Sound overwhelmed Jikata—the woman holding her arm had a strong one, there was another servant hovering by a silver tea cart in one of the octagonal corners of the room, her blue robe nearly matching the deep blue silk of the walls. Jikata could hear a melody coming from her, too.
“Entre,” the Singer said again, this time with less demand and more like pity or smugness in her tone. One word and Jikata heard layers of meaning, of emotion.
With a flick of her fingers, the servant with the tea tray finished placing a table before the Singer’s throne, setting two places and pouring two cups of floral-scented tea. The china was so thin that light filtered through the cups. The woman holding Jikata’s arm curtsied and left, and so did the other one, closing the door behind them.
Jikata walked to the table, drew up an ornate chair with deeply padded velvet cushions in a gold-leaf wooden frame and sat. Eyes as sharp as her hostess, Jikata waited. She wasn’t sure whether it was a battle of courtesy or patience, but felt she’d take a misstep if she drank first. The tea could freeze to ice in the winter before she lifted the china to her lips.
After several minutes, the Singer chuckled, picked up what looked like a shortbread finger and nibbled it. Jikata sat with folded hands until the woman drank, then sipped herself. The tea tasted like spring blossoms and Jikata yearned for strong black coffee. She replaced the cup in the saucer without the slightest clink and said nothing.
“I am the nine hundred and ninety ninth Singer,” the woman said, “and I am old. No one in Lladrana has my vocal range or Power to match mine.” She swallowed tea, and Jikata could barely see her throat move behind crepey wrinkles, but the sun highlighted the thick gold of her hair.
The Singer continued, “Or perhaps I should say that there were none who could match my range and Power yesterday. That has changed since last night.”
Muscles tightened under Jikata’s skin, she kept her expression impassive. She’d better get up to speed, and fast, which meant accepting this whole thing at face value.
“Look around you and see my wealth, my lifestyle, my authority and power.”
This time Jikata didn’t think the woman meant Power like magic with a capital P, but power like a queen, or high priestess, or oracle.
“I have contact with the Song that infuses us all, everything. From the stars around us to this planet, Amee, to the smallest feather of that bird, Chasonette—” the Singer lifted her little finger “—to the tiniest cell on the tiniest baby’s finger in this land.”
Hmm.
The Singer leaned back, another graceful gesture. “Listen!” The word rang in Jikata’s head, flaring with colorful layers, resonating with equally rich nuances of sound. “Hear the Songs of Lladrana.” She settled back into her throne.
Though her nerves quivered, Jikata leaned back in her chair, breathed steadily, relaxed her muscles one by one, all the while listening. Hearing notes…dense clanks as if they came from the very blocks of stone surrounding her.
Once again the sound of music that she’d been holding back as she spoke with the Singer overwhelmed her. Music came from everywhere—the stones must have absorbed magic or Power or Song, whatever, as well as contributing their own low, slow bass note. Every person had notes or a tune or a melody. She might even be hearing sound from trees, bushes, flowers. Birdsong, the Abbey attracted a great many birds. She might be sensing rhythms of the land, of the sky, of the sun rays filtering down on the planet and the sun itself. Maybe the stars that could not be seen during the day.
She let everything wash over her, holding herself still. The only silence was in her own body, her own mind.
Finally she began to untangle the mixtures…simple notes and small tunes, melodies quick and short, or long and lilting and extravagantly complex. She knew this simple chime was a rosebush with a single flower, this little tune—along with whistling—was a Friend walking down an incline to…what? Beyond him was a luscious sounding combination of melodies so sweet and rich they seemed to stimulate all her senses, as if the music had magic. Or the magic was music.
Dizzy! With a deep breath she drew back, to the room. She’d closed her eyes, but could still hear. There was a small chamber on one side of the room and Friends waited in there, ready to be called for any wish of the Singer. They had stronger, more developed personal Songs. Because they associated more often with the Singer, or she’d chosen them for that? Probably both. Jikata realized all the higher Friends who wore the deepest shades of jewel tones had streaks of silver at their temples…or…Jikata frowned as she puzzled it out—the older ones had streaks of gold blond. The Singer had golden braids.
The older and more magical—Powerful—the more gold hair you had?
“Listen…” The Singer Sang the word, more a command than an request. “Listen to the room. Can you hear what surrounds us?”
The Singer’s Song was ever varied, but Jikata followed the long pattern, the harmonies and variations.
Since Jikata could get lost in the woman’s voice, she set it to the background. There was something more in the room. And she felt the sound. There were gems, crystals embedded in the throne and the furnishings and even the wall and the chandeliers and in the molding around the ceiling and floor. Crystals that held energy. Power. Magic.
She was beginning to believe in this place more, to like it.
“Cast your hearing beyond the room, now, to the Abbey.”
Following the Singer’s instructions seemed natural, something she wanted to do. She heard a theme, comprised of many sounds, of many personal Songs, the theme of the Abbey. “Care for the Singer.” Hundreds of notes, all flowing to one Song, one purpose. “Care for the Singer.”
What might that be like? To wake up and hear everyone around you working toward your care? No wonder the woman was arrogant.
It would be humbling at first, wouldn’t it?
“Farther,” the Singer said.
Jikata sensed the sounds of the land beyond the walls, sniffed and smelled something like crumbling amber. More Songs that could snag her so she’d listen to them forever.
“Send your mind, your Power, your hearing beyond the Abbey.” The Singer’s voice lilted, persuaded. “What do you hear at the farthest edges of the west?”
The west was cooler, the sun had not passed its midpoint for the day. Jikata inhaled deeply, sent her “hearing”—more of the mind than her ears—toward the hills, then longer…surely that was surf? “Ocean,” she said, then noise impinged on that, tugged at her a little to the south. “A port city, busy, mixtures.” Sounds that were not what she already knew as the rhythm of Lladrana and its people.
“You cannot!” The Singer’s voice was so harsh, it snapped Jikata from her daze. She blinked at the old woman.
“Only I, and after years—” The Singer snapped her mouth shut, glaring.
How irritated was she? What next?
7
The Singer clicked her tongue and one of her attendants hurried in and curtsied. “Singer?”
“The map of Lladrana,” the Singer said.
The Friend in dark blue hurried across the room, grabbed a stand that held a cloth tapestry stretched on a square frame, rolled it back toward the Singer and Jikata. It had four wooden balls as rollers, but they moved so easily they could have been the best steel, each machined to exactly match the other. Could something be carved so precisely?
With magic it could. More and more Jikata was believing in it.
The Friend set aside the tea table, put the map in front of them. It was about two and a half feet square. Then Jikata’s gaze was caught by the map of the green country in front of her. This was not any place on Earth.
“Lladrana,” the Singer said impatiently. She lifted a hand and the servant left quickly and quietly. Jikata shifted slightly at the power of this woman.
“Look!” the Singer demanded.
Jikata did.
“The map is shown here as straight up and down, but in truth the ‘northern’ b
order is angled northeast on the planet Amee, you understand me?”
“Yes.”
The Singer scowled.
“Ayes,” Jikata amended.
Stabbing a well-kept finger with age lines at the map, the Singer said, “My valley is here.”
There was a tiny three-dimensional conglomeration of buildings on a mound ringed by hills. The old woman drew her finger to the left, the west. “Here is Brisay Sea.” She tapped a spot below it. “This is the city of Krache, a city belonging to both Lladrana and our southern neighbor, Shud.” Brows low, her inflection went up. “This is what you sensed?”
She sounded as if she didn’t believe Jikata. Jikata straightened. This was like when producers or voice trainers asked her range. Four octaves, and she could prove it. “Ayes.”
With a sniff, the Singer gestured and the map rolled back to its spot. The tea table moved—lifted—back into place. Why hadn’t she done that earlier?
She’d just proven to Jikata that she held two types of power—the power over people as the ruler of the Abbey, and magic. Neither of which Jikata had.
Her stomach clenched at the realization that she was entirely in this old woman’s hands. Jikata could barely swallow. She could disappear, totally and completely, and no one…wait, there was that attractive man in white leather. She hadn’t heard his personal Song this past hour, had she? She sent her thought questing, shooting around the Abbey, weighing each person. Her throat closed with nausea at the effort. She thought she sweated but her dress absorbed it.
She didn’t feel the man. So he wasn’t at the Abbey, but he knew she was here, had arrived last night. The Singer might have to explain to someone if Jikata vanished. Relief trickled through her and she found that she’d shut her eyes again. When she opened them she saw the Singer watching her, as if the old woman knew she used Power but not how.
The Singer shuttered her gaze, curved her lips and relaxed back in her throne. “Your talent is raw, but I can train it and shape it and free your Power. Power like you’ve never experienced.” Again she raised her little finger, touched her shaped fingernail. “The Power you used today is like this to what I can give you.”
What Jikata already had, she knew. Like her voice, the Power was hers. But like her voice, it could be trained. That the Singer could do, she could train, but what was inside Jikata was her own. She’d had plenty try to suck it from her.
She studied the old woman. Yes, power and Power cloaked her like a queen’s huge and enveloping state robe. Innate and developed, as well as given to her by the people of this land.
Jikata sensed the Singer had sent her own mind to the city with the merest effort. Everything Jikata had done this morning had left her exhausted, using unaccustomed mental skills. The Singer looked as if she’d had no exercise at all. She placed her hand on her cup of tea and hummed a note. Steam rose and Jikata was sure it was the exact temperature the Singer preferred.
Jikata’s own tea was cold, and the woman had not warmed the teapot that they both used, only her own cup. The lesson smacked Jikata in her gut. She, herself, had begun to get used to stardom, to flatterers, to people around her wanting to please her. That was heady and lovely. But to be so very Powerful that her own wishes were preeminent—that notion caused Jikata deep unease.
She didn’t want to be like that. She’d have to beware of becoming so selfish, so arrogant. This woman might remind her in some ways of her great-grandmother, but Ishi would have been shocked at the Singer’s hubris.
So not only was Jikata at the Singer’s mercy, but all the lovely things the Singer tempted Jikata with were also part of a sharp, double-edged sword. Talent was like that. To follow her heart, her destiny, she’d had to be more public than her great-grandmother had wanted, had to forsake tradition. Had broken with her great-grandmother. Her child-self still hurt from that, from disappointing her great-grandmother, and perhaps always would.
“You might have questions,” the Singer said, and Jikata wondered how long she’d been musing. She thought she caught a flash of satisfaction in those long, dark eyes, that Jikata was not and never could be the Singer’s match.
Thin eyebrows raised, the Singer repeated, “Questions?”
Jikata did, but with the Singer’s complacent half smile, Jikata decided she should surprise the woman. Since that lady hadn’t hesitated to make rude comments, a personal question wasn’t out of order. “Why are you so small?” Everyone else she’d seen was larger than Jikata herself.
The Singer looked startled, then her face became expressionless. Her brown eyes darkened and burned coal-black. When she audibly inhaled, the quaver was back. “There is a price for everything. You understand?” Her accent was so strong that Jikata was finally able to place it—Bostonian.
“Ayes.” Jikata didn’t like being treated like a rude pupil.
“My Power was understood from when I was a child. I was brought here to the Abbey.” She lifted a hand and her fingers showed a fine trembling, then she put them back on her lap. “The old Singer had had prophecies, of course. I would be one to Summon an Exotique.” She breathed through her nose. “Not once, but twice. I would be an extraordinary Singer, at the cusp of a great age. Whether I did my duty would ensure whether many people would live or die, would—” She stopped, shrugged. “I was told, and given to experience Songs and visions of my own. I could grow large, as large as my people and have less Power. Or stay small and have greater Power. I chose to say small.” Her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “The decision was made when I was passing from child to woman. Not many Singers have a consort. Few men or women can match the Power of a Singer, and most of us want a partner, bondmate. More visions came and I knew if I stayed small, I would have a chance for a consort, a man from Exotique Terre. He would find me more attractive if I were small. At the threshold of womanhood, I longed for the love of a man, dreamed fantasy dreams of a mate.” She shrugged again. “I Summoned him, my Thomas. He came, taught me English. Left with the Snap. He did not love me enough to stay.” Her gaze shifted from the distance to bore into Jikata with a penetrating spear of disapproval that she actually felt.
Jikata’s mind whirled at the strange words: Exotique, bondmate, Snap. “What are—”
“We will discuss other concepts later.” The Singer leaned back and closed her eyes. “I am tired.” She snapped her fingers and an attendant sidled into the room. Obviously snapping the fingers was an indication of a bad mood. “Send the medica to me. I promised that the Exotique would be examined.”
Oh. Fun.
A tall, strong woman wearing a red tunic with a white cross over a long red robe entered and went to the Singer, gently took her hands. The old woman didn’t open her eyes. The medica began to hum in an excellent voice, head cocked as if listening to responses only she could hear. Then she placed the Singer’s hands back on the arms of the chair. “You are doing well, Lady Singer. As we anticipated, the new Exotique has help—”
“Examine her for Bri,” the Singer said.
Jikata wondered what bri was.
The medica dipped a deep curtsy, turned to Jikata. She’d stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles in a casual pose. She would not act like a scolded puppy. She’d asked a simple question. But she was sure, now, that all of her simple questions would have complex answers, and her blood thrummed in her veins at the thought of duty and prices to be paid.
But the medica made a curtsy almost as deep to Jikata as she did to the Singer, and her eyes were curious and kind, not condemnatory. “You will please sit up straight, feet on the floor.” Her language was simple and accompanied by gestures. Jikata sat, realized that with her feet flat on the floor, the chair was too deep to support her back, and stood.
The medica nodded and moved in front of Jikata, smiling. “I at Marshalls’ Castle last year. Know Exotiques.” Was what Jikata heard.
The Singer sniffed.
The medica let out a little breath and held out her palms, obviously for Jikata to
take them.
Reluctantly, recalling the nastiness of the ordeal the night before when chords were painfully plucked inside her, Jikata put her fingers in the other woman’s larger hands. They were unusually warm. The woman Sang and it was as if pulses within Jikata warmed and glowed and vibrated almost pleasurably. “You healthy, more rest and good food,” the woman said. “Potatoes—”
“Potatoes?”
The medica beamed. “New wonder food.”
Jikata narrowed her eyes.
A chiming filled the room and she followed the sound to a round lump in the medica’s pocket. The sturdy woman took out a crystal, and Jikata stared at moving wisps of mist within the orb. “Apologies, Lady Singer, third time Bri—”
“You may report to Bri somewhere else,” the Singer said.
The medica left hurriedly. So Bri was a person.
“‘Jikata’ is how you are called,” the old woman said.
“Ayes,” Jikata said. The Singer still had her eyes closed. Not vulnerable, showing that nothing and no one could assail her defenses. Ishi had been like that, had refused to let anything bother her.
“We will have lessons. Stretching for the body, our instrument. Then voice lessons both in range and in Power. Then, training in prophecy. We are done for the day. You may go.”
Jikata’s mouth dropped open. Training in prophecy!
She had a hunch that all the previous hunches in her life had been true.
And her life had taken another unexpected twist.
Castleton/Marshalls’ Castle
Raine had tinkered with the latest design of the ship at her pretty house in Castleton, then left her drawing board. Before she made a model, she liked it to simmer in her head.
Echoes in the Dark Page 7