Ash, she realized. It’s ash. But why? What did it symbolize? And what was the purpose of the mark itself? Ryna’s mind burned with questions, but she knew that asking them now would lead to stern words from Leighelle if not something far worse. She slowly pressed her fingertips against her forehead and formed a mark to match Leighelle’s. With all of the Handsisters satisfied with her performance and no longer watching her, Ryna hurriedly wiped her hands together to remove the remaining ash. She could still feel it on her fingers, though, no matter how long she scrubbed.
As Ryna followed the group farther into the open expanse beyond the awning, she realized this was not just a simple clearing in the forest. From the light of countless torches, she saw that the same enormous Scarwood roots that formed the roof of the main hall below framed the edges of this space on all sides, effectively sealing it off from everything but the sky through their incredible height and thickness. Her eyes followed the two roots to a single ancient Scarwood tree that overlooked the far end of the clearing. Its diameter was easily four times that of the thick roots, and its fronds soared high above all of the other neighboring trees. The warm yellow glow of the torches reflected in shifting patterns of light on the underside of the glistening fronds, thus bathing the entire clearing in the gentle hues of twilight and further accentuating the unparalleled grandeur of the old tree.
Leighelle and the Handsisters found a spot to stand with a ready view of the center of the clearing. She ushered Ryna, Halwen, and the Unwoven to the front of their group so the newcomers could more easily witness the events of the Reclaiming Ceremony. The branches stirred in the cold breeze; their soft brushing sound seemed loud compared to the silence of the hundreds of people standing beneath them. Ryna, Halwen, and the Unwoven exchanged wide-eyed glances as they waited for the mysterious Reclaiming Ceremony to begin.
From a small doorway at the base of the Scarwood tree, a sudden ripple of movement caught Ryna’s attention. In the doorway, another person shrouded in a black robe stepped forward from the shadows. His right hand held a short stick, and his left held a smaller version of the flat tube that Ryna had witnessed in the main hall—a drum, as Leighelle had called it. He stood motionless, perhaps surveying the crowd through the darkness of the veil, then he began a slow, steady rhythm.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
The hooded figure stepped forward, walking unnaturally slowly to stay in time with the drum. Behind him, two columns of people appeared, all dressed in the same unsettling fashion and all walking at the same reverent pace. Between the columns, they carried long, irregular bundles of brown fabric on their shoulders that each looked to be around two strides long. Ryna realized with sickening certainty that every one of those bundles contained one of Cynmere’s dead; she counted six of them in total. Her eyes followed the path of the grim procession as it continued towards a large mound of brush and limbs in the center of the clearing.
As they walked, the members of this group did something that startled Ryna even more than the idea of carrying the dead—they began chanting in unison. It was a deep and guttural sound that seemed to bubble in each of their throats and resonate, and to Ryna it sounded like it had to be painful. There were no words that she could discern, just a rolling pattern of vowel sounds that changed pitch with the rhythm of the drum.
Their chant echoed throughout the clearing and was coupled with the voices of the crowd as the procession moved past. Somehow, every one of the Cynmeren knew exactly what sound came next in the series. When the procession moved past Ryna’s group, she witnessed Leighelle, Holt, and the Handsisters join in the strange chant. Halwen and the Unwoven looked at her uncertainly—it felt awkward to be the only ones unfamiliar with the chant, let alone the only ones who didn’t know how to even generate the rasping sounds themselves.
When they reached the mound of brush, the veiled figures delicately leaned each of the six bundles upright against it while still chanting. The clearing hummed with energy as the members of the procession backed away from their sacred burdens, but the rhythm still continued. Ryna glanced towards the opening at the base of Scarwood again and found an unveiled group entering the clearing, this one comprised of eight individuals who walked with both respect and authority. From the light of their torches, Ryna could see that they had endured many turnings and had all undoubtedly participated in this ceremony countless times before, yet they regarded the six bundles before them with deep sadness and profound pride. They stood facing the mound for a moment until the chant and the rhythm itself came to an end, leaving silence in the clearing.
“Brothers and sisters, tonight we gather once again to honor those who have fallen,” the tallest man from the group of eight began, circling the mound as he spoke. “But this is a time for rejoicing, for in the midst of our sadness we must remember that those before us who are about to be reclaimed will join the Old Ones in their watch over Cynmere. May their spirits be forever at peace beneath the shade of the Council Tree, and may their wisdom and energy guide us all.” With that, he stepped back from the center of the clearing to join the members of the black-robed procession. An old woman from the group of eight approached one of the bundles with her torch held high.
“Bloodbrother Gainam,” she proclaimed before igniting the bundle standing before her. The fire crept slowly up the fabric as the old woman moved on to the next body. “Bloodbrother Elan,” she said, beginning the next fire. The process repeated for two more of the cloth bundles—Bloodbrother Abrond and Bloodbrother Deirid—before the old woman stepped back from the growing blaze. A muscular bald man from the group approached the mound to address the last two bodies.
“Stonebrother Byrgrund,” he announced in a deep and booming voice, followed soon thereafter by, “Stonebrother Aderion.” With the six bundles alight, the fire grew quickly into a column of flame; Ryna could feel its heat on her face even from thirty strides away. Its intensity also illuminated the faces of the crowd, many of which were streaked with tears. Ryna didn’t know any of the people who had died, but the overwhelming feeling of loss that accompanied this moment nevertheless brought tears with it that reflected the firelight in the corners of her eyes as she watched the flames soar up into the night.
The single drum began again with the same slow, respectful cadence as before, but there was no chant to accompany it this time. Walking in time with the rhythm, the black-robed figures reformed into two columns and exited the clearing just as they had entered. After they disappeared through the doorway and the sound of the drum faded, only the group of eight elders remained close to the fire. They surveyed the people of Cynmere with determined smiles.
“Now that we have honored the dead, let us return again to a celebration of the living,” the first speaker shouted over the roaring fire, and at his declaration the entire population let out joyous shouts and cheers. Ryna was baffled—in one instant these people mourned in silence, in the next they laughed and danced. It was a staggering shift of emotions and sound that stunned not only Ryna, but Halwen and the Unwoven as well.
From the corridors that led back to the main hall, small barrels undoubtedly filled with Melsca were carried into the clearing by smiling workers who slowed to fill cups even as they walked. Somewhere on the opposite side of the fire from Ryna, members of the Order of Song began their music once more, this time joined by someone chanting in tones that complimented the pitch of the stringed tube. Conversations formed again quickly until the gentle hum of hundreds of people talking filled the clearing just as it had filled the hall.
Ryna noticed that the Unwoven was staring at the blaze and shaking his head faintly. “They burn them,” he said quietly.
“Of course we burn them,” Holt said flatly. “What else would we do with the dead?”
The Unwoven still stared into the fire. “What happens when the fire goes out?”
“We scatter their ashes at the base of the Scarwood so that they can become a part of the Council House forever,” Holt explained.
“I should tell you they do, just to watch your reaction,” Holt smiled.
“You’re terrible, Holt,” Leighelle said from his side with a wicked grin.
“But no, girl,” Holt continued, “those ashes are made from the forest—sticks, leaves, bark—not people. Don’t worry.”
Ryna hung her head and exhaled in relief far louder than she had intended. The Handsisters all laughed, and when Ryna looked up, a cup of steaming Melsca had appeared in front of her from some unseen source. It is cold out here, even with the fire, she thought as she accepted the cup. Ryna took a sip as she watched a group form in the clearing and begin moving to the rhythm of the music.
“Halwen, now we can dance again,” Leighelle announced happily. This time, Halwen didn’t even glance back as she ran to join the growing mass of dancers. Leighelle, Holt, and the Handsisters followed leisurely after her, leaving Ryna and the Unwoven alone once again. The Unwoven frowned into his cup before surrendering to the inviting aroma and taking a long sip.
“I suppose it’s better than being left for the haugaeldr,” he muttered, nodding towards the burning remnants of the six dead Cynmeren.
“Anything is better than that,” Ryna replied as the dancers spiraled past the fire again. “There’s so much death here.”
“Death is everywhere, we just couldn’t see it before,” the Unwoven replied, then took another sip of the Melsca.
Images of Onaela leapt into Ryna’s mind as she tried to deny the truth of what the Unwoven had just said. He’s right, her thoughts whispered, but she ignored them. “There is life here too, though,” Ryna said in an effort to be positive; it was also a means for her to brush away the unwelcome memories of death. Unconsciously, she looked to the burning mound again and noticed that it was obscured by a lone man walking towards her rapidly. The glowing eyes beneath his cowl labeled him as one of the Guided, and Ryna was startled to find them gazing at her intently.
“You will both follow me,” the Guided commanded, and he rushed past without another word. Ryna looked to the Unwoven who she knew had dealt with the Guided before. He shrugged, took a final sip of the Melsca, and began walking. Ryna followed, though she wasn’t entirely certain why—perhaps it was the prospect of gaining more information about the culture of this strange place, or perhaps it was simply because she did not want to be left completely alone. Whatever the motivation, she hurried after the Guided as he continued towards the door at the base of the ancient Scarwood tree.
“Fadian, where are we going?” the Unwoven asked as they caught up with the Guided just before reaching the entrance.
“There are truths I must show you,” the old man called over his shoulder without slowing. A final gust of wind whipped against Ryna’s robe as she crossed into the sheltered confines beyond the doorway. Fadian stopped just after entering and spun to face Ryna and the Unwoven. “Stay near me and touch nothing,” he commanded. “We are about to enter the Council Chambers.” He took one of the torches from the wall and led the way through the dim passage.
After a brief descent down the sloping hallway, Ryna heard her own footsteps as well as those of Fadian and the Unwoven echoing from somewhere in the darkened distance. In the span of a stride, the walls were suddenly no longer visible within the radius of Fadian’s torch; instead, Ryna had the sensation of standing in the center of a great chamber. The scent of what the Cynmeren called “hivespice” hung in the air, mixed with a hint of smoke and something else that smelled like old fabric; it was an interesting combination.
“Both of you stay there,” Fadian said before darting away from Ryna and the Unwoven with the torch still in hand. Ryna found the Unwoven’s eyes just before both of their faces were plunged into total darkness—she was glad to see he appeared just as nervous as she was. The Guided walked several strides before pausing at a wall sconce to set it alight. Though it clearly wasn’t as mysterious as the light windows used by the Fyrnraed, Ryna saw nothing that could explain how such a small sconce could burn so brightly and last for more than just a few seconds. It appeared to be nothing more than a small metallic bowl topped with an impressive layer of flames. As Ryna stared in wonder, Fadian continued on to the next sconce, and the next until details of the area gradually became visible.
The Council Chamber was much smaller than the main hall where the festival took place, but it was still a cavernous space when compared to any other structure Ryna had ever known; at least two bannuc forges could have fit inside this chamber with ease. Towering shelves packed with books lined the walls between the sconces, and as fires grew in the wake of Fadian’s torch, Ryna noticed with curiosity that a curved and polished metal plate on the wall behind each sconce reflected light towards the middle of the room. As the central darkness receded, a strange circular structure appeared in its place that was surrounded by dozens of benches. This circle stood nearly ten strides tall, with eight thick spokes that extended from a hub out to the edges of its diameter. There was something in front of the spokes, a hazy sort of obstruction, but in the dim light it was impossible to tell what it was.
“You can take a closer look,” Fadian called from the last sconce before hanging up the torch and walking back towards Ryna and the Unwoven, who were both fixated on the enormous circle. “Remember, though: do not touch anything. This is Cynmere’s greatest treasure, and the only complete record of our people’s history. This is our Woven Wall.”
Ryna’s breath caught as she approached the structure. Dozens of thin, evenly-spaced wooden rings expanded outward from the central hub, each with a larger diameter than the last. From the increasing brightness of the chamber, she could now distinguish what it was that hung across these rings and the eight large spokes beneath—thousands upon thousands of threads made up of every color imaginable. Each strand was twisted and knotted in patterns that were familiar to Ryna’s eyes, and she suddenly understood the importance of this structure.
“Names,” she whispered in disbelief. “It’s an entire wall of names.”
“That it is,” the Guided agreed. “And after you are summoned by the Elder Council to join an Order, yours will be added to it as well one day.” Ryna opened her mouth to protest, to explain that she and the man beside her were both Unwoven, but she restrained herself. There was much to be learned here.
“I don’t understand,” the Unwoven said with a frown. “Where do you see names?”
“Everywhere. All of it,” Ryna replied. “Look!” she gestured towards the strands, but the Unwoven shook his head after examining the circle again.
“The men of Aldhagen do not know of Lar’ymb Sada,” Fadian said quietly from behind Ryna’s shoulder. She turned to stare at the Guided in disbelief, but after seeing his glowing eyes again, Ryna quickly refocused on the Unwoven instead.
“If your people don’t know the Knot Language, how do you recognize each other? How do you know someone’s task?” Ryna’s mind raced with questions.
“We just…talk, I suppose,” the Unwoven said awkwardly. “How do you see names in these sima?” he asked, squinting at the nearest section of the Woven Wall. Ryna stepped close beside him and pointed to one of the thousands of braids.
“It would take days to explain all of the details,” Ryna replied. “But each twist, every strand of color, means something different. This grouping here is her name—Altra, it says—and from the next few knots I can tell you that she belonged to the Order of Dawn. Just below…now that’s strange.”
“What is it?” the Unwoven asked.
“It says she was ‘an opener of new eyes.’ That doesn’t seem right,” Ryna looked at the sima again to be certain she had seen it correctly. “Fadian, what does that mean?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Keep reading,” he answered mysteriously. Ryna shook her head in
exasperation, but did as Fadian instructed.
“It’s just the words ‘peace’ and ‘end’ below that,” Ryna said with a puzzled frown. “There’s nothing else.”
“What else do you see below her?” Fadian urged. Ryna studied the knots again to see if she had missed something, but there was nothing further to learn about this woman. Below the word ‘end,’ the underlying strands of the sima were tied to the next thin wooden ring, but then Ryna noticed something about the three sima directly beneath Altra’s. They were tied onto hers where it joined with the wooden ring, as though these three people were an extension of Altra herself.
The first was that of a Dawnsister, Lae; directly beside her was a Dawnbrother, Rudan; but the simplicity of the third sima immediately drew Ryna’s attention away from the other two.
“They’re all connected to Altra somehow,” Ryna said slowly. “But this third one…there’s no name. Just two knots—one for ‘arrival,’ one for ‘end.’”
The Unwoven jerked his head sharply to look where Ryna was pointing. “Two knots?” he said, eyes wide. “Fadian, what do the two knots mean? Why did the boatmen call me ‘two-knot’ on the way here?”
“It means they expected you to die before reaching Cynmere,” Fadian answered with a chuckle. “It’s the only name they give to a Newfallen man who has yet to be cleansed or proven.” The Unwoven looked horrified and embarrassed for an instant as he stared at Fadian, then he sought out other two-knots on the Woven Wall.
Kingdomturn Page 36