The Weaver of Echoes

At dusk the city of Aerlance sang. Not with voices or choir, but with the thousands of small lamps that hung along the cables and balconies, humming in soft, layered chords. Those chords were practical as well as beautiful: they braided themselves into invisible ropes that steadied the city’s bridges, patched the creaks in the suspension pylons, and stitched the shutters to their frames. Children learned lullabies that were also balance exercises; sailors timed their knots to a minor cadence that kept the harbor nets from tangling. The sound was thread and shelter at once.

Eloin Veris tied her apron the way her fingers had learned—pinched at the corner, looped it under, knot like a heartbeat—and let the warm residue of the workshop cling to her skin: the faint bright tang of varnish, the dust that smelled like old paper and sea, the metallic tang of tuning wires. Her bench was a scatter of tools and strings and jars of tidy, labeled dust—each sample held a different pitch in the glass. Master Cail, a stooped man with a white braid wrapped in copper wire, kept the bench organized because he liked order in sound as if a misplaced note could topple a tower.

Eloin’s work that afternoon had been the small things: mending a gutter filament, coaxing a melancholy thread back into a bow so a balcony latch would not slack, teaching a pair of lanterns to stop arguing over the same high harmonic. She liked tooth-and-gasket tasks because they gave immediate return: a squeak stopped, a lamp shivered into tune, the light steadied. She liked the way the chords looked to her—thin ribbons of color, like spun glass—because her hearing braided with color. To some it was practical trade. To her it was grammar.

When the bells of the Lower Spire tumbled out of their time, she heard it before anyone could look up. The chord that held the western string flickered once, in a thin silver that tasted like copper on the tongue, and then a note went missing. It did not die so much as leave—slipped out of a seam and vanished as if someone had snipped it at the back of the world.

A shout rose from the quay. Voices pitched sharp with worry, and a child's cry cut clean as a snapped wire. A wooden ferry that had been moored close to the quay lurched; hold ropes that should have remained taught sagged like loose throats. Eloin dropped the spool she had been holding. The spool hit the bench and spun, unwinding one bright strand that curled in the air and then went quiet.

Master Cail was already moving, the copper braid of his hair catching the lamplight. He lifted the small lantern they used for measuring pitch and held it to the central arch that housed the city's Chordstone—a lens of smoky crystal, threaded with centuries of lampwork. The Chordstone had been the heart of Aerlance since the time when the first lamplighters stitched the city’s scaffolds together. No one touched it. No one, until a bell truly misbehaved.

The crystal thrummed under Cail’s palm like a living thing, and Eloin felt a new, cold chord starting at the soles of her feet and winding up her spine. She had never felt its shadow before; the city’s song had always been a blanket. This was a fray. A single hairline line crawled across the Chordstone like a roadmap scratch. When the light touched it, the crack flashed weakly with the color of an old bruise.