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A flint sparked and more idleweed was lit. Orange light perforated the trees, painting the entire glen a hungry orange hue.
Helena Eichel came onto the dais. In her hands was a velvet cushion with a gray object upon it. When she lifted it, my body seized.
It was a chime. Not like the others in the glen, fashioned of wood or metal—this chime was stone. Old, and strange. I’d seen it thousands of times before.
But only ever in my dreams.
“Take it in,” Helena Eichel said, scouring the crowd. “Listen to the wind. To the voice of the Faithful Forester, sounding between the trees.” She lifted her hand. Struck the chime. “And feel.”