The final assembly before the Primordial Loom took place at the sixth hour. Just then, the hovering sphere of starlight above the Genesis Well reached the zenith of its slow rotation.
Three thousand four hundred people stood upon the circular marble terraces of the round hall, encircling the white expanse of the Great Parchment Roll like a living wall of weathered skin, patched linen, and bleached hemp. Behind them rose the massive bronze uprights of the Loom, fifty arm-lengths high, their millions of taut, shimmering filaments shaking with that high, pure drone that had replaced the sound of ocean breakers in their ears. The golden light of the well cast long, dramatic shadows through the rows of stone pillars, lighting up the solemn faces of men and women who had crossed the underworld to stand at the threshold of the dawn.
In the center of the round hall, standing beside the golden curb of the well, Qiao Ming raised his right hand.
The vast round hall fell into a total, unbreathing stillness. The only sound leftover in the universe was the gentle, liquid murmur of the Primordial Silt-Ink swirling in the eight-sided water tank sixty arm-lengths deep, and the slow, rhythmic breath out of three thousand living chests.
