Echoes in the Dark

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 Earth 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.

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’ 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.