Inyuin Celestara's Arc

Chapter 2 of 6

Inyuin found the fallen constellation past the tower's edge, six new stars glowing in the wet grass. She gathered them in her skirt and hurried home. She had thread for a sleeve. Now she had light for a gown. But when she filled her basin and dipped the spindle, the water clouded gray. The thread came up dull, its shine already fading. She pulled star after star, and each one dimmed the same way. The water in her tower was killing the light. She held a dead strand to the lamp. It looked like wet ash. Her mother's wheel had ruined stars fast. This water ruined them slow, but ruined them all the same. She thought of the woman who taught her to weave, who once told her that light needs clean water to breathe. Inyuin's tower water came from an old cistern, thick with dust and rust. It would never do. She remembered a place from her childhood. Deep under the hills sat a spring inside a cave of crystal, water so clear it looked like glass. She wrapped six stars in a cloth, took an empty basin, and went. The cave opened around her in pale blue light. Faceted walls threw back the glow of pink and green crystals. At the center lay a still pool, ringed in stone, its surface smooth as a mirror. Inyuin knelt and touched the water. It was cold and clean, without a speck of dust. Her reflection stared back, sharp and whole. She filled her basin from the spring. Then she unwrapped one star and set it floating. The water stayed clear. The star glowed steady, brighter than it had in her tower. Her hands trembled as she lowered the spindle and turned it under the surface. The starlight wound around the wet wood. She lifted it out slow. A single thread came with it, bright and true, holding its shine even in the dim cave. She wound more. The water did not cloud. It fed the light instead of drinking it. Inyuin laughed and pressed her wet hands to her face. She spun until her fingers ached, filling spindle after spindle. Six stars became thread enough for a bodice, sleeves, and half a skirt. The old families used cisterns and fine wheels. She had found something better in a cave they would never enter. Then she looked at her stack of full spindles and counted. Even this was not a whole gown. She had the light and the clean water now, but too few stars remained. Six had done this much. She needed the rest of the constellation, and she had left most of it lying in the grass under the open sky. The Ball was one night away. She wrapped the spindles, took her empty cloth, and ran back toward the fallen stars before anyone else could gather them first.