Echoes in the Dark

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?