Echoes in the Dark (10 page)

“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

T
he 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’ border
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.