Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

The scene was familiar enough from Tetkashtai’s memories, but as she scanned the crowd, Dandra became aware of an odd tension in the hall. The clusters of people seemed tighter and perhaps less inclusive. Conversation was low and close, less animated than it might have been; yet the people who sang did so with such force and emphasis that it seemed as if they were trying too hard. Singe’s comments about a feeling of fear on the street came back to her. The kalashtar and Adarans gathered in the hall might not have seemed afraid, but they were far from being as relaxed as they should have been.

The longer she stood still and silent by the door, the more people were beginning to notice her presence and to stare at her with an ill-concealed wariness. She forced herself to move further into the hall, trying to spot someone to talk to, someone who might be able to tell her what was going on …

Then the choice of who to talk to was taken out of her hands altogether. “Tetkashtai-” said a voice at her side.

The fear and tension that had stretched tight in Dandra snapped. The voice, so close and so unexpected, was like a blow. She leaped away, psionic power lifting her up to hover a handspan above the ground, ready to dart or glide in any direction. She’d left her spear in the apartment, but she was never defenseless. The humming chorus of whitefire rose around her, and the people closest to her yelped and scrambled away from the sudden display of power. The young kalashtar man who had spoken her name flinched back, his eyes startled. For an instant, he and Dandra stared at each other in mutual alarm.

Dandra could feel her heart hammering in her chest. Now she really was the center of attention in the hall. Song and conversation had ceased. It took an effort to still her pounding heart and release the fiery power that had come so easily to her mind. The people her display had disturbed stared at her with open suspicion. “I’m sorry-” Dandra started to say and then caught herself. Tetkashtai had never apologized for anything. It hadn’t been in her nature.

“Sit,” she said to the nearest person. “It was nothing.”

Conversation resumed. Feeling somewhat less uncomfortable, but now vaguely guilty, Dandra sank back to the floor and faced the young man. He was just barely an adult. His face still had a youthful softness, but at the same time, his appearance was distinctive. Unlike most in the Gathering Light, his black hair had been cut short in the Brelish fashion, and he wore Brelish rather than Adaran clothing, including an open vest dyed a rich sky-blue. The wide leather bracer stitched with copper wire that wrapped around his left forearm was likewise Brelish in design, but it was the smooth black gem-a psicrystal-set into it that brought a twinge of recognition to Dandra’s mind.

Not every kalashtar was capable of creating a psicrystal, and she had a dim recollection of a young kalashtar, his hair still long, proudly showing Tetkashtai the black crystal he had fashioned. The name of the newly-formed crystal, Cano, clung to Dandra’s memory, but it took a moment longer for her to put a name to the kalashtar. When she did, she blinked. “Munchaned,” she said. “You’re Nevchaned’s son.”

“Call me Moon.” Munchaned’s voice had a self-conscious firmness, as if he were daring her to call him anything else-or as if he were trying to cover his moment of childish fright.

Dandra forced herself to keep a smile from her face. “All right, Moon. What do you want?”

“Nevchaned wants to talk. He sent me to collect you.” He jerked his head toward one of the doors that led to the Gathering Light’s private rooms.

Dandra’s eyebrows rose. “Nevchaned wants to talk to me?” she asked. “How did he know I was here?”

“The elders like to keep track of what’s happening around them when they meet. I’m the honored elders’ errand boy of the night so I get the privilege of fetching you.” He looked at her. “Are you going to come or not?”

He sounded like he would be just as happy if she didn’t. The thought was more than tempting to Dandra. Suspicion rose in her. Nevchaned and the kalashtar elders were here, and they wanted to talk to her?

She clenched her jaw and nodded. Moon looked disappointed by the answer but turned to push his way through the crowd to one of the hall’s side doors.

On the other side of the door was a short flight of stairs; at the top of the stairs was a wide landing and another door. Moon knocked heavily once and opened the door without waiting for a response. “Tetkashtai,” he announced.

Dandra caught a glimpse of a dozen or so kalashtar men and women looking up from their discussion. Nevchaned rose out of the crowd. “Thank you, Munchaned,” he said. “That will be all.”

“Can I go now?” Moon asked.

Nevchaned’s face darkened. “You have a duty tonight.”

Moon’s face took on nearly the same color as his father’s. He stepped away from the door and squatted down on the landing outside. Dandra found herself liking the young man. She might not have been able to say anything about it to him, but she could sympathize with a feeling at being trapped within kalashtar customs and expectation. She turned to him and murmured, “Keep fighting, Moon.”

He glanced up in surprise, but she kept going past him, stepping into the meeting room and closing the door behind her.

The warm air smelled slightly of jasmine, as if a single blossom had been left in the room and then removed. The kalashtar elders sat in silence on low, wide Adaran-style benches of dark wood with curled arms and a scattering of thin cushions. The atmosphere should have been calm, conducive to debate and the making of important decisions. It wasn’t. The room felt close, the faint scent of jasmine annoying. The clean lines of the benches were simply stark and barren as trees in winter-and for all that the silent elders attempted inscrutability, their eyes were dark and haunted.

It was probably the last emotion Dandra had expected to see from them.

Nevchaned bent his head over hands spread wide in welcome. “Kuchta , Tetkashtai.”

“Kuchtoa,” Dandra said. She took control of the fear that gnawed at her and forced herself to look around the room, trying to see past the haunted eyes of the elders and guess at what was going on in their minds. It seemed as if more than a few of them were trying to guess the same thing about her. Several glanced away as Dandra’s gaze met theirs; others faced her boldly, maybe even accusingly. Dandra shivered and raised a barrier around her thoughts.

Her reaction to the tension in the room must have been obvious. Nevchaned gestured swiftly to a chair that had been placed before the benches and to a low table bearing a white teapot and several glasses. “Please, sit,” he said. “You’ll take tea?”

“Yes.” Dandra sat as Nevchaned poured tea so pale it was barely tinted with color. He passed her the cup and Dandra took a polite sip. The tea had even less taste than it did color, but she forced herself to nod in acknowledgment of Nevchaned’s hospitality. He wasn’t the most senior or significant elder present-Dandra recognized a wiry woman named Selkatari and a quiet scholar named Hanamelk, both leaders of the community-but it seemed as if he had been appointed as the voice of the elders in dealing with her.

What would Tetkashtai do in this situation? Dandra lowered her cup. “You didn’t summon me here to drink tea.”

Nevchaned showed no surprise at her bluntness. “We wanted to thank you for subduing Erimelk,” he said. “Your Aundairian friend-he’s not badly injured?”

“He’s fine.”

“And your journey to Zarash’ak? It was good?”

Dandra couldn’t quite bring herself to answer the question. Tetkashtai’s journey to Zarash’ak had been a disaster. She clenched her teeth and gave Nevchaned a direct look that was as much herself as it was Tetkashtai. “You’re dancing around something, Nevchaned. Are the elders really that interested in travel stories? What do you want?”