With both the stone and the Thoughtcaster in her possession, Ryna replaced the sheet and backed away from Wyand’s bedside. She suddenly realized this would be the last time she ever saw him. Forgive me, she pleaded to him in her mind as tears welled at the corners of her eyes. She turned away before the tears could fall and crept back to the door, thankful that this horrid task was nearly done. Ryna removed the gloves, used them to dab at her eyes, and tucked them into her pocket. She reached the entrance of the Blood dwelling and stepped into the cold, wet air before turning to seal the door back into place. She sighed quietly to herself and prayed that the Fyrnraed would bless the rest of her tasks with this much ease throughout the journey to Locboran.
“Unwoven?” a voice whispered incredulously from behind Ryna’s back. She froze for an instant, desperately searching for a believable lie but finding nothing, then she turned to face the speaker. It was Eyrie.
“What are you doing here?” Ryna demanded in an attempt to gain herself more time to think.
Eyrie recoiled from the question at first, glancing at Ryna uncertainly before a faint smile curled the edges of her mouth. “I’m here to see Wyand, actually,” Eyrie replied. “There’s some training that he and I need to accomplish before we leave for the desert, and I planned for us to start early today. The real question, though, is why are you here?”
Ryna’s mouth hung open until words began tumbling out awkwardly. “I just…wanted to wish him safe travels. Before he leaves,” she explained.
“We don’t leave for another two days,” Eyrie pointed out. “Why come here now, when everyone is still sleeping, instead of waiting to talk to him during the day? If nothing else, you’ll have plenty of time to speak with him during the festival tomorrow night.”
“That’s true,” Ryna admitted.
A long silence followed as Eyrie waited for more of an explanation. “So, he’s awake now?” Eyrie asked.
“No.”
“You chose an hour this early to talk to him, you knew he’d be asleep, yet you weren’t willing to wake him? You are an odd one.” Eyrie laughed. “It doesn’t matter. Move, so I can go wake him up.” A faint blue glow suddenly reflected in her eyes and she glanced down at Ryna’s robe. Eyrie’s hand shot forward with incredible speed and took hold of both the glowing stone and the Thoughtcaster’s chain.
“No!” Ryna shouted, and without thinking, she gripped the Thoughtcaster in one hand and seized the stone with the other. Ryna felt a surge of cold energy course through her arms just before her vision grew dark. A howling wind formed inside her head, and then all sight and sound faded away.
---
“Peace to you, Ryna,” a familiar voice said. Ryna opened her eyes and was confused to find one of the Fyrnraed staring down at her.
“Peace to you, Fyrnraed,” Ryna replied slowly, glancing from side to side at her strange surroundings. Elaborate but crumbling archways lined a pathway of square white stones and an enormous fountain of three stacked basins stood just behind the Fyrnraed. “Is this death?” she wondered, finding no other explanation.
“No, Ryna, this is the Interface. This is how your mind interprets the linkage with the Thoughtcaster,” the Fyrnraed replied.
“I accessed the Thoughtcaster?” Ryna exclaimed. So, this is what Wyand experienced, she thought with a sudden sense of wonder.
“Yes, and I am its Monitor. How may I assist you?” the Fyrnraed asked.
This kind of power is not meant for me, Ryna told herself. “How do I end this linkage?” she demanded.
“Simply think of ending it and returning to the physical realm, and your consciousness will do so,” the Monitor explained. “I sense you are not truly ready to leave, though. May I offer you a glimpse of the information contained in this Interface? Perhaps the same information Wyand experienced?”
“I can’t,” Ryna answered. “I shouldn’t.”
The Monitor paused for a moment, then regarded her with a kind smile. “I apologize if I have been referring to you by an improper name. Would you prefer I call you Unwoven instead?” the Monitor asked.
“It would be more appropriate,” Ryna said. “Wait, are you accessing my thoughts?”
“The linkage is bi-directional, yes. I will not store anything from your mind, though, unless you tell me to do so,” the Monitor reassured her. “Will you please explain the word ‘Unwoven’? What is its significance to you?”
“If you know what I am thinking already, why should I need to explain anything?” Ryna countered. Why am I still here? she shouted to herself.
“I am able to draw cognitive connections within your mind instantly, that is true,” the Monitor admitted, “but to gain a full understanding of any new concept, it is much more efficient to have the user—you—think through that concept while I observe.”
“I don’t fully understand what you mean, but to be Unwoven…” Ryna stopped as images of the burning bannuc forge leapt into the forefront of her mind, then Keltin’s face appeared. “…it means that the person you were is dead, even if your body continues to live,” she finished bitterly.
“I see,” the Monitor said with a nod. “You felt shame because that man, Keltin, saw you without your robes. At the time, you thought he was some form of deity, yes?”
“One of the Fyrnraed, just as you are,” Ryna replied.
“And so you thought you had offended one of your gods,” the Monitor expounded further. “You later learned he was simply a man like any other, though, and yet you still view yourself as Unwoven. Why is this?”
Ryna was stunned by the simple logic of the question; she hadn’t even considered the idea that her Unweaving was anything but justified. “Once the act is complete, there is no way to go back,” she answered unsteadily. “Whether it was necessary or not, I Unwove myself. It is done.”
“Outwardly, you adhere to that idea, but a part of you clings to the person you were,” the Monitor pointed out.
“No, it doesn’t. I’m Unwoven,” Ryna denied hastily.
The Monitor smiled. “It’s very difficult to mislead someone who is linked to your thoughts,” he chided her. “Now, why hold on to your past identity at all if you truly believe that person is dead?”
“I…don’t know,” Ryna said, her mind clouded. The confusion left her unable to reject the truth any longer. “Weakness, I guess.”
“Perhaps it is because you feel the Fyrnraed made a mistake in casting you out,” the Monitor suggested.
“No! My Casting was their will; I would never question that,” Ryna protested.
“And yet you do, even now,” the Monitor replied. Ryna started to deny the accusation again, but then she remembered that the Monitor could access any of her thoughts and would instantly call out further lies. She nodded in defeat.
“Forgive me,” Ryna whispered.
“There is nothing to forgive, nor am I capable of such a thing,” the Monitor said with a dismissive wave. “May I show you why you are right to question those you call Fyrnraed?” he asked.
“I shouldn’t be here,” Ryna replied, shaking her head and backing away. Accessing the Thoughtcaster went against everything Stora had commanded. A memory suddenly flashed into Ryna’s mind of the torture she suffered at the hands of the Fyrnraed after Onaela’s death. It was an accident….
“Is that a yes?” the Monitor asked patiently.
“Just do it,” Ryna said hastily, and a rush of wind enveloped her instantly.
---
Even before her sight returned, Ryna recognized the sounds of a forge in full operation. She blinked, and an image of her surroundings slowly resolved; this was no standard forge, though. Where am I? she wondered, staring in awe at the complex assemblies of shining metal that hummed and moved all around her.
This is a place of creation, the Monitor answered from somewhere within her mind. Watch. When you are ready, begin asking questions.
Ryna couldn’t think clearly enough to respond in the midst of everything that was ha
ppening in this strange forge. Lights blinked as ever-changing strings of words and flashing images appeared in the air, steam hissed through hundreds of tiny openings, gears and other unknown metallic objects spun and hummed; then, she saw something familiar on a fast-moving layer of fabric nearby. Those are unfinished bannuc! Ryna realized, and her view instantly shifted much closer to one of the small components. A towering metal assembly rotated a segmented arm into place over the bannuc, then a long spike extended to a point just above the bannuc’s surface. With speed no human could ever achieve, Ryna watched as the sacred designs took shape on the bannuc. The process normally took many minutes, with several Bannuc Wrights carefully burning each layer of the design into place, but this incredible device accomplished the task in seconds.
How is this possible? Ryna wondered.
Machines, the Monitor replied, and a burst of understanding flooded into Ryna’s thoughts. Parts and pieces, too tiny to imagine forging by hand, all assembled perfectly to achieve a common purpose. Systems interacting, coordinated by a series of shared instructions, to generate more consistent bannuc than even the most skilled Wrights could produce. Ryna looked around again and realized this bannuc machine was only one of the myriad of specialized devices that filled this forge.
What purpose does this all serve? Ryna asked.
This is where Cultivators are made, the Monitor said simply.
I don’t understand…that’s the name the Cynmeren use for the Fyrnraed, Ryna replied.
Yes, the Monitor agreed. Observe. Ryna’s view changed again to a point near the far wall of the enormous forge. The function of the moving layer of fabric had been replaced by a slotted track in the ceiling high above, and from that track hung dozens of long posts that shifted from one machine to the next. Tubes of varying colors and thicknesses spiraled down from the track until they reached termination points on the surface of a smooth metallic box at the end of each post. A pair of machines suddenly pressed against either side of the nearest suspended box, and a loud whirring sound followed that was accompanied by a spray of sparks. When the machines retracted, Ryna couldn’t make sense of what she saw attached to the box.
Those look like arms, she thought.
They function as arms, the Monitor said. Ryna followed the box towards the next set of machines, then she realized there were adjacent lines of parts being assembled on either side of this row. From the left, a set of metallic legs standing on top of a plate clattered along a track in the floor until it came to a stop in line with the box that now had arms. Then, from the right, a head affixed to a segmented post swung into place atop the strange box. Ryna then watched in awe as one series of machines after another rapidly emerged from the floor of the forge to make adjustments to the metallic body parts, ranging from imperceptible movements to near-explosive collisions of fire and steel. Gears whirred, sparks crackled and hissed, metal rang as it struck other metal, then the machines were gone. What remained, hanging motionless from the post, was one of the Fyrnraed.
Ryna wanted to back away, but it was only then that she realized she had no legs, no form at all in this strange place. She thought desperately about returning to the Interface, and to her relief the sound of a sudden wind filled her mind.
---
“It isn’t true,” Ryna whispered, staring into the darkness beyond one of the archways. “That can’t be true.”
“You know that it is,” the Monitor replied gently, still clearly aware of Ryna’s innermost thoughts. “The Cultivators were created by humans to help humans long ago. Something is broken within the group you know as ‘Fyrnraed,’ though. They expect humans to serve them—there is no greater malfunction a Cultivator could experience.”
“No,” Ryna said weakly, unwilling to accept what her mind already knew to be fact.
“I am the same as the Cultivators,” the Monitor continued, walking to Ryna’s side and staring with her into the darkness. “We are not deities, we are machines—fabrications of human imagining and design. If anyone possesses the light of the divine, it is humanity. Your very existence is a mystery, even to yourselves, whereas our imitation of life is easily explained through assemblies of components responding to fixed routines. We are not gods. And you are not Unwoven, Ryna.”
The revelation was too much for Ryna to bear. In a fit of panic, she yearned to escape the Thoughtcaster and return to the physical world. As darkness swirled across her vision, Ryna could feel the Monitor smile in understanding. I’ll be here when you’re ready, Ryna, the Monitor whispered inside her mind, then the wind of transition flowed through her once more.
---
“What are you doing with those?” Eyrie demanded, her eyes glittering dangerously in the fading blue light of the stone.
Ryna tried to respond with a plausible lie, but before she could speak, a surge of dizziness and nausea almost forced her to the ground. She recovered quickly, though, and realized the truth made more sense than anything else she could imagine. “I need to share the Thoughtcaster with Stora immediately,” she said before brushing past Eyrie. The Bloodsister was not so easily dismissed, however, and she took hold of Ryna’s shoulder.
“Why can’t it wait?” Eyrie asked.
“That doesn’t matter now.”
“It does to me, Unwoven.”
“I need her to see the truth,” Ryna said, struggling to free herself.
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to leave!” Ryna shouted before remembering how early it was. She stared at the ground in shock after realizing what she had just said. “I don’t want to leave,” she whispered in amazement.
“Leave? Where would you go?” Eyrie asked, then a look of sudden understanding appeared on her face. She released Ryna’s robes and took a step back carefully. “Sharing the truth with Stora isn’t why you took the Thoughtcaster, is it?” Eyrie said quietly.
Ryna sighed, but she knew there was no point in denying the accusation. “No,” she replied.
Eyrie’s head tilted threateningly as she moved close to Ryna again. “She told you to take it—and the stone—so that you could, what, somehow deliver them to the Cultivators? Was that her plan?” She studied Ryna, who eventually nodded, head low with shame. Eyrie scoffed in disbelief. “You would’ve never made it back to them. And even if you had, they wouldn’t have accepted you, no matter what you brought with you.”
“You’re probably right,” Ryna admitted. “With everything the Thoughtcaster has shown me, it doesn’t matter now anyway. This…” she held out the Thoughtcaster by its chain, “…this changes everything. Stora commanded me to follow Cynmere’s ways so I could study your people in secret, and I hated every minute of it at first. Over time, though, I realized I didn’t hate this place or its people—I hated myself for constantly lying to people who had shown me nothing but kindness. My devotion was more powerful than my self-hatred, however, so I suffered in silence.”
“You lied to us?” Eyrie asked in a whisper.
“I did,” Ryna confessed. “I didn’t think I had any choice. But now…now I want to stay here, to learn more, and I want Stora to see the truth for herself so she’ll come to understand that our beliefs were flawed.”
“What beliefs?”
“Thinking the Cultivators are gods,” Ryna said. “I know now that my faith was misguided.” The words felt strange to speak, but Ryna knew them to be true. “As impossible as it may seem, the Cultivators are just complex assemblies of parts—things that human hands shaped at some point long ago. Not gods.”
Eyrie frowned. “You witnessed all that just now when you accessed the Thoughtcaster?” she asked skeptically.
“I did,” Ryna replied.
Eyrie nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe today is the day I’ll discover what secrets are waiting in there,” she muttered, then she smiled suddenly. “Let’s go find your Mainwright.”
“W-what?” Ryna stammered.
“I agree that you should share the truth with her. And I’m coming wi
th you to make certain she accepts it,” Eyrie said darkly.
“All right,” Ryna said slowly, still dazed. “What about Wyand?”
“Oh, let him sleep a while longer. I’m certain we’ll be back with his burdens before he even realizes they’re missing.” Eyrie began walking towards the Order of Hands; she turned back when she realized Ryna hadn’t moved yet. “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” Ryna replied, hurrying after her. I can do this, she encouraged herself, though the fear of how Stora would react was a constant source of uncertainty. Torches still flickered along the pathway to the Order of Hands, but even through the lingering clouds, Ryna could see that dawn was near. Just as they reached the entrance of the primary Hand dwelling, Eyrie stopped abruptly.
“I don’t know which room Stora is in. You lead the way from here, Unwoven,” she whispered. Ryna nodded and made her way to the familiar hallway of sick rooms. She paused just before reaching Stora’s door.
“What if the Thoughtcaster isn’t enough?” Ryna worried.
“It will be enough,” Eyrie replied confidently. “Now, please, after you.” She gestured towards Stora’s room, and Ryna quietly entered the darkness. Before Ryna’s eyes could adjust, there was a sudden shuffling of fabric from the bed in front of her.
“Is it done?” the Mainwright asked excitedly. Ryna almost screamed—Stora stood within a hand’s length of her face, yet she remained totally concealed in shadows.
“Mainwright I—”
“What did you do?” Stora rasped coldly as Eyrie stepped into the room. “Why is she here?”
“She came with me. We have the Thoughtcaster and the stone with us,” Ryna explained, carefully removing both relics from her pocket.
“You dare to defy my instructions and touch those objects with your bare hands?” Stora demanded.
“It was a mistake, Mainwright,” Ryna admitted, “but it led to something incredible. Here, let me—”
“What did you do!” Stora shrieked, her voice ripping through the stillness with enough force to make Ryna take several steps back. When there was no answer, the Mainwright continued after regaining her composure. “Actually, I don’t care what you did. Your sins are your problem. Give me the stone and the Thoughtcaster. Now,” she ordered.
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