Another clang of cymbals and she fell, panting, to the floor. Starburst. Darkness. Then Chasonette was beside her on the ground, rubbing her head against Jikata’s cheek. So soft.
Jikata could see the bird’s yellow eye and thought she was finally back to reality. She leaned on an elbow, but her support didn’t feel like a padded lounge, or carpet. It felt like rock.
She looked around and saw a large cave, people wearing long robes standing in a circle. Some had small tables holding crystal bowls before them and held the thick glass wands to set them humming. Others held cymbals of brass, silver, gold…?
Her mouth was open so she sucked in deep breaths. The small woman gazed down at her with triumph, crinkling deep wrinkles around her eyes even as her throat moved with renewed song, music that lowered down the scale as if ending a long piece.
We are here! I am back! A warbling voice came in her head and Jikata slowly turned to see Chasonette. She could have sworn the bird winked at her. There’s magic here, the bird said.
Jikata sat up, craned to look around. Just beyond some people she saw the pale pink and deep maroon lobby of the Ghost Hill Theater amidst a blue fog in the distance. Strangled noises came from her throat as she jumped to her feet.
Then that glimpse of known vanished and she was in a cavern, large enough to hold the musicians surrounding her, all taller and sturdier than the old woman, than Jikata herself.
Chasonette fluttered to her shoulder. The bird’s fragrance was the same, as if her feathers held a faint lavender oil.
Once more the bird took wing, and the chiming necklace was dropped over Jikata’s head, rattling to shine silver against her dark blue blouse. Then Chasonette was on her shoulder again, yellow gaze serious. You are where you belong.
“I am the Singer,” the old woman said.
She certainly was.
“Now to test your tuning,” she continued. That didn’t make sense. But she opened her mouth and hit high C with ease. At the same time the cymbals clashed, someone rang chimes and the singing bowls sounded. Every note reverberated in Jikata until she felt like only pure vibration.
She crumpled. She didn’t understand anything.
2
Lladrana, Singer’s Abbey, a few minutes later
Luthan Vauxveau, the Singer’s representative to the warrior Marshalls, stood in the green landing field just downhill from the Singer’s Abbey. He’d been about to return to the Marshalls’ Castle, when he’d felt it, the Summoning of another Exotique from their land to Lladrana.
The soles of his feet had tingled with a joyous outpouring of Amee, the planet, that her last savior had arrived. His winged horse and the rest of the herd had trumpeted.
A shout tore from him, joining other exclamations.
Even as he felt the planet’s joy, his own anger welled and the back of his neck burned with humiliation. He hadn’t felt this stupid since before his father had died. The Singer had manipulated him, used him, played him for a fool. Again.
Soon the vibrations of the act would notify every person with a modicum of Power that a new Exotique had crossed the Dimensional Corridor and entered Lladrana. That would include the five other Exotiques who would demand immediate answers from him. All he had was questions himself.
People from Exotique Terre were supposed to be Summoned by the Marshalls, the strongest team in the land. But the Singer had Summoned her own. Luthan ground his teeth.
He was the representative of the Singer to the Marshalls and all the other segments of Lladranan society. He was supposed to know what she had planned, be informed. He was the one people would come to, ask questions of.
Especially the other five Exotiques.
He’d known nothing. The Singer had kept this Summoning, and other matters, secret from him. This was the last straw, and time to tell her so.
Simmering with anger, he turned back toward the central Abbey. He’d find her in the caverns, a place off-limits to him, but that wouldn’t stop him. Not now, not ever again.
He’d tried his best over the past two years to liaise with the Singer and the Marshalls, the Chevaliers, even the Sorcerers. And over the past two years the old Singer herself, the oracle of Lladrana, had become more secretive and capricious.
Striding to the high wall enclosing the Abbey’s jumbled buildings, he swung open the gate with Power, shaping a bubble around himself so he could not be detained. His force field gently shifted robed figures of the Singer’s Friends from his path as he wound through the buildings toward the towers of the main Abbey.
The Singer’s Friends reached out to pluck at his white leathers, stood in front of him, yet all were moved aside. He was a Chevalier, a fighter, had fought battles against the Dark and its monsters for most of his life. With respect, he’d bent his will under the Singer’s. No more. He could feel the location of the Singer and the new Exotique, could hear it.
A fifth-level Friend, the highest in the hierarchy, stepped in front of him just where the mazelike path narrowed to allow only one person. The man stood his ground, but Luthan’s Power pushed him and he had to back quickly. “Don’t get in my way, Jongler. I must speak to the Singer about her Summoning the last Exotique without telling anyone.”
The man stared at him from under lowered brows. He sighed. “It is done. The final Exotique is for the Singer. It is appropriate that our lady Summoned her instead of the Marshalls.”
Luthan continued walking. “Fine. You tell that to the other Exotiques when they swoop down on this place in a couple of hours.” He smiled. “I estimate that the Distance Magic of the volarans will bring them that quickly.” He hesitated a step. “Of course Bri has the roc, and roc Distance Magic is even faster.”
The man paled, the giant bird liked flesh. “Not the roc.”
Luthan let his sarcastic smile widen. “If you’re lucky, it will be Bri, the healer, riding the roc instead of Lady Knight Swordmarshall Alexa.”
“Not…not…Alyeka.”
That first Exotique was considered to be the most unpredictably dangerous. Alexa, pronounced correctly, had no fondness for the Singer and her Friends.
“Wait, you must stay and explain to them!” Jongler said.
“I know nothing to explain.” That nettled him so much he wanted to hit the man. His fingers itched. But he was not his father. After a couple of years of rebellion, Luthan had built his reputation as the most honest man in Lladrana. He would not betray that for an angry impulse, not for the Singer herself.
Shrugging, Luthan said, “You’ll be the one explaining.”
Jongler backed rapidly, by his own feet, bowing repeatedly. “Ah, Hauteur Vauxveau.” That was Luthan’s title and surname.
“I’ve been beyond courtesies for months.” He didn’t slow down, but bared his teeth. “I’ll speak to the Singer in person.”
A quick darting of eyes by Jongler. They’d reached a wider space that curved around a circular building with paths to the left and right between it and others. Luthan swung left.
Jongler coughed. The closest door to the caverns is to your right. Luthan heard mentally, privately. Now when had he become sufficiently connected to Jongler that they could speak mind to mind? Didn’t matter.
Luthan pivoted and stared to his right. A small octagonal tower stood with dark arches below, leading to what he’d thought was the Friends’ meeting room. The arch was matched by the second-story windows, the whole was capped with a conical roof and weather vane. Though the blackness beyond the arches was deep, he didn’t hesitate, moved swiftly and found two doors. One would probably lead to the meeting room.
He glanced back at Jongler, who now smiled with an edge, hands folded at his waist.
“Which?” Luthan asked.
Jongler lifted his nose. “If you have the bond with the Singer that you think you do, you will know how to find her in the maze of the tunnels, won’t you?”
Nodding shortly, Luthan settled into his balance, grounded himself, banished anger and probed. Behind the left door he sensed
the dampness of rock walls, the slope downward into the heaviness of earth, the secrecy of the Caverns of Prophecy. The atmosphere behind the right door Sang of laughter and petty quarrels and the range of human concerns.
He set his hand on the left doorknob. Shock! Gritting his teeth he absorbed it, knew the knob was brass that now had left a fancy pattern on his skin…and told the Singer he was coming. Wrenching open the door he stepped inside. The door slammed behind him as if on tight springs. Another security measure. The dark in here pressed on him, whispering, whispering…
He found himself swaying…falling into a trance that would trigger his own gift of prophecy, and by the great, evil Dark, he didn’t want more visions!
“Light!” He snapped the word and the resulting brightness shocked him, coming from a great chandelier dripping with crystals, each one emitting sparkling light.
This anteroom was pretty with a stone mosaic floor and smooth walls of gold-patterned white silk. Three doors were set in it. He knew exactly which one led to the Caverns of Prophecy; dread filled him when he looked at it. Another led to the chapter house, the third resonated strongly of the Singer, probably went to one of her personal suites. The beauty of the room masked the threat of the caverns.
For a moment he considered his options. Going down into the bowels of the planet, subjecting himself to whispers and vapors and misty visions of the future…many futures. He didn’t have to endure this. But he didn’t like giving in to fear. And he didn’t like being used as he had been used for the past year.
He could avoid confronting the Singer in her place of Power, abandon trying to rescue the new Exotique, who was meant for the Singer and her Friends. Might even be the next Singer. He could wait for the other Exotiques to arrive and they could all speak to the Singer herself. He shook his head.
The Singer would be a stone wall to the others, and the more they pushed, the more adamant she’d be.
So he squared his shoulders, opened the door and Sang himself a light spell for illuminating underground chambers—usually hot springs or bathing pools rather than caverns or dungeons. Light flickered along the top of the smoothly worked dark brown stone tunnel twisting downward.
Luthan headed into the depths of the caves, ignoring the susurration of the whispers around him, the vague mists that floated near, sparkling with images if he cared to see.
Hair prickled along his body, and he quashed apprehension.
As he descended and breathed the vapors of the cavern that triggered prophecy, it became impossible to block visions of the future. The first bad one was his brother’s nearly unrecognizable burnt body, skin black and bone white. Luthan fell to his knees, gasped. A broken-fingered dead hand was clasped in Bastien’s, Alexa’s. Luthan’s pain rose as he saw his brother holding what was left of his mate. Beyond them were a pile of dead; he saw the staring blue eyes of Jaquar, and Marian’s red hair. He forced nausea away, his gorge down.
Since they were all planning to invade the Dark’s Nest, ready to die to stop the evil alien being, this wasn’t an unexpected vision, but it hurt his mind, his body, his heart to contemplate such a future.
After a few breaths, the image faded. The cave was dark and echoing with a faint swirl of mist near the top. Shuddering, he rose to his feet, felt clamminess on his face and didn’t know if it was vapor or tears or sweat.
When he came to a three-way fork in the tunnel he closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the Singer, the echo of her words or Song, and the sound told him how to go. More, it seemed like the bond they’d established between them was true, because he could see a link also, a deep blue and occasionally glittering silver thread. She was in the direction of the middle path before him, but it was not the way to her. It was the left-hand path, again, that reverberated with Song, and showed the cord winding between them. So he took the left.
Descending deeper, the scent of weeping rock and incense came to his nostrils, the mists of prophecies became full, iridescent wraiths, tempting him to look and study. The Songs of them increased from whispers to a steady hum. His skin itched. How did the Singer stand it? How had she stood it for over a hundred years? Did it diminish or grow stronger or was it her own strength and control that grew? If so, he was a fool to set himself against such a being.
Concentrating on her, he held off most of the visions.
But not all.
Dark encroached. His mouth dried. The light dimmed, his field of vision narrowed. He set his jaw. The Dark had encroached into Lladrana for centuries, particularly in his lifetime, especially in the past decade.
He drew his gauntlets from where they were folded over his belt and put them on so he could trail his hand against the cavern wall.
Four steps down the corridor his solid steps wavered, the mist pushed around him as if it knew he had the Power of Sight. Wisps curled in his nostrils and he couldn’t help breathing them.
Six steps and the heat was vicious—like that of an active volcano. The Dark’s Nest.
Seven steps and a horrendous explosion occurred, the heat searing his eyes, but not before he saw a mountain island explode flinging bodies into the sky—volaran and human.
One of the bodies wore white leathers like his.
Again his legs gave way and he gasped, fell to the floor, knees bruising.
Endured the horrendous noise of a dying Dark, the screams of volarans and the Exotiques echoing in his brain as they died, too.
Then nothingness.
For a long moment he lay and ached…body, mind, soul.
He rose once more and wiped his arm across his forehead, glad these were his regular white leathers and not dreeth skin that wouldn’t absorb his perspiration. Panting, he staggered through the dank mists and discovered he was humming. The realization jerked him to a stop. Bracing himself on the wall, he converted the hum to a Song and immediately felt better, his vision cleared. The tendrils of mist still lurked, but he’d developed a shield against them. He thought of the words he chanted—“I am fine. I can handle this. Not all visions are true.” Rough words, not harmonious to the ear. But he’d Sing them until he could craft a potent poem.
He was still working on the wording when he saw an ancient door and beyond the door he felt a great cavern where the Singer and some of her Friends waited—Friends who didn’t have any prophetic Power, as she did. As he did.
He heard the murmur of real human voices and the last fading note of crystal bowls. He realized that though it had seemed like a trip of hours, it had been less than five minutes. Nevertheless, his skin was bathed in sweat. He hoped his undergarments were releasing a pleasant scent as they were supposed to. The Singer had a nose as sensitive as her hearing.
When he opened the door the ghosts of prophecy faded. He let out a breath of relief and stepped into the large, rough cavern. The circle of Friends, some behind small tables holding bowls, some with cymbals, the best Singers with no instrument at all, circled a flaming blue-energy-lined pentacle. The Singer, a tiny woman especially for a Lladranan, looked down at a figure.
Then the Singer looked at him, her pointed brows rising high, and pitched her voice so it sounded next to his ear. “You made it all the way to the Summoning Cavern.”
He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or dismayed or both. Then a slight, secret smile lifted the corners of her mouth. He didn’t ask what she knew. He didn’t want to know. “I was not mistaken in you,” she said loudly.
Luthan looked her straight in the eyes. “I was in you.”
Striding to the outside rim of the circle, he stared down. As expected by all, the Summoned Exotique was a woman. A lovely woman, beautiful more in the manner of his own people than that of Exotique Terre: long, dark hair flowing around her torso, old ivory and gold complexion, lush lips. He swallowed hard and waited for his innate revulsion for Exotiques to hit.
Marshalls’ Castle, the same time
Raine Lindley found her feet carrying her to the great round temple in the Marshalls’ Castle.
Again.
There’d been something in the air of her small purple home office that wouldn’t let her settle. Time and again she’d erased the line of the ship’s prow she was designing. When she looked out the window, rainbows seemed to dance on the air and somehow she caught a scent of incense and the reverberation of a gong.
So she’d mounted her flying horse, her volaran, for the short two-mile trip to the Castle and the temple, accompanied by her companion, a young magical shape-shifting being called a feycoocu. This compulsion was more than was natural or healthy.
Because look what happened when she last followed a compulsion. At home in Connecticut she’d been so obsessed with her grandmother’s mirror that she’d stare at it for hours, think about stepping through it, and how strange was that?
Then she’d thought that giving the mirror away to one of her brothers—newly engaged—was the right thing to do. To top off all this foolishness, instead of driving around the inlet, she’d packed the mirror and taken it onto the open sea in a new boat she’d built. In the winter. It was a mild day and the water was calm, but the action had been unwise beyond belief.
Thunder, lightning…storm from nowhere. The quilts and ropes around the mirror falling away magically. The glass blazing white like nothing she’d seen. The boat breaking up under her, the wind whipping her into the mirror, then landing her in the cold sea of here—an alternate dimension or universe or whatever. Lladrana.
She’d been Summoned by the Seamasters, who’d done it on the cheap. They hadn’t even known they’d succeeded. Just called a person from Earth and when she didn’t seem to show, they wandered back to a market gathering.
That forced Raine to fend for herself in a strange land where she knew nothing, and, in fact, got sick if she were more than a couple of miles from the sea.
Of course the worse had happened. One of those Lladranans who had an instinctive, irrational repulsion for people from Earth—Exotiques—had found her, been in a position of power over her. Tormented her. She’d lived like that six months before she could escape.
Echoes in the Dark Page 2