“Such as us, Dad,” I say fiercely. “It looks like you cannot be compelled either!”
“This is—this is terrible!” my father says, glancing from me to Aeson and back to the Imperator. “Are you saying you can force—even harm people with your voice? What in the world!”
“It is the ancient prerogative of the Kassiopei Dynasty to wield the Voice of Power, the divine Logos voice,” the Imperator says coldly. And then he raises one hand in a gesture of disgust. “You may all rise!” he says to the room in general.
At once, everyone starts moving and getting up. The serving staff hurry back to their cooking stations—one of them in particular, to avert a fire. Devora and Manala rise silently, with graceful resignation, and return to their seats. Gracie, Gordie, and George appear dazed and furious and yes, scared, as they stand up. Gordie is swaying slightly as he straightens and rubs his forehead, and says, “Whoa.” George looks like he’s been hit by a figurative truck. And Gracie clenches her trembling fingers into white-knuckled fists.
“Are you all okay?” Dad asks everyone with worry.
“They’re fine,” the Imperator says in an annoyed tone. “Come, return to your seats. Do not be afraid of a harmless demonstration.” And he glances over at George who is in the process of moving his chair so that he can sit down again. “So, does this answer your question as to the divinity of the Kassiopei?”
George frowns and looks at the Imperator. “Actually—no, it does not. Now I really have questions. Whatever kind of parlor trick this was, it certainly felt—the word divine would be the last thing I’d call it.”
“No trick, unfortunately,” Aeson says. “Our Kassiopei vocal abilities are real.”
“Wait, so, you can do it too?” My brother George stares at Aeson.
“Yes,” Aeson says, almost with a twinge of guilt. “I have the Logos voice.”
And then Aeson looks at me. “Gwen you might want to tell them—”
I take a deep breath. “Dad, everyone—about that Atlantean Logos voice. . . . Not sure how, or why, but I appear to have the Earth equivalent.”
Chapter 57
“What?” The exclamation comes from Gracie. “Wait, is that what a Logos voice can do? But I thought it was just a really powerful singing voice for voice commands! You can compel people?”
But in that moment, everyone is staring at me. The Imperatris and Manala especially have the most startled, amazed, wonder-filled expressions on their faces. On the other hand, my family looks at me with confusion.
“Gwen, my dear girl, what are you saying?” Dad asks gently. “What is this Logos voice? Please explain, because now I’m getting worried—the Greek term ‘Logos’ refers to the ‘Word,’ as in the biblical concept of the Word of Creation—which is indeed a function of the Divine—”
“That’s right, Dad,” I say. “Except, this is not just a Word but a Voice of Creation. But first, I’ll need to explain Atlantean power voices to you—”
“Do it another time,” the Imperator cuts in. “For now, suffice it to say, your daughter has an unusual talent, almost never found outside of the Imperial Family.”
“But how?” My father continues to look at me with a puzzled, thoughtful expression. “I’m not quite sure I understand this whole thing. After reading up on it, I did manage to have some grasp of your sound technology, and can see how different sound vibrations and singing tones can affect this orichalcum, as you call it—incidentally, it’s another term I’m familiar with but from an entirely other, mythological context—while your actual orichalcum is the basis of much Atlantean mechanization and whatnot. But how does Gwen’s voice fit into all this? She is—all of us are—we’re just an ordinary Earth family that likes to sing . . . and most of us can carry a tune quite well. . . . Margot, of course—she was the professional singer, but the kids—all of you are fine musicians and have very pleasant voices. But nothing out of the ordinary, nothing beyond talent—”
“Oh . . . God!” Gracie puts one hand up to her face and turns to Aeson. “Is that—is that why you are marrying my sister? Because of her some-kind-of-magical voice?”
Everyone stares at Aeson.
But my fiancé frowns at Gracie. For the first time during this fateful meal his voice rises to express intense emotion, as he exclaims, “No, of course not! I’m marrying Gwen because I love her.”
The muscle of my heart contracts with a corresponding sympathetic emotion at his outburst.
The Imperator makes a short sound of disgust.
Gracie appears not entirely convinced, but I say, “That’s quite enough, Gracie, come on. Please don’t be awful.”
“Okay, sorry. . . .” My little sister glances at me, at Aeson, at our Dad.
“Look,” I say, addressing my family. “I honestly don’t know what it is that my voice does exactly, or where it comes from, but it seems to work at a high level.”
“Wow, I just remembered that incident with the shuttle during Qualification,” George says, rubbing his forehead. “You sang in the most amazing way and made the shuttle rise. . . . And there was more, if I recall correctly—that’s right, you saved your future fiancé’s life!”
“What? When was this? Gwen?” The Imperatris looks at me with growing amazement. “You saved Aeson at some point? Oh, my dear . . . why didn’t you tell me?”
I give Devora a smile. “I promise to tell you about it another time, My Sovereign Lady.”
“So, that’s why you chose to be a Vocalist in the Games,” Gordie muses. “It wasn’t just some weird fluke, or choosing an easy Category.”
“No, Gee Three, it wasn’t. It was playing to my strength. The best and only way for me to survive the competition.”
“Which she did admirably,” Devora says in a warm voice. “Again, I had no idea!”
“No one did,” Aeson says softly. And then he gives a slow, accusing glance to his Father.
The Imperator attempts to ignore it and instead deflects the subject. “So, Ter Charles, now that we know about this particular talent that you share with your daughter, you’re beginning to intrigue me. I want to know the extent of your vocal abilities.”
“Good heavens!” Dad says. “You want to know if I can sing?”
The Imperator laughs darkly. “I want to know if you have the divine power in your voice as well.”
“Father!” Aeson shakes his head. “This is neither the time nor place—”
“My Husband, please,” the Imperatris adds. “Let us enjoy the dea meal and celebrate the happy occasion of the joining of our beloved children and our families.”
“Yes, please,” George says. “Because I don’t think I can take much more of these revelations. I just found out my sister has ‘powers.’ If it turns out my father does too, what does that make me? What do you think, Gordo, are we ‘divine’ also? Demi-gods?”
Gordie just shakes his head in uncertainty.
Romhutat Kassiopei sits back in his chair and watches my brothers with narrowed eyes and an angled head. “It amuses me that you are still unconvinced, George Lark. Or you would not be making light of the reality that is before you.”
“Oh, I’m convinced, all right—My Imperial Sovereign.” And George makes an exaggerated nod with his head to the Imperator.
“Very well.” The Imperator continues to examine George. And then he raises his hand and motions to the staff to serve the next course.
The rest of the Imperial dea meal goes by quickly and without any new disasters. Either the Imperator has grown tired of his baiting game or simply ran out of outrageous provocations for the moment, but the situation has stabilized and we are able to consume the next two courses in peace.
The Imperator mostly eats in unreadable silence and gives us masked looks, or makes monosyllabic noises in answer to gentle questions from his spouse. The bulk of the conversation is carried by Devora who speaks of the details of the upcoming Wedding, asks each of us harmless personal questions about which dish we like best, and smiles
at all of us.
Aeson looks at me often, to gauge how I’m doing. I smile reassuringly at him, and each time his expression relaxes at my obvious affection.
Meanwhile I constantly glance at my Dad to see if he’s okay. My father eats almost nothing, watches and listens, and smiles gently if addressed, but I can tell he’s growing exhausted. The health scare from the day before is still fresh in my mind, and it’s clear that what he really needs is to rest, especially after such a traumatic afternoon.
Finally, the dessert course is presented before us—ihamar, an airy, frozen fruit delight similar to ice-cream, but with the ephemeral texture of snow, meringue, and powdered sugar. Creamy dollops of ihamar are placed on top of paper-thin slices of melon-colored fruit—where they quiver with so much as a breath—and then drizzled in a delicate, violet syrup with an aroma of rose petals. As the syrup flows, it creates deep crystalline gullies in the ihamar, and paints a delightful abstract picture. . . .
I notice how my brother Gordie stares at his bowl with a kind of awe, watching the syrup run and form crystals. Just for a moment I am lost in the innocent delight of it.
And then I see the Imperator looking at me, at my Dad, at all of us.
What is he plotting now? Ugh.
A few minutes later, we are done with dessert and the meal concludes.
The Imperator rises and we all follow suit.
There is a weird moment of uncertainty, then Romhutat Kassiopei says, “Well, it’s done. The Kassiopei has sat down with the Lark, and the traditional dea meal has been shared. Our children will be bound the day after tomorrow, and I must say I am more pleased now than I was before this meal started.”
Oh wow . . . was that an underhanded compliment to us from the Imperator?
My eyes widen slightly, as my gaze takes in all of my family members. I find a variety of curious expressions. My Dad looks thoughtful, while George looks doubtful. Gracie and Gordie stare at each other and the rest of us, looking very nervous.
On the other hand, Aeson—whose fine nuances of expression I’ve come to read very well—appears slightly surprised underneath his calm veneer. As for his mother and sister, Devora is beaming at us, and Manala is blinking in relief after what must have been a long ordeal for her.
“On behalf of the Lark Family, thank you for the hospitality—Imperial Sovereign, Sovereign Lady,” my Dad says in a neutral voice as he stands, surrounded by all of us, his children.
I notice he is making a great effort to remain upright, so I move in skillfully and take him by the elbow with a smile. On the other side of Dad, Gracie does the same.
“It was lovely to have you here and finally meet all of you,” the Imperatris says. “I look forward to so many more relaxed occasions in the near future.”
“Yes,” the Imperator adds suddenly. “After this Wedding business is concluded, we have much to discuss, Ter Charles.”
“But now, we must let you and the Imperial Bride and Bridegroom go,” Devora adds in haste. “Our children must prepare for the fasting day and the Wedding. The evening is almost here, with much still to do. At the end of thirteenth hour it begins for them, the isolation and cleansing time. . . . Meanwhile, Ter Charles, and George, you must still be quite exhausted after your recent interstellar journey, and all the stresses of this new environment. So, I recommend a solid rest, starting now.”
“Thank you again . . . yes, very much so, agreed,” Dad says with the lightest nod, and a genuine smile intended for the Imperatris.
“My Father and My Mother, my Bride and I thank you.” Aeson gives a proper bow to his parents, then nods to me meaningfully.
I execute an equally proper curtsey, briefly letting go of my Dad’s arm because I know Gracie has got him from the other side. “Thank you so much for the lovely meal, My Imperial Sovereign and Sovereign Lady.”
My siblings echo me softly.
The Imperator gives us all a nod. “The next time we see you will be at the Ceremony. My blessings go with you, my Son and new Daughter.”
And then, we all step back together, this time inclining our heads politely as a family. Aeson and I lead the way, as we gratefully depart the Imperial Quarters.
The moment we descend to our own floor, lose the guards, and enter the Prince’s Quarters—and yes, shut the door firmly behind us—it’s like a relief bomb going off.
“Oh, my—!” Gracie exclaims, exhaling loudly as we move through the corridors to the living areas.
“Wow, just . . . wow . . .” George says in general disgust, walking ahead with Aeson to give more room to us, so that Gracie and I can support Dad on both sides as we walk.
“That was epic hell,” Gordie says from behind us.
Now that we’re alone, Dad slouches, drained of energy. “I’m afraid I need to sit down, kids,” he says in a faint voice, barely shuffling his feet.
“We’re almost there, Daddy,” Grace says with a quick, worried glance at me.
In moments, we reach Dad and George’s guest suite, and Dad collapses in a deep chair.
“How are you feeling?” Aeson asks, standing nearby. “Should I call the med techs?”
“No, no. . . .” Dad shakes his head weakly and motions with his wrist. “Just need a moment to breathe. It’ll pass.”
“Please let me know at once if you change your mind.” Aeson watches him seriously. He then glances at me. “Gwen—I need to go check the workroom, will be back shortly. Call me if anything happens.”
“Yes, go,” I say with a light smile, knowing he has to go deal with SPC business.
Aeson leaves, and the rest of us sit around, talking quietly.
“Dad, are you really okay?” I ask, coming up to lean over him. I touch his cheek, then rest my hand over his. “Your hands are kind of cold. . . .”
My father looks up at me with a light smile, without otherwise moving. “Feeling better already. Had I been wearing a tie, I’d loosen it, right about now. Instead, there are these strange, looping buttons under my collar . . . all that decorative metal. . . .”
“But you are doing better?” I repeat. “Let me help with the buttons, they’re definitely weird.”
And I start fiddling with the expensive golden torque collar attached by means of chain-like button loops around Dad’s neck and lying flat over the fabric of his shirt.
“Not surprising,” George mutters, attempting to loosen his own similar metal torque collar while throwing careful glances around the chamber. Craning his neck upward he peers at corners of walls near the ceiling and examines items of furniture. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for potential surveillance devices. Oh boy . . . George doesn’t know about Atlantean nano-cams.
“Well, that was a royal crapfest,” Gracie announces, coming over with a water carafe to pour Dad a glass.
My father looks around at us and makes an amused sound. “You know, I did not quite believe that something like that was possible—not in our modern day and age. Gwen, my dear, you did warn me . . . about the patriarch.”
I widen my eyes and pull up a chair to be near Dad. “There’s just so much—so much difficult stuff to tell, some of it wildly unbelievable.”
“So, are we talking cartoon-level villain?” George sits down on the sofa across from us and leans forward, elbows resting on knees. It’s an engrossed pose of his, indicating that my older bro is ready to listen.
“Pretty much, yeah,” Gordie says, pacing nearby.
“No, I don’t think that’s quite right,” I say thoughtfully. “He is much too scary for a cartoon.”
“How about a dark fairy tale?” George insists. “One of the gruesome and disturbing original versions, before they were sanitized for the kiddies by the Brothers Grimm.”
Dad chuckles at us. “A real-life, unexpurgated fairy tale. . . . Well, well.”
“Let’s hope for a better ending in our case,” George says, then yawns tiredly. The aftereffects of stress plus gravity is getting to him also.
“Thank goodness it
’s over,” Gracie says. “All that remains now is just the fancy Wedding itself, and then the worst of it is behind us.”
“The Wedding Day shouldn’t be that bad,” I say, trying in that moment to convince myself as much as anyone else. “For once, I’m glad for all that ceremonial stuff to keep everyone busy.”
Gordie makes a grump noise.
“Now, to be fair,” Dad muses, “today wasn’t entirely terrible. Aeson’s mother was such a welcome contrast to her spouse—gracious and kind. She worked so hard to compensate.”
“She did.” I nod. “Told you, Dad—see how wonderful she is?”
“You’re absolutely correct once again,” Dad says. “She’s an entirely pleasant individual. A proper ally for an in-law.”
There’s a small pause as we all just breathe to dispel the pent-up load of stress, and think.
And then Dad inhales a deep breath and sits up slightly. “Gwen, is it true about your special voice? That you’re able to compel and persuade others—such as what happened in that room, with most of you down on the floor—even his own wife and daughter—all kneeling in obedience?”
I swallow. “Technically, yes . . . but I haven’t actually tried to compel anyone, nor do I think it’s right—”
“It is not.” Dad interrupts me gently. “It is unethical and immoral.”
“I know.”
“Promise me you will not go down that road.”
“I won’t, Dad.” I let out another deep breath. “I hate it, hate the very idea of it.”
“Good.” Dad nods comfortably and pats my hand.
There’s another pause. We all look at each other. At all our so-familiar, dear faces.
“Now, what’s this about using singing voices to perform everyday tasks?” Dad asks. “Can someone please explain to me a little more how this voice technology works? We’ve seen some of it during our time on the spaceship, implemented by the crew—rather sparingly, but—”
Survive Page 62