Robin Owens - Echoes in the Dark

“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?

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.