2. Sam Cygnets
Sam: Cygnets
—Joaquín Rubio Villasenor, Encanto avanzado
It had been four months and eleven days since my death, and I was here to watch my murderer attend a party. Where was he?
I watched the arrivals at the Manse attentively.
The estate lay deep in the Lynn Woods, surrounded by acres of forest, accessible only by a gravel path nearly a mile long—a forbidding distance, especially at night.
But on this night the way was lit with enchanted globes that hung in the trees like glowing fruit.
The coaches approached at a steady pace, bringing one man after another to the door of the Manse.
Three young men, laughing and eager, alighted from a carriage and paused; it was their first time, I could see that.
The Manse towered above them, three floors of stone with turrets, its contours against the night sky appearing more like an ancient castle than a modern home.
Here, torches lit the walkways of the house and gardens, the amber flames flickering against the stone walls.
The muffled sound of laughter and conversation came from some distant part of the house.
All the curtains were drawn, and pale light bled out from the edges as if seeking escape.
The three young men gazed a moment longer, temporarily silenced by their awe, before ascending the steps.
I left them, for my point of interest lay elsewhere. I had still not found him.
I searched the large ballroom—already somewhat crowded—and the hallways lined with servants.
Ah, there he was: approaching one of the front parlors, where more than a dozen young men waited for him, including the three who had just arrived.
He opened the door calmly and stopped on the threshold, smiling at them, looking even more striking than usual.
His blond curls shone in the candlelight, his blue eyes twinkled with mischief, and his smile radiated confidence.
He wore a black suit, cut tight, with a distinctive decoration: the shoulders of the jacket were trimmed with black feathers.
As the young men turned expectantly toward him, I’m sure every one of them felt at least a small twinge of envy. Everyone envied Simeon Trench.
The atmosphere in the room had been restive.
The young men—most of them eighteen, some as young as seventeen—leaned against the marble mantel, stood awkwardly beside the burgundy velvet curtains, or perched on the brocade armchairs.
All of them wore tokens to enhance their appearance, and as a result they had a disarming sameness about them—broad of shoulder, slim of waist, pale of cheek, strong of jaw and chin.
And yet, despite their good looks and the sumptuous surroundings, none seemed at ease.
For while every young man who applied to Massachusetts Commonwealth University had heard rumors of the powerful Cisneros Society, none knew its purpose or its members, both of which were strictly secret.
These young men, a select few from Commonwealth’s entering class, had received anonymous invitations to the event, and the invitation had contained only a date, a time, and the mysterious instruction to bring a live moth.
Now they were here, and the principal party was clearly elsewhere, the sound of it trickling in through the open windows.
The room had no host, no food, no drinks.
Why were they being made to wait? Those who had been waiting longer were beginning to look a little affronted.
Now, as Simeon lavished them with his welcoming smile, their apprehension visibly eased. “Gentlemen!” he said. “Welcome! And my apologies for the wait.” He made a point of walking through the room and shaking hands with everyone, and when he had finished, he spoke to the group.
“Thank you for attending this year’s meeting to welcome all of you, the Cygnets.
It’s a very special occasion. I’m not your host—you’ll meet him soon—but think of me as your sponsor.
I’m a third-year at Commonwealth, and I sent your invitations.
You have questions, no doubt. First and foremost, you want to know where the party is. ” He grinned.
There were chuckles from around the room. “Quite right!” someone called out.
“You’ll join everyone momentarily,” Simeon said, gesturing toward a pair of double doors.
“But you’re gathered here beforehand so that I can explain to you the rules of the game.
For Cygnets this isn’t just an evening of enjoyment—it’s a contest, and it lasts all year.
Tonight is when the contest begins. If you succeed in our little game, you’ll be celebrating again with us next September.
But I’m afraid to say”—he gave a little bow of regret—“not all of you will succeed. You’re here because you’ve been invited to try.
Please, gentlemen,” he said, holding his arms out in invitation, “be so kind as to check the pockets of your jackets.” He waited as the men around him opened jackets, reached into pockets.
There were exclamations of surprise as they withdrew slim, black cards.
“A little smoke and mirrors,” Simeon said with evident delight, enjoying their astonishment.
“No enchantment, just a deft touch. What you’ll find on this card is a challenge, designed for you and you alone.
The challenges are not interchangeable, and they’re secret; you must—I can’t stress this enough—must keep the challenge secret from your competitors.
You may, however, consult sparingly with other men in the Society, whom you’ll meet in just a moment.
You’ll find that these challenges can’t be completed without the use of enchantment, and your studies at Commonwealth…
” He laughed lightly. “Well, they won’t be enough.
The challenge isn’t just to complete the task; the challenge is to learn the enchantment that the task requires.
At the bottom of your card is a name—the name of the Society member who is your designated mentor. ”
The young men scrutinized their cards, searching for the vital names.
“The game will conclude in the winter, on the solstice,” Simeon went on. “You have until then to fulfill your challenge. Those who succeed will join as full members of the Cisneros Society. Those who fail—well, we’ll try not to feel too sorry for you.”
This was met with laughs, some more good-natured than others.
“I have one more important point to convey before we join the party.” He paused.
For a moment he looked around the room, looking meaningfully at one or two of the men.
“This card is also a contract. Keep the card, and you must keep silence as well. Nothing that happens here at the Manse, nothing that’s part of your challenge, nothing relating to Cygnets or the Cisneros Society in any way can be shared with anyone, dead or alive.
” He grinned. “I’m sure I need not detail the consequences that could be effected by a roomful of powerful men with spirit thews. ”
Now the responding laughs were a little strained.
“All right,” Simeon concluded. “Have you the moths?” There were calls of assent in reply, and a few men held up glass jars sealed with fabric and twine, the trapped insects inside hardly visible in the candlelit room.
“Excellent! To the ballroom!” He knocked on the double doors, and they were thrown open from the other side.
The men crowded through a short corridor, led by Simeon, arriving at a grand ballroom where they were greeted by the applause of at least two hundred guests.
The ballroom was lit by chandeliers, their candle smoke casting a dusk over the room.
Some of the young men hesitated at the edges, while others sailed directly into the center, toward the waiting arms of older gentlemen who surrounded them to offer welcome and congratulations.
I recognized most of their faces but not all of them: men too powerful to bother with the enchantment of tokens, comfortably unbeautiful with their sagging bellies and unruly beards, yellowed teeth and stooped shoulders.
Men who directed weather patterns, who built spires of metal and glass in the city, who shipped enormous quantities of goods across the globe, who ran factories with machines that never stopped and never tired—all through the power of enchantment.
Most wore a decorative piece of armor, even if it was only a rondel attached to the lapel of the coat.
They were drinking champagne, and eating oysters, and smoking cigars.
Here and there among them, distorted by the smoke, stood their pale spirit thews: white against the black suits.
A stage had been erected at the center of the ballroom.
Nothing too large, only a few steps up and a few feet in diameter, but enough to rise above the crowd.
Mounted on the stage was a roughly human-sized lump covered with a burgundy cloth.
Beside it stood a smaller lump with an identical cloth.
Under the burning lights of the chandeliers, they looked diminutive and unimpressive.
But their importance was signaled by the presence of the host, who stood protectively nearby.
His name was Karl Draken, though everyone referred to him as “the Embalmer.” He knew as much, and liked it.
He had a heavy black beard, cut square, and shoulder-length black hair, streaked with white.
An assortment of jeweled rings studded his thick fingers, and his jacket was similarly dotted with prize tokens—brooches and tiepins and even a pair of earrings.
On anyone else they might have looked ridiculous, but somehow they suited him.
He stood directly beside the small stage, never budging from his place, and his spirit thew stood attentively across from him in a defensive posture.