I am Chasonette. We are here, we are home, we will triumph!
A mind-singing bird. Not slightly off…way off.
Music all around. Jikata concentrated and thought she could hear music coming from the very walls of this place and that sent a little shiver down her spine.
Harp notes rose and fell, then came the creak of a door, followed by the wonderful smells of eggs and bacon, freshly baked bread. Saliva pooled in Jikata’s mouth. A plump young woman walked in bearing a tray, obviously breakfast. Jikata shouldn’t eat so heavily…but she was coming off a long, stressful tour.
She noticed the food first then her gaze went from the red lacquered tray to the woman and she stared in disbelief. Music streamed from the maid in simple, repetitive notes. Jikata shook her head hard enough to dizzy herself. But when she stopped, the woman’s music was still there.
Chasonette fluffed her feathers. The bird, too, emanated music without one warble from her throat, a high lovely tune that seemed to pierce Jikata’s heart.
Jikata recalled the notion that she had a soundtrack for her life. True again this morning. More disturbing now. Surely it had to be in her mind, but she could live with it.
The woman dipped a curtsy and flushed a little. Jikata scooted back, wary, but ready to be served. She didn’t keep servants herself, but had stayed at homes of both old wealth and nouveau riche where maids were common.
After a tour she treated herself to resorts where she could be pampered. Perhaps this was just one and she’d forgotten the travel, or the Philberts had arranged for her transport. She wondered what sort of spa facilities this place had.
Speaking in a Frenchlike patter—or perhaps patois—Jikata didn’t understand, the serving woman set the tray on Jikata’s lap. Chasonette nipped half a slice of bacon and after crunching a chunk, dropped the rest in a small china dish on the corner of the tray that held a mixture of seeds.
The bird was going to eat from Jikata’s tray? That couldn’t be sanitary. Chasonette buried her beak in the bowl.
A word from the woman caught Jikata’s ear with the rising inflection of a question. “Po-tat-oes?”
Jikata stared and the servant repeated it. “Potatoes?”
Potatoes for breakfast! Glancing at her plate, Jikata saw scrambled eggs with cheese decorated with pepper and dill, and two strips of bacon. She shouldn’t even be having this. An egg-white omelet with fresh vegetables and a touch of cheese, an in-season fruit cup. Nothing like this. The thought of the cheesy eggs on her tongue made her mouth water all over again.
“No,” she said. “No potatoes.”
The woman’s eyes sharpened. “Ttho. Ttho potatoes.”
Jikata shifted in her bed, she’d been hoping that despite everything, this really was Denver. Pushing down panic, she decided to go with the flow a bit until she could discover more.
With a steady movement, the servant pulled all the bed curtains open and tied each section to the carved bedpost. Jikata gasped. In front of her was a wide rectangular window. The near distance was a field of white stone towers and spires, some embellished. Beyond that was land of a green that Colorado rarely saw except for a couple of weeks in a very rainy spring. Nothing like California, either. Or the tropical island she’d planned to recuperate on.
In the far distance were hills of various shades of green, highlighted by golden streaks of sunlight, a blue, blue sky and puffy, white castle-clouds. It all had an exoticness that spoke nothing of the rocky hills and rockier mountains around Denver.
Jikata’s mouth dried and she swallowed. She needed something to drink.
As if on cue, another woman and a man entered, both older than the first plump maid, who was dressed in yellow. The woman wore blazing red and held a beautiful folding table. The man wore rich blue and carried a tray loaded with fabulous china in a wildly colored chintz pattern on the tall coffeepot and fluted cups rimmed with gold.
The fragrance of jasmine tea rose from the spout of the pot and Jikata’s nose twitched.
None of the three had a bone structure that Jikata could quite place, not northern Chinese, or Mongolian, Korean, Thai. Definitely not Caucasian. Gorgeous all the same. And they all had streaks at their temples, the younger one silver, the older ones the color of spun gold. Jikata recalled that the old woman last night—the Singer had pure gold hair. Those streaks and that hair must mean something. Another frisson slid through her.
The older woman in red set the table beside Jikata’s bed, stepped back and folded her hands, but her sharp gaze scanned the room as if checking to ensure everything was correct. Jikata had seen that professional housekeeper’s glance before. The man poured the tea, lifted the lid of a sugar bowl as if in question.
Jikata shook her head, then remembered the word, ttho.
With exaggerated movements the younger maid shook her head and said, “Ttho.” Then nodded vigorously, smiled and added “Ayes.”
“Ayes,” Jikata said faintly.
Everyone echoed her, and the sound of the word was sometimes eyes, or ice or even ah-yes.
Deciding that her language lesson had progressed well enough and not wanting to think or talk about it further, Jikata fed her rumbling stomach. The first mouthful of eggs nearly melted on her tongue, with a nice garnish of spice, and a small bite of what might be something like paprika or even chili.
She was famished, as if she hadn’t eaten in days—or after a major performance, which was the truth.
“Velcome,” said the older woman and bowed.
“Velcome Lladrana, Exotique Singere,” said the man with a self-important incline of his head.
Since her mouth was full of soft buttered bread giving joy to her taste buds, Jikata merely nodded in return. He reminded her of a thin-nosed agent who’d rejected her and now was probably regretting it. That gave her a warm feeling, too. Always did.
He gestured and the younger woman came forward, took the tea and handed the thin china cup to Jikata. She sipped it. Great tea, but she could have done with some strong coffee. She wondered if they had coffee…not thinking about that!
The man spoke in halting English. “Ven yu dun, she weel take yu Singer.” He pointed rudely at the maid, whose eyes flashed, but she bowed her head.
Jikata nodded again and continued eating, said nothing to his raised brows. He swept from the room, followed by the housekeeper, who sent a last look around the chamber and lowered her own brows in a stern gaze to the younger maid.
With a sideways glance at Jikata the maid stood tall and sang a perfect round C. The door swung shut.
Jikata choked.
6
Marshalls’ Castle
Luthan didn’t sleep well. So he rose early and mounted his volaran, flew to the Abbey. There he told Jongler of the evening with the Exotiques—an abbreviated report for the Singer. As a courtesy, he would have to keep her informed, but he wouldn’t be blindly following any orders.
Jikata wasn’t awake, but he flew close to her window, startling a maid, to see her sleeping peacefully in luxury.
Luthan flew back to the Castle surrounded by the Songs of his good friends Alexa, Marian and Jaquar, his brother and Powerful volarans. He rolled his shoulders, it felt like a great weight had fallen from them. He was no longer the Singer’s Representative to the Marshalls and the other segments of Lladranan society.
He was free.
He hadn’t felt so carefree since he’d left home at seventeen and run wild.
Of course he’d been honored to be the Singer’s first Representative in ages, but that had tarnished over the two years he’d served her. Smudging his honor, too, he thought. That was why he’d been so angry with her, with himself. After he’d set his wild ways behind him, he’d been spoken of as the most honorable man in Lladrana. He’d earned the title, and he’d liked it. Been prideful of it. A trait to be proud of.
Now, once again, he’d have to mend some relationships with people who’d grown distant, specifically Marrec Gardpont and his wife, the Volaran Exotique,
Calli. He’d missed the chance to become closer to his godmother and godfather, they’d died in battle a couple of months before. The ache of the loss of them still swept through him now and again.
They all descended to the Landing Field at the Marshalls’ Castle. For a moment Luthan wondered if he should move his rooms from the Noble Apartments back into Horseshoe Hall, where most of the Chevaliers lived. But though the baths of the Hall were the best in the Castle, the building was busy and noisy. Luthan much preferred quiet. When had he grown staid? The thought stung.
But Alexa was hugging him and murmuring in his ear, “I’ve never actually known you when you weren’t the Representative of the Singer. Now you can kick up your heels like Bastien told me you used to do.” She was gone with a wink before he could do anything but stare after her.
Bastien snorted laughter and elbowed Luthan in the ribs. “Those days are long gone, eh? I’m the rebel and rogue now.” He swaggered after his wife.
It was a bright, sunny day like they hadn’t seen most of the summer. Luthan’s vision blurred and he knew now that the last Exotique had arrived, the weather would be sunnier and warmer. She had brought something to the planet of Amee that it had lacked.
Hope, perhaps.
A belief that the alien Dark battening on Amee and leeching life from her would be destroyed.
Frail humans would kill the Dark, and many of them would die doing so. Luthan had little hope that he’d survive, thought Alexa and Bastien felt the same way, so they were doing their best to enjoy every moment. Song grant them joy.
A throat clearing attracted his attention, and he glanced over to see Marian’s considering gaze on him. As usual, her bondmate had his arm around her waist.
“Ayes?” Luthan asked.
“Just wondering if you noticed that your streak of Power over your right temple has widened?”
He hadn’t looked in a mirror that morning—he rarely did.
“And,” Jaquar continued smoothly, “your left temple has a definite streak now.”
“Hell,” Luthan said.
“Must be the effects of the Caverns of Prophecy,” they said together. Both blinked then beamed at each other as if cherishing the way their minds meshed.
Luthan’s shoulders tensed. He handed the reins of his volaran to his squire with thanks, then turned back to the Circlet couple. “I suppose you think that means my prophetic Power will be stronger, come more often?” His voice was rougher than he wanted. He shrugged to unwork a kink.
Both Circlets nodded. Marian stepped forward and brushed a kiss on his cheek. “Take care, and tell us whatever you want us to know.” She made sure squires tended their volarans, then took Jaquar’s hand and they strolled toward the lower courtyard of the Castle.
Dread uncurled in Luthan’s gut. His Power was increasing in potency and intensity, wouldn’t be going away no matter how he neglected it. He’d have to accept the talent and use it—a lesson he hadn’t wanted to learn.
He strode toward the Assayer’s Office and Upper Ward beyond. The Exotiques tended to avoid the Assayer’s Office with the mounted monster body parts on the walls, and usually a horror or two laid out on the counter ready to be “processed,” like for the stupid hat that Bastien had designed and was now all the rage.
Faucon Creusse intercepted Luthan. He suppressed a sigh. The man was frowning, radiating irritation. Faucon was one of Luthan’s friends with whom he hadn’t been completely honest while he’d worked with the Singer. Luthan stopped and bowed elegantly, dropping his eyes, a bow requesting forgiveness that Faucon would understand. “I am no longer the Singer’s Representative, I am sorry for any slights when I was under her hand.”
“Forgotten,” Faucon said on an exhalation.
Luthan straightened, met his friend’s gaze. “She didn’t inform me of what she knew or guessed about the Seamasters secret Summoning of Raine. Had she done so, I would have acted.”
“We all would have acted.” Faucon shifted his feet.
“How is Raine? She seemed tense last night. The farthest volaran flight for her yet, right? Not much to see of Lladrana in the dark.”
Faucon hunched a shoulder. “She’s always tense around me.”
The man didn’t want to acknowledge the attraction between them. Luthan didn’t blame him. Loving an Exotique was dangerous to the heart. Yet Luthan didn’t need a vision to tell Faucon and Raine belonged together. That was obvious to anyone with a little Power. Luthan had once prophesied that Faucon would have a love worthy of a bondmate—that blood ritual that tied people together for life and death—and Raine was Faucon’s woman.
Perhaps Faucon was ignoring the growing link between them because once Raine finished her task of building the Ship, her Snap would likely come and she would probably decide to return to Earth. Luthan hesitated, then decided not to meddle. Restraint from “fixing” others’ lives was all too rare, especially by and for the Exotiques. Everyone wanted them here, wanted those who had not committed to Lladrana to stay.
Luthan, himself, would feel much better if Raine captained the Ship on the trip to the Dark’s Nest, and didn’t vanish back to Exotique Terre.
“Aren’t you going to ask how the Ship progresses?” Faucon said.
“The Ship will progress as it needs to, in the amount of time it takes,” Luthan replied and frowned. He could understand how long it took for others to accept their gifts and their tasks, but had been impatient with himself. But he wasn’t the only one. Those Exotiques were trying to push and fix again. He wondered what sort of culture they came from that they hurried so. Or perhaps it was the hard circumstances looming over them all. That could agitate anyone.
Faucon grunted. “You’re a better man than I am, thinking about Raine instead of the Ship. Or thinking about her first.”
“I’m not as involved with her as much as you.”
“I’m not involved with her at all!”
“But you need to be,” Luthan said, his turn to prod. “You are the closest thing to a Seamaster that she can trust. If she needs advice, you must provide it.”
“Suppose so,” Faucon said grumpily. “I came to ask of the new Exotique. Will she stay for the battle with the Dark?”
“I don’t think she has any choice,” Luthan said.
“Damned shame, but our need is too great.”
“Ayes,” Luthan agreed. He saw a larger number of Chevaliers loitering around the Landing Field. The Assayer’s Office was unusually crowded, too, with people eavesdropping. No one interrupted the pair of them until they were crossing Temple Ward to their suites in the Noble Apartments. A tall, broad-shouldered man rose from a sunny stone bench. Koz, Marian’s brother, once a Chevalier, now a mirror magician. He’d moved from Horseshoe Hall to the Noble Apartments. He could easily afford them.
“The new Exotique?” Koz asked.
“With the Singer,” Luthan said.
At that moment the Castle klaxon rang in a short pattern that meant “Meeting in Temple Ward for all Chevaliers and Marshalls.” The siren could be heard all the way to Castleton, so Chevaliers in the town—and any Exotiques there—would arrive soon for the discussion.
Koz turned to Faucon, rubbing his hands. “I’ve got some ideas about putting transdimensional mirrors in Raine’s father’s and brothers’ houses so she doesn’t fret as much.”
“She always frets. Doesn’t like to be asked about the Ship design,” Faucon muttered.
“We don’t want an unhappy Exotique who must still perform her task. She’ll be distracted.” Koz sounded cheerful at the challenge.
The klaxon stopped and the quiet was wonderful, then people began filling the courtyard.
“I wonder if the Singer will be keeping her Exotique happy,” Koz said.
Singer’s Abbey
Jikata stood before a carved and gleaming wooden door that rose in a pointed arch several feet above her head. Everything she’d seen in her walk from her rooms to this soaring round tower was on a scale larger than Ear
th human. And a feeling was rising through her that she really wasn’t on Earth. But everyone was treating her very well. For her mental health, she’d consider this a resort.
There were buildings as small as a ten-foot airy pavilion of embellished gothic arches, and as large as a huge square stone tower, and something like the chapel at King’s College in Cambridge, England.
At least she hadn’t gaped open-mouthed. Stared, yes. Everything was surrounded by a high stone wall, equally white, as for a castle or a college, a city in itself. The whole place spoke of immense effort over ages. Like for a king, or queen.
Or the prophetess of a country.
The maid had told her that much, despite Jikata’s wariness. The Singer was the oracle of the country. She had the magical skill—Power—of prophecy. Everyone listened to her, came for personal Song Quests and more, the woman did quarterly Songs on the future of Lladrana. Then the maid had shut up. She’d left Jikata here. Everyone in the castle-keep-like building wore jewel-toned colors at the dark end of the spectrum, and the maid wore yellow. Jikata had deduced the clothing indicated rank.
This door led to the Singer’s “most formal” personal apartments, the most impressive. The Singer had been impressive enough last night with her four-octave voice, commanding people right and left, including one very impressive man in white leathers—a Chevalier, a knight, the maid had said. Not a Singer’s Friend who lived in the Abbey compound.
Jikata herself wore her own underwear and a long, midnight blue robe that slid over her skin like the silk it was, embroidered in what appeared to be real gold metallic thread around the long bell sleeves and the hem. The dress fit perfectly, which made her nervous.
She was alone. Chasonette, the mind-talking bird—that was the only strange thing Jikata would accept—had flown away as soon as they’d stepped out of the building into the bright summer day. Jikata wished the cockatoo back.
“Entre!” demanded the melodious voice of the Singer from beyond the door, apparently deciding Jikata had paused too long.
The door opened and a golden room dazzled her. A woman took her arm and drew her forward. Jikata blinked. The focus of the room was the Singer, who sat on a throne so encrusted with shining gems that the gold could hardly be seen. The throne was much larger than her small form. But she commanded the room by her manner, the depth of her dark brown eyes and the Song that filled the room even when she herself was silent.
Echoes in the Dark Page 6