Seven libraries of memories opened at once.
Of course, from the outside, nothing at all was happening. The hall roared on around the sleeping body of Kharvel, wine moving, Othrys's name still being said for the joy of saying it, and at the edge of the celebration stood the Cure-Giver with cold eyes and a stillness that read as weariness to anyone who bothered to look.
Inside that stillness, along seven threads written into the grammar of seven existences, Noah read.
And the first thing he learned was that memory has architecture, and one Descendant in particular had the clearest memory!
The others gave him texture. Kharvel gave him everything.
The structure of THE ETERNAL PAX assembled itself across his depths, memory by memory.
At the bottom, the Loomwrought Shrouds. Made, not born, grown in batch-halls around cores of refined Argent Loom, the labor and the soldiery and the furniture of the whole institution, and no one above them thought of them at all!
