Derwyn nodded and pointed ahead. It took Farnor some time to realize what he was looking at, so strange did it seem. And even as he drew closer he could not see exactly how it had been built or how it was supported. For, rising from the ground was what appeared to be an enormous tangle of branches. It reminded him, in its intricate random pattern, of the strange, fine weave of rootlets that had lined the walls and columns of the stables, but here the branches were both much thicker and more varied, ranging from those with a girth of perhaps a man’s height and more, to twigs scarcely the diameter of a little finger.
Gazing at the confusion, Farnor saw that the branches curved around the sides of the clearing until they merged subtly with the surrounding trees, while above him they rose up and curved forward like a great arched roof, though their final destiny was hidden from his view by the bright lights. The whole conspired however, to make him feel that he was once again standing in a huge root room rather than on the Forest floor.
As they drew nearer, Farnor began to feel both awed and intrigued by the eerie splendour of the place. Eventually his curiosity overcame his immediate preoccupations. ‘How did you build all this?’ he asked, lowering his voice.
Derwyn patted his shoulder and gave a rueful chuckle. ‘If you’re leaving tomorrow, I haven’t remotely the time to tell you,’ he said. ‘Something this size is the work of generations. Growing, nurturing, shaping.’ He tapped his head. ‘Not to mention thinking, if it’s going to work properly.’ He stopped suddenly and looked around, as if it was something that he had not done for a long time. Then he nodded. ‘I almost saw it with your eyes, Farnor,’ he said, with a mixture of pride and surprise. ‘New and different. And I have to admit, it’s as fine a Synehal as you’ll find for many a day’s ride.’
‘Synehal,’ Farnor muttered to himself.
‘I don’t know what it means exactly,’ Derwyn said, taking the utterance as a question. ‘I think it means, place of sound, or place of hearing, or some such. It’s not a Valderen word. I think it’s from one of the ancient languages, from before the time we came to the Forest.’
Farnor nodded casually in response, his gaze still travelling to and fro across the wild, yet ordered, tangle of trunks and branches that seemed now to him to be embracing much of the clearing.
‘Come on,’ Derwyn said briskly, taking his arm.
As they walked on, passing underneath the branch-woven roof of the Synehal, Farnor noticed that the hubbub of the crowd was being replaced by a resonant silence. He looked about him. Such people as were talking were doing so softly, heads bent forward.
Then he saw that Derwyn was leading him towards a large raking platform set at the end of the clearing. Several people were already sitting on it, though Farnor noted that it was no ordinary platform such as might have been built for some village festival; rough planks set on uncertain trestles. Rather it was a continuation of the roof and wall of the Synehal. The great branches that dominated the structure threaded their way through the labyrinth to come together at this point, and thence sweep forward in a broad fan across the floor of the clearing. And, whether natural or manmade, Farnor could not decide, the upper part of the fan was shaped into curved and stepped tiers which were being used as seats. The lower, broader part flattened out and then sloped gently down to the ground.
As Derwyn led him up this slope, Farnor felt himself to be increasingly the focus not only of the curious attention of everyone present, but even of the Synehal itself. Every part of the structure seemed to emanate from this region. He felt very small and not a little afraid. It was all he could do not to take hold of Derwyn’s hand.
And worse, Derwyn was leading him towards a po-dium that stood on, or, more correctly, seemed to grow from, the centre of the platform. The intensity of the focus upon him seemed to increase with each step he took, until he thought that it would become unbearable. When they reached the podium, however, the sensation faded suddenly and was replaced by a feeling of calm and stillness. Derwyn sat down on a high-backed, ornately carved seat at the very centre of the podium and motioned Farnor to a broad bench which stood slightly lower and to one side. Both men had their backs to the gathering crowd, and were facing those who were already seated on the benched tiers.
Derwyn leaned across and laid a hand on Farnor’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know how your affairs are dealt with at home, Farnor, but here every man may speak freely, and may not be reproached outside the Synehal for so speaking. If you’re asked anything, answer if you wish, you’re under no compulsion. But, if you’ll take my advice, if you do choose to answer, be as truthful as you can.’ He gave Farnor’s shoulder a final reassuring slap. ‘And don’t be afraid to speak your mind,’ he said determinedly.
Though Derwyn had spoken softly, Farnor sensed that the sounds were being caught and thrown out high and wide over the clearing, like the wind itself blowing through the branches. And there was a tone in Derwyn’s voice that told him that the words were not for him alone, but also a reminder to others present. He nodded, and then looked round nervously at the crowd. ‘Is this everyone in your – village?’ he asked.
Derwyn glanced round and smiled. ‘It could well be,’ he said, and the gently hectoring tone returned to his voice. ‘It’s a refreshing change to see so many people taking an active interest in the Congress’s affairs. Most of them usually prefer to sit at home in their lodges whenever there are decisions to be made.’
Farnor saw a ripple pass through the crowd as faces were casually turned away to examine some feature above or below, or on their neighbour’s face. The ripple was accompanied by a sudden bout of awkward coughing. ‘They can hear what you say,’ Farnor said, on impulse.
Derwyn nodded. ‘And what you say, too,’ he replied. ‘And you’ll be able to hear what’s said just as well, when things get started.’ He remembered something. ‘And if you speak, just speak as you do normally. Don’t shout.’
‘But how…’ Farnor began.
Derwyn raised a pleading hand. ‘You’ll need to stay a very long time if you want to learn about that as well,’ he said.
Gradually the tiered seats in front of them began to fill up. Farnor watched each new arrival warily, searching for some clue as to what was about to happen. He noticed that though Derwyn appeared to be much more relaxed and reassured seated in what must be his official place, there was still a tension about him. He felt profoundly uneasy.
Then Derwyn spoke. There was a strong note of humorous irony in his voice. ‘I think we have enough here to begin. I must say that I find this sudden interest in the Congress’s affairs most heartening. I do hope that this level of attendance will continue throughout our more routine meetings.’
‘Your humour’s misplaced, Derwyn Oakstock.’
Farnor started at the sound of the voice. It was as if someone was sitting next to him. Derwyn touched him lightly on the shoulder, then pointed. Farnor saw that one of the figures on the tiered seats in front of him had stood up. It was EmRan.
‘No formality, EmRan,’ Derwyn replied easily. ‘We’re only here to welcome a guest.’
‘We’re here to decide what to do with an intruder. An intruder who drew a knife on me,’ EmRan retorted angrily.
There was a murmur from the crowd in the back-ground. Derwyn raised his hand calmly and the murmur faded.
‘Menacing someone with a weapon is indeed a seri-ous matter,’ he acknowledged, earnestly. ‘One that we must certainly discuss in the fullest detail before we disperse.’
‘What’s to discuss, man?’ EmRan’s voice burst around Farnor, making him scowl and shake his head. ‘Just look at him. Black-haired, lowering, abomination. No good will come of him being here.’ He pointed a wagging finger at Derwyn. ‘They’ve taken our Hearer because you’ve sheltered him. We’ve got to get rid of him before more harm’s done. If you can’t do it, then you must stand down and make way for someone who can.’