The Mainwright stirred suddenly in her bed and muttered something unintelligible. Ryna leaned in quietly to avoid disturbing her and looked for any signs of distress.
“Unwoven,” Stora said calmly as her eyes opened to fixate on Ryna. She was decidedly not asleep, and by the tone of her voice it seemed that the Mainwright had actually been awake and listening for some time. Somehow, even lying helpless in a sick bed, she exuded control and grace.
“Forgive me, Mainwright,” Ryna blurted in surprise as she backed away. “I didn’t mean to waken you.”
“You didn’t,” Stora replied quickly. “Well, not exactly. Having bandages ripped from skin isn’t something most people can sleep through.”
“I understand, Mainwright,” Ryna said, bowing her head. “Do you need anything?”
Stora studied her for an instant and seemed to be deep in thought. “Water,” she said at last. Ryna reached for one of the containers on a shelf beside the bed and passed it to the Mainwright’s waiting hand. Stora gripped the container awkwardly from its base with one hand, and used the other hand to wipe the lip of the container with her sleeve. “You touched the rim,” she explained, and Ryna nodded in shameful understanding of Stora’s view of the Unwoven.
After her trembling hands guided the container to her mouth, the Mainwright took several lengthy gulps before turning her attention back to Ryna. “You need to go to that festival tonight,” Stora said as she handed the container back; she was careful to ensure that no part of her touched Ryna in the process. “I want you to go learn whatever you can about this ‘Cynmere’. Also, I want you to keep Halwen safe—I don’t trust these people either.”
“I will do as you say, Mainwright,” Ryna replied slowly with her head bowed. “But if you agree we shouldn’t trust the Cynmeren, why would you want us to learn about them, let alone go to one of their festivals?”
“Necessity,” Stora said quietly. “If we ever hope to escape this place, I need to know everything I can about our captors—their beliefs and rituals, their secrets and weaknesses. All of it. And you will be the one to bring that information to me, because you are going to become a part of their society. Consider it an act of penance.”
Ryna stood in silence. She expected her punishment as an Unwoven to be severe, but this task from the Mainwright would require Ryna to become a completely different person. To assimilate into the Cynmeren meant to ignore her deepest beliefs and, essentially, it meant she would have to lie every day to these people and to herself. “I don’t know how to complete this task, Mainwright,” Ryna admitted at last. “Forgive me.”
“Forgiveness?” Stora laughed, then fell into a fit of coughing. She continued as soon as she could breathe again. “There is no forgiveness for an Unwoven, you know that. There is only penance. As for this task, you will figure it out; if not, it might be time for me to inform the Handsisters of your dark past. Based on how highly the Cynmeren regard life, I don’t think they would treat a murderer too kindly.”
“No! Please,” Ryna whispered. “I will do as you command, Mainwright, it just makes me uncomfortable to think about lying like that.”
Stora’s eyes suddenly flickered with a sinister light. “Does Halwen know what you did to Onaela? Have you told her of your sins yet?” Ryna’s mouth hung open in apprehension. “You haven’t told her. I knew it. So, you see? You are perfect for this task, because a lie of omission is a lie all the same.” The Mainwright smiled victoriously as she waited for an answer; she knew that her logic was flawless.
“It will be done,” Ryna said quietly.
“Of course it will,” Stora replied dismissively. “You may go now. Find Halwen, tell her you’ve had a change of heart about this festival.” Stora settled back into her bed for more rest and closed her eyes.
“Yes, Mainwright,” Ryna nodded sadly as she turned to leave.
“Unwoven,” Stora called just as Ryna reached the door.
“Yes?”
“Try to look happier. It’s more convincing.”
Ryna reluctantly complied, though she knew maintaining a smile throughout the following days would be her most difficult task yet.
---
Another burst of laughter erupted from the Handsisters walking just in front of Ryna; she forced herself to laugh too for fear of being seen as detached or moody. Halwen was with the group of Handsisters, and she glanced back with a warm smile when she noticed Ryna laughing. It was an innocent gesture, but to see such happiness on Halwen’s face made Ryna’s heart feel heavy with guilt. It’s all a lie, she whispered in her mind, though she kept laughing all the same. Ryna adjusted her new white robe uncomfortably; when she agreed to attend the festival, the Handsisters insisted she discard the old one. While the new robe was soft and warm, it made her skin itch with the wrongness of its presence any time she was reminded of her ongoing deceit.
The edge of night brushed the western sky behind Ryna as she walked from the Hand dwellings towards the enormous lake. Supposedly, the festival would begin at dusk on the strange cluster of trees and stone in the center of the lake that everyone referred to as the “Council House.” The name meant nothing to her, but Ryna was intrigued by the descriptions she’d heard. Everyone spoke of the unimaginable size and intricate architecture of the Council House, though when she overheard one of the Handsisters trying to convince Halwen earlier that it was more impressive than the Hall of the Venerates, Ryna had stopped listening. Now, as she watched the multitudes of flickering lights hidden within the layer of trees, she couldn’t help but feel curious.
As the edge of the lake drew closer, Ryna’s curiosity faded rapidly into apprehension. She hadn’t truly considered it before, but the only way to reach the Council House was by boat, which meant she would travel over water. After the fall from Locboran, the idea of floating on top of any body of water was terrifying, but Ryna suppressed her fear just as she had suppressed her distrust for the Cynmeren themselves.
Lantern lights shimmered on the water as dozens of boats moved from points along the shore to the Council House and back. There was an urgency to their movement, but it was a feeling of excitement, not panic, that set their hurried pace. Every voice Ryna could hear, every face she could see, seemed eager to reach the center of the lake and take part in the festival. She did not share their eagerness, though; to Ryna, enduring this festival was a task like any other.
A boat without passengers sped across the water towards the group of Handsisters; as it turned, Ryna could see from the boatmen’s smiles that t
hey knew some of the members of this group of Handsisters. At least ten boatmen manned the oars that pushed the sizeable boat to its next destination, and though they looked happy, Ryna could see the exhaustion in their eyes. Her heart beat faster when she heard the hull slide gently on the sand, and faster still when the first of the Handsisters climbed aboard. Halwen stepped into the boat without any hesitation; seeing that made Ryna feel even more embarrassed about her aversion towards the water. Ryna set her jaw, ignored her fears, and climbed onto the deck, all while sustaining her mandated smile. Her tight grip on the bone weapon hanging from her new sash was the only outward sign of her inner anxiety.
“Isn’t this exciting?” Halwen whispered as Ryna took a seat beside her in the central row of benches.
“It’s all I can think about,” Ryna replied, choosing her words carefully to avoid disappointing her friend or lying to her outright. As the boat backed away from shore, it took every bit of Ryna’s self-control to stay seated and not leap back onto dry land while she still could. Before she could contemplate escape any further, however, the boat swung around until it pointed towards the Council House and began picking up speed for its next journey. The boatmen to Ryna’s right and those to Halwen’s left labored with each pull of the oars, but they all maintained perfect synchronization regardless of their fatigue. Ryna found it impossible not to respect their level of dedication and focus, though she would never admit that if anyone asked.
What had appeared as a small mound of trees and rocks from the shore revealed itself to be an astonishingly large landmass as the boat carried Ryna closer. Outcroppings of stone at least ten strides tall lined its perimeter, and their tops formed the base for the hill of dense foliage that stretched from one shore to the other. Seeing no patch of sand large enough to land a boat made Ryna curious where they were going to stop. It was clear there had to be some means of accessing this place, though, because the lights of countless torches shone onto the water below from within small openings carved into the stones and the hill above. There were so many of these windows it appeared that the entire mound might be hollow.
Thick roots that were as wide as the boat was long covered the surface of the stone perimeter and disappeared into the water below. Ryna was certain these had to be from the same bizarre arch-root trees she’d seen in the forest on the way to Cynmere, though she had no idea what purpose they served. As the boat turned west to run parallel to the shore, a sharp gust of cold wind blew across Ryna’s face from somewhere in the valley beyond the wall of falling water. She pulled the white cowl tight around her head and wiped the tears from her eyes just in time to finally understand where this boat was headed.
A narrow strip of sand appeared that extended along the base of the slope, until it expanded into a large bank at the eastern end of the landmass. Vacant boats crowded the water’s edge, each moored to a thick post barely visible above the sand. Ryna tried to count them, but more boats were added with every passing second as droves of people arrived for the festival. Two stone watchtowers similar to those that overlooked the entrance to Cynmere stood at the point where sand met rock and framed a pathway that climbed up the steep interior hill.
“We must hurry,” Leighelle called from the front of the boat as it turned right and then slid back onto the sand. As they slowed, a sudden sound caught Ryna’s attention that she hadn’t been able to hear before over the sound of the boat slicing through the water. It was a low, rhythmic thump that emanated from somewhere beyond the towers—at times shifting from a single beat to multiple consecutive pulses in rapid succession. The only thing she had ever heard that sounded similar was the unified striking of the Fyrnraed’s staves upon the floor during a Casting, so a new wave of anxiety suddenly tugged at Ryna’s core.
Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.
There was no time for Ryna to dwell on her worries, though, because all of the other passengers were already making their way off of the rear of the boat. Ryna had no choice but to follow. She paused at the boat’s edge, exhaled into the cold night air, and watched a cloud of her own breath disappear as she stepped onto the sand below.
“Glad you decided to join us, Sister,” Leighelle said with a smile as she and Halwen waited for Ryna to catch up to the rest of the group. Ryna instantly thought to correct the insufferable woman after being addressed as “Sister” again, but seeing the excitement on Halwen’s face made Ryna withhold her irritation for now. For what she was certain would not be the last time that night, Ryna forced herself to smile.
“It really does mean a lot to me that you decided to come, Ryna,” Halwen whispered as she slowed to walk with her friend.
“You’re here, so this is exactly where I’m supposed to be,” Ryna replied. Once again it wasn’t lying, but it wasn’t the harsh truth either: Ryna was only there because she was following the Mainwright’s orders.
The sky faded to black as Ryna and Halwen passed between the two watchtowers and merged with the stream of excited workers from other boats. With the sun gone, the crowd’s pace surged faster and faster as they hurried along the winding path that led up the slope. Their steps seemed in time with the thundering rhythm, and Ryna unconsciously matched her stride to the same cadence.
Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.
The dirt and stones resonated with the mysterious pulse, and Ryna felt an undeniable energy coursing through the air the higher she climbed on the path. After ascending one final steep crest, an enormous opening framed by torches appeared in the hillside. The droves of people flowed through this gap, all under the watchful eyes of members from the Order of Stone who stood motionless just outside of the torches. Ryna knew they were from the Order of Stone based on some of the conversations she had heard between the Handsisters—from what she had gathered, the Stonesisters and Stonebrothers were responsible for maintaining the safety of all occupants of Cynmere. Whatever “evil” it was that they stood guard against, though, Ryna still did not know.
Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Thump-thump.
It was clear that the rhythm emanated from the recessed entryway, but now there were other sounds mixed with it that were unlike anything Ryna had ever heard before. There was a low-pitched droning hum that would sometimes slide in a single pulse into a rapid series of high-pitched tones before returning to the same hum once again. A delicate tinkling chime occasionally accentuated the hum; it reminded Ryna of the sound of several thin pieces of metal striking together. Whatever was creating the rhythm itself had varying tones embedded within it, too, that were lost beneath the power of the main pulse anywhere beyond the entryway. The only identifiable sound Ryna heard was that of hundreds, maybe thousands, of conversations all flowing together into a single rolling undertone that spilled out into the night.
Leighelle spun to face them as she walked. “It’s called music,” she shouted over the mixture of sounds. “Enjoy it!” She and the other Handsisters rushed through the opening with a burst of joyful laughter, and Ryna and Halwen followed before suddenly being overwhelmed by a series of stimuli that excited all of their senses. They both lifted their eyes upward in amazement and fixated on the ceiling of the structure that lay beyond the entryway.
Two enormous roots from the archway plants soared overhead, spanning the length of a subterranean space that was easily ten times larger than the Hall of the Fyrnraed. They served as the main supports for a ceiling comprised of hundreds of smaller interwoven roots which extended down to form the domed walls of the chamber. Sconces dotted the walls between small openings that overlooked the dark lake, and Ryna realized these had to be the lights she had seen from the boat.
Beyond the impressive size of the hall or the intricate natural beauty offered by its construction, the sight that amazed Ryna the most was the unbelievable volume of people easily contained within the massive space. The undertone of voices audible beyond the entryway didn’t begin to capture how large the population of Cynmere truly was. Everywhere Ryna looked, there were more p
eople—people sitting and talking, people drinking, laughing, and walking from one smiling conversation to another, but one group stood out beyond the others.
In the center of the room, men and women from each of the Kindred Orders moved in time with the rhythm that filled the hall. Their steps were light and quick, and they swirled around each other in mesmerizing patterns that were nearly impossible for Ryna’s eyes to follow. At a sudden increase in the pace of the rhythm, the women of the group spun away from the men in a blur of color as their robes fanned out around their knees. They spun back in unison a moment later to return to the earlier mixture of both men and women, all gyrating around each other with exuberant intensity.
It was a shameless display and a waste of energy by Locboran’s standards, but the elegance of these people’s movements was undeniable even to someone as devout as Ryna. She glanced at Halwen, who stared open-mouthed at the scene before her. Halwen suddenly reached out and gripped Ryna’s hand from fear or fascination or both and led them both deeper into the awe-inspiring hall. Ryna followed numbly as her other senses slowly began to return.
The “music” as Leighelle had called it appeared to be generated by a group of people along the far wall who interacted with a series of strange implements that Ryna had never seen before. The most familiar was that of a man swinging something that looked similar to a hammer in each hand against a series of wide, flat-topped tubes, though the sounds produced were nothing like the ring of an anvil. Instead, the deep booms she’d heard along the path leading to the Council House resonated from the short tubes as the man struck against them in a fixed rhythm. Each produced a unique tone that he blended in seamless patterns that were somehow both complex and yet constant.
Seated beside this man was an older woman holding a long wooden cylinder in one hand and a stringed stick in the other. The cylinder had two thin cords running its entire length, as well as a series of small holes spaced at even intervals above one large hole near its base. As she slid the stick across the cords and over the large hole, a hum echoed within the cylinder that was amplified somehow before it exited. Each time she moved the gnarled fingers on her left hand to cover the small holes, the resonating hum changed tone and complimented the higher-pitched buzz of the cords themselves. It was this buzz of the cords that was the most fascinating, though, as in one instant their tone was low and droning, and in the next the woman’s fingers darted across them to create elaborate escalating and descending patterns.
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