The Perennial Forest — Cycle 129
Ten spans after the events of the prologue.
There were three things my uncle expected of me on the morning of the Calling.
Stand straight.
Speak when spoken to.
And, above all, do not embarrass the Hollow Line.
Unfortunately, standing straight had become rather difficult.
I was doing my best.
"Sairon."
I lifted my head.
My uncle stood in the doorway, dressed in the ceremonial robes of our Line. They were white, as all Hollow robes were, though his were considerably less wrinkled than mine.
"Are you listening?"
"Yes."
"Then what did I say?"
I considered this.
Something about posture, most likely.
"Stand straight."
His eyes narrowed.
"Before that."
I looked down at my hands.
"Something important."
He shut his eyes.
It was a habit of his. I had begun to suspect he found the world more tolerable when he couldn't see it.
"Today," he said, opening them again, "you will stand before the Founders as a representative of the Hollow Line. Do you understand what that means?"
"Yes."
"Do you?"
I nodded.
"Then explain it."
I thought for a moment.
"It means if I fall over, everyone will know where I'm from."
My uncle stared at me.
I stared back.
"Was that meant to be amusing?"
"No."
It hadn't been.
He crossed the room in three strides and seized the front of my robes.
"Look at yourself."
I did.
A perfectly ordinary pair of ceremonial robes.
A little blood near the collar.
That was unfortunate.
My uncle followed my gaze.
"What is that?"
"Blood."
"I can see that. Whose?"
"Mine."
He released me.
"Sairon."
"I'll wash it."
"You cannot appear before the Founders looking like a corpse!"
I didn't see why not. Corpses were generally very still, and stillness was encouraged during ceremonies.
I kept this observation to myself.
My uncle fetched a clean sash from the wardrobe and threw it at me.
"Your father disgraced this Line. I will not have you do the same."
The sash landed against my chest.
Something beneath my ribs stirred.
I pressed my palm against the fabric.
It was a small movement. Barely anything at all.
My uncle didn't notice.
He was already turning toward the door.
"Every Line will be watching. Do you know how rarely a Hollow is admitted to the Academy?"
"Yes."
"And yet you wander about with your head in books, helping every miserable creature that crosses your path."
I said nothing.
"You have a Gift, Sairon. You must learn to use it for something worthwhile."
The thing inside my chest moved again.
A faint warmth spread beneath my palm.
Quiet, I thought.
It settled.
My uncle mistook my silence for agreement.
"Be ready before the second bell."
He left.
I stood where I was until his footsteps disappeared.
Then I sat down.
Rather suddenly.
The room tilted.
I waited for it to stop.
It did not.
So I lay on the floor instead.
This was much better.
Above me, the ceiling beams crossed like crooked fingers. Between them grew a thin vine that had entered through the roof three spans ago.
My uncle had been meaning to remove it.
The vine had been meaning to stay.
So far, the vine was winning.
I turned my head and coughed into my sleeve.
Red.
Again.
There had been a time when I found blood alarming.
That time had passed.
Beneath my robes, the mark over my chest gave a dull, familiar ache.
The Door.
I had never liked the name. A door was supposed to open onto something.
Mine mostly hurt.
I slipped two fingers beneath my collar.
"Spec," I whispered.
A tiny warmth answered.
"Don't."
It answered again.
"I know."
I wasn't entirely certain what I knew, but that had never stopped Spec from insisting.
Ten spans ago, I had found a little golden soul at the edge of the forest.
I had meant to keep it safe.
I was still keeping it safe.
I hoped.
Outside, the first bell rang.
I remained on the floor.
Then, with considerable effort, I sat up.
There were important things to do today.
And if I was going to disappoint my uncle, I ought at least to be punctual.
The Outer Hollow smelled of damp wood, cold stone, and breakfast.
Smoke rose from crooked chimneys tucked between enormous roots. White cloth hung between houses, drying in the morning air. Children in ceremonial robes chased one another along the narrow walkways while their parents shouted after them.
A little boy ran past me carrying a wooden sword.
"I'm a Founder!"
His sister followed, brandishing a spoon.
"I'm the King!"
"You can't be the King!"
"Why?"
"Because I'm the Founder!"
This seemed a poor explanation.
The girl apparently agreed.
She hit him with the spoon.
I continued walking.
The Hollow Line lived near the forest's outer reaches, where the trees grew close enough to steal most of the sunlight. Our homes were old, our pathways uneven, and our roots forever creeping through the floorboards.
People from the inner forest sometimes called the Outer Hollow gloomy.
I thought it was pleasant.
The moss was soft. The air was cool. Nobody complained if a branch grew through the kitchen.
Well.
My uncle complained.
But he complained about most things.
Ahead, several neighbors had gathered beneath a hanging lantern.
"Only one candidate from our Line this time?"
"Only one who passed the preliminary trials."
"That's what I meant."
A woman folded her arms.
"And it's him?"
I kept walking.
"The boy's too gentle," she said. "Always has been."
"Gentle doesn't mean weak."
"Tell that to the Founders."
Someone lowered their voice.
"His father wasn't gentle."
The others fell quiet.
I stepped around a puddle.
There was no point listening to the rest.
People enjoyed talking about my father. They had enjoyed it for as long as I could remember.
Dangerous.
Cruel.
A man who ought never to have been trusted.
I had never known him well enough to agree or disagree.
This seemed to disappoint people.
They preferred certainty.
A Hollow elder stood beside the pathway, fastening a ceremonial clasp with trembling fingers.
"Boy," she called.
I stopped.
She squinted at me.
"Ah. The young one."
There were several young ones.
I assumed she meant me.
"Where the root drinks deep, what must the branch remember?"
I stared at her.
She waited.
I waited.
A bird called somewhere overhead.
"I'm sorry," I said. "What?"
She sighed.
"The old tongue has truly abandoned your generation."
"Possibly."
"Your roots, child. Remember your roots."
"Oh."
That was easier.
I looked down at the ground.
She frowned.
"Not literally."
I nodded.
Riddle speech was a difficult business.
Nyelle had once tried to teach it to me.
She'd spent an entire afternoon explaining how a river could be a promise, a stone could be a memory, and a closed hand could mean either grief or greed, depending on the season.
I'd asked whether a stone could simply be a stone.
She hadn't spoken to me for eleven minutes.
It was a personal record.
The elder struggled with her clasp again.
I stepped closer.
"May I?"
She hesitated, then held out the fabric.
I fastened it for her.
Her hands settled.
"Thank you, child."
I nodded.
As I turned away, she caught my sleeve.
"Remember, the tree that bends—"
"Doesn't break?"
Her face brightened.
"Yes!"
I had guessed.
She seemed pleased, so I left it there.
The farther I walked, the wider the forest became.
The cramped wooden paths of the Outer Hollow gave way to pale stone roads threaded between ancient trunks. Houses grew from living bark, their windows framed by leaves that opened toward the sun. Bridges hung above streams that shimmered with Breath.
Here, the forest was awake in a different way.
A merchant coaxed a broken cup back into shape with a flick of her fingers.
Two Mystics argued over whether a raincloud could be persuaded to move without being insulted.
A child changed the color of his mother's sleeves every time she looked away.
She was growing increasingly angry.
He was growing increasingly purple.
Above the street, a procession of robed candidates crossed a suspended bridge. Their sashes bore the markings of their ancestral Lines.
Some people stopped to watch them.
Others bowed.
A few stepped aside before being asked.
I disliked that part.
Not the bowing itself.
People could bow if they wanted.
I disliked how quickly a person became important when someone decided their blood was worth more than somebody else's.
The Founders called it order.
The scholars called it balance.
The people who benefited from it called it tradition.
I had never heard anyone ask the people beneath it what they called it.
At a market stall, an elderly customer held out a small pouch of coins.
The vendor glanced at the woman's plain sleeve.
"Muted?"
The woman nodded.
"Then you'll pay the full price."
"The sign says otherwise."
"That's the price for registered Line households."
The woman looked at the sign again.
I did too.
There was nothing about registered households on it.
The vendor noticed me watching.
"Something you need, Hollow?"
"No."
"Then move along."
I considered the coins in the woman's hand.
I considered the sign.
Then I said, "You should change it."
The vendor blinked.
"What?"
"Your sign."
"Why?"
"It's wrong."
He stared at me.
I stared back.
The elderly woman made a small sound that might have been laughter.
I continued down the street.
I had not intended to argue.
In fact, I had hoped to avoid speaking altogether.
Still, signs ought to be accurate.
The bookstore stood beneath the roots of an enormous silver-barked tree.
Its windows were crooked, its roof was covered in moss, and a little brass bell hung above the door.
The sign read:
THE LAST LEAF
Beneath it, in smaller letters:
Books Bought, Borrowed, Repaired, and Occasionally Returned.
I liked the last part.
It was honest.
I pushed open the door.
The bell rang.
"Sairon?"
A woman's voice rose from somewhere behind a mountain of books.
"You're early."
I shut the door.
"Good morning."
"Is it?"
"I think so."
"Then you've clearly not seen my accounts."
A head appeared above the counter.
The bookseller was a Muted woman with round spectacles, a thick braid pinned atop her head, and ink stains on nearly every finger.
She had worked here for as long as I could remember.
I had never asked her age.
I valued my life.
Her eyes moved over me.
Then narrowed.
"Oh, dear."
I looked behind me.
There was nobody there.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Come here."
I approached the counter.
She leaned forward.
"You look dreadful."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't praise."
"I know."
"Have you eaten?"
"Yes."
"What?"
I thought back.
"Something."
"Sairon."
"Bread."
"When?"
"Yesterday."
She closed her eyes.
People did that around me quite often.
"Sit."
"I can't stay long."
"Sit."
I sat.
She disappeared into the back room and returned with a cup of warm broth.
I stared at it.
"Drink."
"I have money."
"I didn't ask."
I drank.
It was good.
I didn't tell her this because she already knew.
The shop was quiet in the morning. Dust floated through narrow shafts of sunlight, and shelves curved along the living roots as though the tree itself had grown around the books.
Most of the titles were ordinary.
Histories of the Founders.
Guides to Breath.
The Proper Conduct of Young Candidates.
I disliked that one.
It contained an entire chapter on how to greet someone of superior rank.
I had read it twice.
Both times, I had fallen asleep.
The more interesting books were kept elsewhere.
Behind the counter.
Beneath the floor.
Inside hollowed bindings with respectable titles.
The bookseller had once told me that forbidden books were dangerous.
Then she'd shown me where she kept them.
I considered this an admirable contradiction.
"Did you find it?" I asked.
She looked up.
"Find what?"
"The book."
"What book?"
"The one you said didn't exist."
Her expression changed.
"Ah."
She glanced toward the door.
Then lowered her voice.
"You shouldn't be asking about that today."
"Why?"
"Because half the forest is crawling with officials, and you're about to stand before the Founders."
I waited.
She waited.
"Is that a no?" I asked.
She sighed.
"You really are impossible."
She bent beneath the counter and lifted a thin, weathered volume wrapped in brown cloth.
My pulse quickened.
The cover was cracked.
There was no title on the spine.
She laid it between us.
"Only a few pages survived."
I reached for it.
She caught my wrist.
"Listen to me."
I stopped.
"Some things are forbidden because people are frightened of what they don't understand," she said. "And some things are forbidden because they're dangerous."
I looked at the book.
"How do you tell the difference?"
"That," she said, "is the trouble."
She released me.
I opened the cover.
The first page contained a diagram of a human figure surrounded by fine, branching lines.
Most had been scratched out.
Beneath the illustration was a sentence written in an older hand:
What is lost to the forest need not be lost to the world.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Something beneath my ribs grew warm.
Spec.
I closed the book.
"Can I borrow it?"
"No."
I looked at her.
She looked at me.
"Please?"
"No."
I waited.
She folded her arms.
I continued waiting.
"Oh, for heaven's sake."
She pushed it toward me.
"Three days."
"Thank you."
"And don't let your uncle find it."
"I won't."
"And don't read it during the Calling."
I paused.
She pointed at me.
"Sairon."
"All right."
"And for the love of the forest, eat something."
I reached for my cup.
The room shifted.
Not much.
Only a little.
The shelves leaned left.
The counter leaned right.
The bookseller remained where she was, which seemed unreasonable.
I put a hand on the counter.
"Sairon?"
"Mm?"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
The floor rose to meet me.
Rather quickly.
There was a loud crash.
Then silence.
"Oh, heavens!"
I stared at the ceiling.
A book had landed on my face.
I removed it.
The bookseller appeared above me.
"Sairon!"
"Hello."
She screamed.
I blinked.
"Don't do that."
"DON'T DO THAT? YOU'VE JUST DROPPED DEAD IN MY SHOP!"
"No."
"NO?"
"I'm good."
"YOU'RE ON THE FLOOR!"
"Yes."
"YOU'RE BLEEDING!"
I touched the corner of my mouth.
She was right.
"How unfortunate."
She made a sound I had never heard from another living creature.
I thought it might have been a prayer.
I sat up.
The room spun.
I waited.
Then stood.
Very slowly.
The bookseller gripped the counter.
"You need a healer."
"No."
"You can barely stand!"
"I can stand."
To demonstrate, I stood.
This was successful for approximately three seconds.
I caught the shelf.
Several books fell.
One struck my shoulder.
Another landed in the broth.
The bookseller stared at the mess.
I stared at it too.
Then I bent to retrieve the books.
"Don't you dare!"
I straightened.
She pressed her hands against her face.
"Oh, Sairon."
Her voice had changed.
That was worse than the shouting.
I looked away.
"I'm sorry."
She lowered her hands.
"Whatever are you apologizing for?"
"The books."
She was quiet for a moment.
Then she stepped around the counter and brushed the dust from my shoulder.
"You foolish boy."
I said nothing.
She tucked a wrapped piece of bread into my sleeve.
"For later."
I looked at it.
Then at her.
"Thank you."
"You'll come back after the Calling?"
"Yes."
"Promise?"
I nodded.
She studied my face.
"Then come back in one piece."
I considered this.
"I'll try."
She didn't seem reassured.
When I stepped outside, two officials were standing beside the shop.
One wore the polished clasp of an inner Line household.
The other held a ledger.
"That's the place," the first said.
"Unregistered texts?"
"Likely."
"Muted proprietors always seem to think the rules are suggestions."
I stopped.
The official noticed the book beneath my arm.
"What have you got there?"
"A book."
He frowned.
"I can see that."
I waited.
"Where did you get it?"
"Inside."
"What's it about?"
I glanced at the cover.
"History."
This was not entirely untrue.
He held out his hand.
"Let me see."
I considered refusing.
I also considered the bookseller watching through the window behind him.
Her face was pale.
I handed him the book.
He opened it.
The first visible page was a harmless account of old forest settlements.
The forbidden pages were hidden farther inside.
He flipped through several leaves.
Then shut it.
"Dull thing."
"Yes."
He gave it back.
"Move along."
I did.
Behind me, the second official said, "We'll return after the ceremony."
I kept walking.
My fingers tightened around the book.
The forest had laws for nearly everything.
What could be studied.
What could be spoken.
What could be created.
What could be preserved.
Who deserved instruction.
Who deserved authority.
Who deserved to be remembered.
I wondered who had first decided that understanding something was a crime.
I wondered whether they'd understood it themselves.
Probably not.
The path to the Perennial Sanctum was crowded by the time I reached it.
Candidates gathered beneath enormous flowering branches, their ceremonial robes arranged according to Line and rank.
Some wore embroidered sashes.
Some carried family relics.
Some had parents fussing over their collars.
I had a piece of bread in my sleeve.
I thought this was sufficient.
A group of Sentient candidates stood near the eastern arch.
I recognized her before I saw her face.
Nyelle.
Her golden hair fell over her shoulders in long, bright waves, catching the morning light. A delicate crown-like adornment rested above her pointed ears.
Her robes were immaculate.
Naturally.
Nyelle had never been fond of wrinkles.
Or lateness.
Or incorrect answers.
Or people who insisted on incorrect answers after she'd explained why they were incorrect.
At present, she was explaining something to three friends.
Rather loudly.
"No, that's not what the passage means!"
One of the girls laughed.
"Nyelle, you said that already."
"Because you're still saying it wrong!"
"We're saying it differently."
"Differently and incorrectly!"
Another girl held up her hands.
"Fine. Explain it again."
Nyelle took a breath.
Then began speaking in the old tongue.
Her words flowed quickly, full of winding images and meanings that seemed to fold over one another.
I understood the first part.
Something about a river.
Then a seed.
Then a bird carrying a key.
I lost the thread after that.
One of her friends stared.
"Nyelle."
"What?"
"In ordinary speech."
"Oh."
She looked momentarily annoyed.
Then began again.
I watched from behind a broad tree trunk.
It was a good tree.
Very wide.
Excellent for standing behind.
Nyelle pointed toward the Sanctum steps, making her argument with such conviction that one of her friends nearly dropped her ceremonial booklet.
I remembered when she used to do that to me.
Explain things.
Correct me.
Become furious when I failed to understand something she thought perfectly obvious.
Once, she'd spent half a morning teaching me how to distinguish six different kinds of forest moss.
I had remembered only one.
The soft kind.
She'd been deeply disappointed.
I looked at her now.
She was smiling.
Good.
One of her friends said something, and Nyelle laughed.
I looked away.
Then looked back.
She was still laughing.
Also good.
I had no reason to remain there.
So I remained there a little longer.
A bell sounded above the Sanctum.
The girls began gathering their things.
Nyelle turned.
For one terrible instant, I thought she might look toward my tree.
I stepped backward.
My heel caught a root.
I fell into a bush.
The bush was considerably less forgiving than the bookstore floor.
Several birds escaped from it.
Nyelle's friends turned toward the noise.
"What was that?"
"A bird, probably," Nyelle said.
I remained very still.
There were, technically, birds involved.
Her footsteps faded.
I waited until I could no longer hear her voice.
Then climbed out.
A leaf was caught in my hair.
I removed it.
Another remained.
I decided to leave that one.
The Perennial Sanctum stood at the heart of the forest, where the roots of ancient trees met beneath a great circular platform.
Above it, branches intertwined into a living ceiling.
Sunlight fell through the leaves in long golden shafts.
The air trembled with Breath.
Hundreds of people had gathered around the ceremonial ground.
Families.
Scholars.
Mystics.
Members of the ancestral Lines.
Those who hoped to be chosen.
Those who had come merely to watch.
And those who believed the forest had already decided everything.
I stood with the Hollow candidates.
There were no others.
This was awkward.
A steward approached and examined my sash.
"Hollow?"
"Yes."
He checked his ledger.
Then checked it again.
"Only one?"
"Yes."
He frowned.
"Very well. Stand there."
He pointed toward the far edge of the circle.
I went.
From there, I could see almost everyone.
Nyelle stood among the Sentient candidates, listening intently to an older woman.
Her friends were beside her.
She was nodding.
Then shaking her head.
Then speaking.
The older woman looked offended.
Nyelle continued speaking.
I looked down.
A smile had begun to form.
I stopped it.
Across the platform, a Founder raised one hand.
The conversations faded.
"Children of the Perennial Forest," the Founder began, "you stand before the Calling."
The branches above us stirred.
"Every Breath has its place. Every Gift its purpose. Every Line its duty."
I disliked the third statement.
I was uncertain about the second.
The first depended on what was meant by place.
"The Academy does not exist to reward ambition," the Founder continued. "It exists to preserve balance."
I watched the light move across the stone.
Balance.
That word again.
People used it whenever they wanted something to remain exactly as it was.
A golden cord descended from the branches.
Then another.
Then dozens more, trembling above the candidates.
The Calling had begun.
One by one, names were spoken.
Candidates stepped forward.
Some cords brightened.
Others dimmed.
A few vanished entirely.
There were cheers.
There were tears.
A boy near the front collapsed into his mother's arms when his cord disappeared.
She held him tightly.
I watched them.
Then I looked toward the Founders.
None of them moved.
I wondered whether they could see him.
Surely they could.
He was directly in front of them.
Another name was called.
"Nyelle of the Sentient Line."
The crowd stirred.
She stepped forward.
Straight-backed.
Chin lifted.
Her golden hair caught the light.
She looked entirely prepared to argue with the forest if it made a mistake.
I thought this was sensible.
The Founder spoke the opening words of the ritual.
A balanced verse.
Two lines.
The Law of the Even Pair.
Nyelle answered.
Her voice rang clearly through the Sanctum.
The first line was beautiful.
The second was stronger.
Then—
A third.
The entire platform shuddered.
A murmur swept through the crowd.
Nyelle stopped.
For the first time that morning, she looked genuinely surprised.
Above her, the golden cord blazed.
The Founder stared upward.
Then slowly lowered his gaze.
"Nyelle of the Sentient Line," he said, "you have been Called."
The crowd erupted.
Nyelle blinked.
Then smiled.
I felt something loosen inside my chest.
Not the Door.
Something else.
I was glad.
So glad that for a moment I forgot how badly my body hurt.
Then the Founder called my name.
"Sairon of the Hollow Line."
The gladness disappeared.
How inconvenient.
I stepped forward.
The platform seemed farther away than it had a moment ago.
My legs trembled beneath my robes.
I kept walking.
Somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered my father's name.
I ignored it.
Another voice murmured, "A Hollow?"
I ignored that too.
The Founder regarded me for a long moment.
"You know the law of the verse?"
"Yes."
"Then answer carefully."
He spoke.
Two lines.
A question of roots and Breath.
Of what the forest gave.
And what the forest was owed.
I understood the words.
I did not like the question.
Beneath my ribs, Spec stirred.
A terrible pressure gathered behind my sternum.
I pressed my hand against my chest.
The Founder waited.
So did the forest.
I thought of the boy whose cord had vanished.
The woman at the market stall.
The bookseller hiding her most precious books beneath the floor.
My uncle telling me that kindness was weakness.
And the little golden soul I had carried inside me for ten spans because I could not bear to let it disappear.
What did the forest deserve?
I didn't know.
What did it own?
I wasn't certain it owned anything.
Not even the things it created.
I lifted my head.
And answered.
The first line came quietly.
The second quieter still.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then a cord descended.
Black.
A murmur spread through the Sanctum.
The cord twisted above me.
Smoke curled from its edges.
Something beneath my robes burned.
I bit the inside of my cheek.
The cord pulled taut.
Then snapped.
The sound rang through the entire Sanctum.
Silence followed.
A piece of black thread drifted to the stone.
I stared at it.
That seemed bad.
The Founder did not speak.
Neither did anyone else.
I considered whether I was permitted to leave.
Then the broken thread rose from the ground.
It curled once around my wrist.
And disappeared beneath my skin.
The pain struck so sharply that my knees almost gave way.
I caught myself.
Barely.
Inside my chest, Spec went still.
The Founder stepped toward me.
His expression had changed.
Not anger.
Not disgust.
Something I couldn't recognize.
"Sairon of the Hollow Line."
I looked up.
The branches overhead had stopped moving.
Even the wind seemed to be waiting.
The Founder spoke.
"You have been Called."
For a moment, nobody cheered.
Then somewhere beyond the circle, a single voice cried out.
A Hollow voice.
Another followed.
Then another.
The crowd began to stir.
I looked toward the distant edge of the platform.
My uncle stood among the spectators.
His face was unreadable.
But his hands were clenched.
I couldn't tell whether he was proud.
Or frightened.
Perhaps both.
A warm trickle reached the corner of my mouth.
I wiped it away before anyone could see.
The Founder was still watching me.
So was the forest.
I had the unpleasant feeling that neither intended to stop.
And beneath my ribs, where a little golden soul had once found shelter—
Something knocked.
Three times.
✦ Forgotten Lore: The Calling
The Calling is the ceremony through which candidates may be selected for advanced study at the Academy of Threads, deep within the Perennial Forest.
Candidates from different Lines may participate, but permission to stand before the Founders does not guarantee acceptance. Some Lines have historically enjoyed greater influence and opportunity than others.
The Law of the Even Pair governs the stability of certain spoken rituals: a balanced pair of lines forms a complete working, while an unexpected third may disturb its intended structure.
Muted are ordinary magical citizens whose powers are less formally structured than those associated with the ancestral Lines. Their place in society is not always treated with the same respect.
And although the Founders govern what knowledge may be taught or practiced, not every book forbidden by the forest has been destroyed.
Some are merely waiting to be opened.
End of Chapter 1.