ONE COULD DISCERN THAT the festival had been prepared with meticulous care, for any witness might observe the artistry woven throughout the Chamber of Everything. The hall itself was circular in form. At the fore stood a stage that occupied a quarter of the great circle, which held a raised circular platform from which a speaker might address the assembly. Drapes of heavy fabric shrouded the corners of the stage, save for the center, where double doors of dark oak stood that appeared to be adorned with chased designs.
This was the sight that met Maze as he descended from the Cradle at the far end of the Chamber. He stood upon a circular landing identical to the one far above, used to rotate the vessel. Descending a brief two-step stair, he turned to the left and proceeded down several more flights until he reached the floor of the chamber.
He stepped forward until his boots met the red-carpeted path that served as a divide between the tables on the left and right. This carpet lay at the heart of the room, and they were bordered by matte charcoal stanchions and white polyester belts that somehow marked the boundaries of the passage.
As he trod upon the carpet, he took note of the quartz floor and the lanterns floating overhead. While he was within the Cradle, he had not truly savored the view, but now he could see how beautifully they illuminated the expanse. Furthermore, the entire perimeter of the Chamber was draped in vinyl fabric of a pitch-dark hue.
To his left and right sat monopodium tables — three on either side — each occupied by Heirs. The first on the left was reserved for the Heirs of Time, followed by the Heirs of Hope, each possessing fathomed number of chairs, twelve and eleven. Beside them sat a single-chair table that remained unoccupied, which Maze assumed belonged to the lone Heir he knew. On the right, the tables for Sufferance and Death were similarly arranged with eleven seats each, followed by a third, smaller table with a lone chair. Maze suspected that seat was intended for him, yet he remained motionless upon the carpet.
He stayed his course until a small green figure, standing no higher than his mid-calf, cleared its throat. The creature wore a black vest, white collared sleeves, and a red ribbon. Upon its head sat a wooden frog mask of a black hue, tilted upward like a cap.
"Good evening, dear Sir." The usher bowed low before gesturing toward the right side of the chamber. "This way, Sir." With that, the creature led the way.
Maze followed with small yet in trance strides behind the usher frog. The creature halted at the single-chair table and gently ushered him to take his seat. Maze complied, and the usher departed without another word.
Maze observed the design of his table, noting it was formed out of olive wood like the others. It was a monopodium structure with carvings of tower symbols, crescents, and eyes at its base, all finished in a sombre varnish. No fabrics draped these tables, yet their circular forms were elegant enough. The only distinction lay in their size. While the others could accommodate more than seven, his was fashioned for at most two occupants.
Atop the tables sat centerpieces of crimson petals and flickering candlelights, yet no food had been served. Neither wine nor water was present. Perhaps the hour for such things had not yet arrived.
The boisterous murmurs of the crowd provided the only life to the atmosphere, for no instruments played upon the stage. Maze wondered if this was truly the extent of a festival within the Camp. I am simply expecting more, but it may be early for my disappointment, he mused.
He recalled the festivals of his home district and how the manor had celebrated those days. There had been music, entertainment, and a lively throng of performers. Even the celebration within the tavern when he had taken his vow as an Orphan had been more spirited than this sophisticated, yet dull, gathering.
Perhaps he was becoming a critic where none was required. He was not here for merriment, after all. Yet a strange trepidation took hold of his heart. It was a feeling that something was about to transpire, perhaps the delayed fulfillment of the omen brought by the crow and its two choices.
Maze felt his throat grow dry.
Nevertheless, he resolved to pass the time by observing the others.
His gaze drifted toward the table meant for the lone Heir of Time, yet it remained empty. He scanned the room, confused by her absence. Where is she? He assumed she was merely late, remembering her fondness for grand entrances. Who knew what schemes she held within her sleeves?
He wished merely for the night to conclude. By the morrow, his true learning would begin — the practical application of the power he held. Though the Ceremony of Patrimony had only just ended, he felt the urgency to prepare.
"I wonder when this event shall truly commence." Maze had lost all sense of the hour since he departed the surface and descended into the depths. He could not say if he were late or had arrived with time to spare, for the atmosphere suggested the beginning was yet to be realized. "But other than Heirs and Frogslings . . . "
Maze rested his chin upon his hand, causing the wooden deer skull to shift slightly and obscure his jaw, while his gaze grew distant and weary. He took note of the absence of seats for any figures of importance like professors, perhaps, or trainers of some sort. It appeared the chamber was designed solely to accommodate the Children, with no other souls wandering the perimeter.
"Are they so occupied that they cannot show themselves?" Maze idly plucked at the crimson petals adorning his table. His earlier thoughts regarding the Directors using crows to conduct their discourse seemed to hold a greater truth. "Crows, eyes . . . Tongued Creatures," he yawned, "what else remains?"
His gaze drifted toward his flank, where the Heirs of Death sat. They were clad in white robes and bore masks carved to resemble the skulls of ravens, but they were avian skulls created to fit their mortal countenances. The beaks were so elongated that Maze imagined they might strike one another should they lean too close.
He still did not grasp the logic of it all. How he felt no burden from the weight of his own mask. Yet he supposed that since so many other things defied the natural laws of the world, this was a trifle not worth his focus.
He then observed the Children of Sufferance seated further ahead, robed in crimson. Their white masks were carved in the likeness of human skulls adorned with crowns of thorns. It was truly dark, unsettling design that sat ill with his spirit. Across from them on the left sat those in grey robes, their masks resembling the skulls of small-beaked birds. Whatever species they were meant to be, Maze could not say, yet they appeared far more refined than the harsh visages of Death. Beside them, the Heirs of Hope sat in their gold raiment, wearing the skulls of sheep with horns that curved downward, and this sight brought a flicker of amusement to Maze.
He smiled as he remembered something.
It was the familiar shape of the sheep made him harbor a sudden, whimsical desire to pet them.
Only he could not.
Maze closed his eyes.
Was this truly the nature of a festival within the Camp?
It was enough to dampen one's spirit.
But then . . .
He found that he enjoyed the silence.