A Singer is a voice without a singer. It is heard as a strand of song that rises out of the plane’s great chord and moves through the air, from one place to another, with no one making it. Near one, the woven structures of the Weave shimmer in time with it, and the stretched-hide ground rises and falls with its rhythm. Its song has no words that any language holds, but every listener feels its meaning. It has no smell or shape; travellers say that when a Singer passes close, it feels like being hummed.

They move through the network of the Weave, wherever the shared mind is shifting, and gather where many minds meet.

A Singer takes the thought the Weave holds and sings it into a new shape: a new consensus, a new feeling, a new idea the whole network then shares. It does not seem to choose for itself, and it does not speak to anyone; it sings to all of them.

Its song changes minds, all at once. A visitor who listens long enough finds their own thoughts falling into its pattern, and finds it hard to remember what they thought before.

They are how the Weave learns. Their danger is that a traveller who listens too long is woven in.

Travellers bring back melodies they say they heard in the Weave, and some singers on Caeldon claim to know them; none of the songs, they admit, sounds the same on the Material Plane.