Книга - Echoes in the Dark

Echoes in the Dark
Robin D. Owens


The planet is dying, slowly being drained by an alien Dark, and only one last, desperate plan can save it. Deep in another dimension, a disillusioned young singer is summoned as Lladrana's last hope. Uncertain of her future, unaware of her extraordinary magical talent, Jikata will be the sixth and final outsider–Exotique–to step through a dangerous portal of prophesy and magic.Survival will require her to forge closer friendships than she has ever known. The price of those bonds will threaten the very fate of Lladrana: a world where music holds the key to an ancient mystery–and six women will wage the ultimate battle against the forces of Dark.









Praise for the novels of

ROBIN D. OWENS


“Strong characterization combined with deadly danger make this story vibrate with emotional resonance. Stay tuned as events accelerate toward the final battle.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Keepers of the Flame

(Book Four of The Summoning)

“Fans of Anne McCaffrey and Mercedes Lackey will appreciate the novel’s honorable protagonists and their lively animal companions.”

—Publishers Weekly on Protector of the Flight

(Book Three of The Summoning)

“[A] multi-faceted, fast-paced gem of a book.”

—The Best Reviews on Guardian of Honor

(Book One of The Summoning)

“The story line is action-packed but also contains terrific characters…Robin D. Owens enchants her readers.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Guardian of Honor

“Owens takes…elements that make Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Darkover stories popular…and turns out a romance that draws you in.”

—Locus magazine

“Owens excels at evocative, sensual writing.”

—Romantic Times BOOKreviews




Echoes In The Dark

Robin D. Owens








To the Song that moves within us all.


“Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.”

—Percy Bysshe Shelley










Contents


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Author Note

Cast of Characters




1


Ghost Hill Theater, Denver, Colorado

Late August, Night

Jikata was taking her last bow on stage and soaking in applause when her great-grandmother died. The odd thing was that Jikata actually felt Ishi Yamuri pass away in one of those increasing moments of hyperawareness. As if the old woman touched Jikata with her stubborn disapproval even as others yelled and clapped.

The bond with her great-grandmother vanished. Ishi hadn’t waited to see Jikata tomorrow, the date Ishi herself had insisted upon.

Jikata had added her old hometown of Denver to her touring schedule because she’d sensed her great-grandmother’s time was near, though she hadn’t heard from the woman in years.

Suddenly the applause, the only thing that had satisfied Jikata for a long time, rang hollow and empty. Like the rest of her life.

Jikata lowered her head, closed her eyes against the lights made brighter by tears. Then she stepped back on the polished wooden stage and let the heavy maroon velvet curtains descend.

The crowd whistled and clapped louder, but she had no more to give. This final event—the reopening of a newly renovated small Victorian theater—was the last in her tour. Fitting.

Her career was skyrocketing. She neared the pinnacle of success for a pop singer, a female half-Japanese no less, and found herself alone and panting after the climb.

Her life was tanking. Fans adored her. No one loved her. No man, no good friend female or male, no child. As her great-grandmother would have said, her soul was withering from lack of nourishment.

Applause came from stage right and the philanthropist behind the renovation strode forward, beaming, accompanied by his wife. Jikata pasted a smile on her face, hoping that it might turn into the real thing since she usually enjoyed the company of Trenton Philbert III. He stopped clapping and held out a hand and she put hers in it. “Great job. Definitely the next star. I’m looking forward to that last zoom to the top.” He squeezed her hand and let it go.

The praise warmed her a little. “Thank you.”

“You did the inaugural event of the Ghost Hill Theater proud. Thanks again for agreeing to perform. We sold out.” He glanced around, the backstage was still shiny with cleanliness and held the faint scent of wood stain. “This place should be good for another hundred years.”

“It’s a lovely theater,” Jikata said. Now. She could remember when it had been a ruin.

He radiated satisfaction. Turning to his wife behind him, he said, “We have a gift for you. Darling?”

Juliet Philbert stepped forward with a large fancy birdcage fashioned like the Taj Mahal. Jikata gritted her teeth…no, please, not a bird. Her great-grandmother had kept finches when Jikata had been younger. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I—”

Then the bird opened its beak and pure liquid notes warbled out, like nothing Jikata had ever heard. As if it were more than song, a communication. The bird didn’t look like any she’d seen before, either. All scarlet red, but with a fancy cockatoo comb of red, yellow and white. About the size of a cockatoo, also. It fixed a yellow eye on her and let loose another stream of notes. This time sounding a lot like the underlying melody of the last ballad she’d sung. Jikata blinked.

“Her name is Chasonette,” Juliet said. “She’s a Lladranan cockatoo and has the most beautiful birdsong in the world. She’s quite rare, but I knew such a lady would be perfect for you. And Trent indulged me.” She thrust the cage at Jikata, so she took it. It was lighter than she’d thought.

Juliet tucked her hand into Trenton’s elbow and he covered her fingers with his own, shaking his head as he looked down at his wife. “I always indulge you. The bane of my existence.” He kissed her temple. “People say I’m going soft.”

Fast footsteps came from backstage and Juliet’s assistant, Linda, who appeared distressed, hurried to them. Jikata remembered, and the small moment of normality shattered.

“I’m sorry.” Linda stopped, inhaled a breath that raised her thin chest. Looked at the Philberts, hesitated and said, “I’m sorry. I have bad news. We should…ah…let’s go to your dressing room.” Linda pulled Jikata backstage, past the greenroom and into the star’s dressing room. The Philberts followed.

The small room was elegant in cream and white, but four people made it crowded. Jikata placed the birdcage on the dressing room table. Chasonette stepped nervously back and forth on her perch, then apparently caught sight of herself in the mirror and preened.

Linda led Jikata to the cream brocade Victorian fainting couch that took up most of one end wall. She figured she had to sit. The moment she did, Linda released her hand—a blessing since both their palms were sweaty.

Linda grabbed a box of tissues from the dressing table and dropped it in her lap. “I got a call. Your great-grandmother has died, Jikata.”

“I was supposed to visit her tomorrow,” Jikata said, still shocked.

“Sorry,” repeated Linda. She was a young intern with the University of Southern California who’d traveled with Jikata during the two-month tour. Though they’d managed well enough, neither of them expected the job to transform into anything more.

“She was an old woman and had a good life.” Isn’t that what Jikata was supposed to say? “I want to be alone,” she choked out.

“Of course. We’ll take care of your crew and fans.” Juliet, patting Jikata on the shoulder, trilled her tongue. Chasonette perked up and warbled a low, soothing melody. “I’m sure you don’t want to attend the opening gala.”

“No, I don’t.” It had completely gone from her mind.

“We’ll make sure your room in the hotel next door is booked for you through the next week. It’s been a gruelling tour for you, I know. You need rest.”

“Yes, I’d planned a long break.” Rote answers seemed to work. Jikata didn’t know what she felt except…empty. Nothing new about that.

“You just go next door when you’re ready,” Juliet insisted.

“Fine.”

The bird continued to croon, soft background scales that tugged at Jikata, reminding her of the chants and chimes that had haunted her. She rubbed her temples.

Trenton squatted down, as if setting himself in her vision. “Jikata, if there’s anything we can do….”

She nodded. “You go on to the gala. You’re the star of that show.”

“All right, but if you need us here in Denver, let us know.”

She watched blindly as the Philberts left. They were the only people she felt she could call on in Denver, and they were acquaintances. All her old ties had withered.

“Um, Jikata?” Linda said.

Oh. The girl had looked forward to the end of the tour and the big party to celebrate the renovation of the theater. With another nod, another blank gaze, Jikata said, “You go ahead. You don’t have to stay with me the next couple of days. Let’s call this the end of the internship.”

“I don’t know, if you need me….” But Linda sounded relieved.

Jikata was prepared. She went to her designer backpack and got the card—with bonus—from an inner pocket. Held it out. “Thanks for all your help. I’ve already turned in my last report. You’re free to go.”

“Thanks!” With a smile showing the job was already history, Linda hurried from the room.

Jikata sat and listened as the theater emptied, then dragged herself into the shower. Let the heat and steam flow over her as she prodded her feelings about her Japanese great-grandmother. Regret, as always, they hadn’t ever seen eye-to-eye. Her great-grandmother had refused to speak to her after she’d legally changed her name to Jikata, had hated that she’d become a pop singer. At eighteen, Jikata had left the dust of Denver for L.A. and prospered.

Well enough that she could buy whatever she wanted, keep her great-grandmother in style. Which, of course, Ishi had refused, liking the little house in east Denver she’d bought a few years after leaving the internment camp in southeastern Colorado. Both of Jikata’s grandmothers had died before she was born. Both her grandfathers had been unknown, a bond between her parents who were killed in a car accident when she was fourteen.

Sad. Jikata felt it, mostly for the lost opportunity to reconcile, though she’d known in her bones that was wishful thinking.

Now she was truly alone. No more family.

She wondered what to do. Knowing Ishi, all her affairs would have been arranged. Jikata was ambivalent about seeing the old house. At the end of a tour, she usually found the nearest bed and fell into it. But lately her sleep had been troubled by dreams that had her sweating and tangled in sheets when she woke. Or, worse, visions that were pure beauty she strove to put into words and sing.

Those songs always bombed. She did much better when she sang others’ melodies and lyrics, and that was a raw spot in her soul.

The pipes creaked and water cooled and she turned the shower off. At least the makeup and sweat of the last show, of the tour, was finally gone.

Wrapping herself in a large towel, she stepped into the dressing room. The mirror was foggy with steam so she opened the door, dressed quickly in jeans and a blue silk blouse and packed a small suitcase, put her backpack in order and swung one strap over her shoulder.

She turned to do a sweep of the room and froze.

The birdcage door was wide open. Jikata blinked—could the bird have unlatched it herself? Apparently so. A very valuable, rare bird.

Her gaze trailed to the open door of the dressing room. Shit! She looked wildly around the room, but it was small and a foot-long scarlet bird was not evident against the cream-and-gold background.

Dammit!

She hadn’t seen or heard the wretched bird leave. No trilling of a goodbye song. No soft whoof of feathers.

Sliding her feet into ballet slippers, she opened the door wider, then heard a tinny chime. She glanced at the table where the chiming-ball necklace Juliet Philbert had given her when they’d met had been. Pretty and shiny on a gold satin ribbon, it was gone, too.

Jikata grimaced. She was ambivalent about chimes. She’d included them in her own compositions that hadn’t been successful, then the last one that had made it big. It was hitting the top of the charts now. The strange concoction of bells and chimes and an occasional gong tone. She’d sung—chanted—a mishmash of words in English and Japanese and French and had layered her voice in the track again and again over four octaves. She barely had a full four-octave range and had worked hard on that track until each note was strong and perfect.

“Come to Me” was going platinum.

The tune wasn’t really her composition and that’s what bothered her. She’d heard odd patterns of notes, of chimes, of chants, the occasional gong beat in her head over the past two years. It had started here in Denver, her hometown, two years ago February. A February as dreary as her life. Ishi hadn’t wanted to see her then, either.

She shook the thought away. Stop dithering! Go hunt the bird. She stepped to the door, called, “Chasonette!” Would a bird come to her name? Cockatoos were supposed to be intelligent for birds, weren’t they?

Another chime. Faint. But her hearing was good and she was sure it came from the stage area. She hurried past the greenroom, angling toward stage left, which had more space than stage right. A bird would want more space to fly in, wouldn’t it?

Only a few dim bulbs were on and she moved through light and shadow. She pushed through the curtains to look into the house—even dimmer—and saw a flash of a red wing through the door to the lobby someone had propped open with a broom.

Damn!

So she hopped from the stage and ran up the plush maroon aisle, through the door to the equally elaborate lobby.

Then she heard the wonderful song of a woman’s voice, with the slightest of quavers that made Jikata think the singer was old. An elder and perfect master of her craft. The wordless Song compelled Jikata to listen. Not to hear, but listen, and the mistress of that voice had the range of Jikata’s own, a full four octaves, richer for years of use.

Other music lilted. Crystal singing bowls, chimes, and the jangle of Chasonette’s ball melded perfectly into the whole.

“Chasonette?” she called.

Chasonette chirped. Jikata ran after her, misjudged the distance of the sound and went through the mirrored wall.

No!

That couldn’t have happened. Could it?

She stood in a gray mist. Wind whipped at her hair. There were no walls around her, just an echoing distance. Where was she? Her toes curled in her shoes, felt solid ground through the thin soles of her slippers. Shouldn’t it be new, plush carpet?

She hesitated, but more chimes and the voice and the bowls and the sheer magnificence of the sound drew her. How often did a person hear this sort of concert? Never.

There were cadences and tones to this Song that outclassed all her composition attempts. As if she’d…heard through a mirror darkly…. She chuckled, but she yearned. This, this was what she’d been trying to achieve for the past year. If only…

Another questioning chirp and Jikata realized she was humming her “Come to Me” hit. Light was ahead and walls looked cut from rock. That reassured her a little. Everyone knew there were tunnels under Denver. She’d somehow made it into one of them.

Then the woman’s voice twisted the melody and the notes seemed to hit physical points inside Jikata. She literally felt her heart squeeze. So wonderful, and there was more, she heard the reverberation of the chant she’d included in her own work. Come to me.

The woman’s voice caressed her with a soothing cadence. Jikata blinked, she saw the woman, a tiny, aged, Asian woman standing in light that reflected off mist around her, giving her a glow. Chasonette perched on her shoulder, the ribbon of the chiming ball in her beak. She shook it. The sound shivered over Jikata’s skin. She glimpsed people behind the woman, playing singing bowls.

Stranger and stranger, but not threatening.

Jikata hurried forward, met a thickness in the air like a membrane, surged through it. More wind. In a tunnel or dreaming. She could have fallen asleep on the Victorian fainting lounge in her dressing room after her shower. But she plunged ahead. Then she was with the woman, and Chasonette hopped from the woman’s shoulder to Jikata’s, dug in her claws. Ouch, she felt that!

“Welcome to Lladrana,” the older woman said in English. She gestured and cymbals clashed and chimes sounded and a shudder went through Jikata.

Brightness flared before her eyes, blinding her. She flung out her arms, trying to keep her balance. Another clang as if from a gong, but the percussion was slightly off and she knew it came from many cymbals. What the hell was going on?

A dream. Just a dream.

Hair had risen over her skin, and she’d gone clammy. The air she sucked in smelled like incense and was heavy and humid. She shook her head, trying to think beyond the sound.

She couldn’t.

The music strummed her as if she were a taut string, vibrating through her.

Another clang of cymbals and she fell, panting, to the floor. Starburst. Darkness. Then Chasonette was beside her on the ground, rubbing her head against Jikata’s cheek. So soft.

Jikata could see the bird’s yellow eye and thought she was finally back to reality. She leaned on an elbow, but her support didn’t feel like a padded lounge, or carpet. It felt like rock.

She looked around and saw a large cave, people wearing long robes standing in a circle. Some had small tables holding crystal bowls before them and held the thick glass wands to set them humming. Others held cymbals of brass, silver, gold…?

Her mouth was open so she sucked in deep breaths. The small woman gazed down at her with triumph, crinkling deep wrinkles around her eyes even as her throat moved with renewed song, music that lowered down the scale as if ending a long piece.

We are here! I am back! A warbling voice came in her head and Jikata slowly turned to see Chasonette. She could have sworn the bird winked at her. There’s magic here, the bird said.

Jikata sat up, craned to look around. Just beyond some people she saw the pale pink and deep maroon lobby of the Ghost Hill Theater amidst a blue fog in the distance. Strangled noises came from her throat as she jumped to her feet.

Then that glimpse of known vanished and she was in a cavern, large enough to hold the musicians surrounding her, all taller and sturdier than the old woman, than Jikata herself.

Chasonette fluttered to her shoulder. The bird’s fragrance was the same, as if her feathers held a faint lavender oil.

Once more the bird took wing, and the chiming necklace was dropped over Jikata’s head, rattling to shine silver against her dark blue blouse. Then Chasonette was on her shoulder again, yellow gaze serious. You are where you belong.

“I am the Singer,” the old woman said.

She certainly was.

“Now to test your tuning,” she continued. That didn’t make sense. But she opened her mouth and hit high C with ease. At the same time the cymbals clashed, someone rang chimes and the singing bowls sounded. Every note reverberated in Jikata until she felt like only pure vibration.

She crumpled. She didn’t understand anything.




2


Lladrana, Singer’s Abbey, a few minutes later

Luthan Vauxveau, the Singer’s representative to the warrior Marshalls, stood in the green landing field just downhill from the Singer’s Abbey. He’d been about to return to the Marshalls’ Castle, when he’d felt it, the Summoning of another Exotique from their land to Lladrana.

The soles of his feet had tingled with a joyous outpouring of Amee, the planet, that her last savior had arrived. His winged horse and the rest of the herd had trumpeted.

A shout tore from him, joining other exclamations.

Even as he felt the planet’s joy, his own anger welled and the back of his neck burned with humiliation. He hadn’t felt this stupid since before his father had died. The Singer had manipulated him, used him, played him for a fool. Again.

Soon the vibrations of the act would notify every person with a modicum of Power that a new Exotique had crossed the Dimensional Corridor and entered Lladrana. That would include the five other Exotiques who would demand immediate answers from him. All he had was questions himself.

People from Exotique Terre were supposed to be Summoned by the Marshalls, the strongest team in the land. But the Singer had Summoned her own. Luthan ground his teeth.

He was the representative of the Singer to the Marshalls and all the other segments of Lladranan society. He was supposed to know what she had planned, be informed. He was the one people would come to, ask questions of.

Especially the other five Exotiques.

He’d known nothing. The Singer had kept this Summoning, and other matters, secret from him. This was the last straw, and time to tell her so.

Simmering with anger, he turned back toward the central Abbey. He’d find her in the caverns, a place off-limits to him, but that wouldn’t stop him. Not now, not ever again.

He’d tried his best over the past two years to liaise with the Singer and the Marshalls, the Chevaliers, even the Sorcerers. And over the past two years the old Singer herself, the oracle of Lladrana, had become more secretive and capricious.

Striding to the high wall enclosing the Abbey’s jumbled buildings, he swung open the gate with Power, shaping a bubble around himself so he could not be detained. His force field gently shifted robed figures of the Singer’s Friends from his path as he wound through the buildings toward the towers of the main Abbey.

The Singer’s Friends reached out to pluck at his white leathers, stood in front of him, yet all were moved aside. He was a Chevalier, a fighter, had fought battles against the Dark and its monsters for most of his life. With respect, he’d bent his will under the Singer’s. No more. He could feel the location of the Singer and the new Exotique, could hear it.

A fifth-level Friend, the highest in the hierarchy, stepped in front of him just where the mazelike path narrowed to allow only one person. The man stood his ground, but Luthan’s Power pushed him and he had to back quickly. “Don’t get in my way, Jongler. I must speak to the Singer about her Summoning the last Exotique without telling anyone.”

The man stared at him from under lowered brows. He sighed. “It is done. The final Exotique is for the Singer. It is appropriate that our lady Summoned her instead of the Marshalls.”

Luthan continued walking. “Fine. You tell that to the other Exotiques when they swoop down on this place in a couple of hours.” He smiled. “I estimate that the Distance Magic of the volarans will bring them that quickly.” He hesitated a step. “Of course Bri has the roc, and roc Distance Magic is even faster.”

The man paled, the giant bird liked flesh. “Not the roc.”

Luthan let his sarcastic smile widen. “If you’re lucky, it will be Bri, the healer, riding the roc instead of Lady Knight Swordmarshall Alexa.”

“Not…not…Alyeka.”

That first Exotique was considered to be the most unpredictably dangerous. Alexa, pronounced correctly, had no fondness for the Singer and her Friends.

“Wait, you must stay and explain to them!” Jongler said.

“I know nothing to explain.” That nettled him so much he wanted to hit the man. His fingers itched. But he was not his father. After a couple of years of rebellion, Luthan had built his reputation as the most honest man in Lladrana. He would not betray that for an angry impulse, not for the Singer herself.

Shrugging, Luthan said, “You’ll be the one explaining.”

Jongler backed rapidly, by his own feet, bowing repeatedly. “Ah, Hauteur Vauxveau.” That was Luthan’s title and surname.

“I’ve been beyond courtesies for months.” He didn’t slow down, but bared his teeth. “I’ll speak to the Singer in person.”

A quick darting of eyes by Jongler. They’d reached a wider space that curved around a circular building with paths to the left and right between it and others. Luthan swung left.

Jongler coughed. The closest door to the caverns is to your right. Luthan heard mentally, privately. Now when had he become sufficiently connected to Jongler that they could speak mind to mind? Didn’t matter.

Luthan pivoted and stared to his right. A small octagonal tower stood with dark arches below, leading to what he’d thought was the Friends’ meeting room. The arch was matched by the second-story windows, the whole was capped with a conical roof and weather vane. Though the blackness beyond the arches was deep, he didn’t hesitate, moved swiftly and found two doors. One would probably lead to the meeting room.

He glanced back at Jongler, who now smiled with an edge, hands folded at his waist.

“Which?” Luthan asked.

Jongler lifted his nose. “If you have the bond with the Singer that you think you do, you will know how to find her in the maze of the tunnels, won’t you?”

Nodding shortly, Luthan settled into his balance, grounded himself, banished anger and probed. Behind the left door he sensed the dampness of rock walls, the slope downward into the heaviness of earth, the secrecy of the Caverns of Prophecy. The atmosphere behind the right door Sang of laughter and petty quarrels and the range of human concerns.

He set his hand on the left doorknob. Shock! Gritting his teeth he absorbed it, knew the knob was brass that now had left a fancy pattern on his skin…and told the Singer he was coming. Wrenching open the door he stepped inside. The door slammed behind him as if on tight springs. Another security measure. The dark in here pressed on him, whispering, whispering…

He found himself swaying…falling into a trance that would trigger his own gift of prophecy, and by the great, evil Dark, he didn’t want more visions!

“Light!” He snapped the word and the resulting brightness shocked him, coming from a great chandelier dripping with crystals, each one emitting sparkling light.

This anteroom was pretty with a stone mosaic floor and smooth walls of gold-patterned white silk. Three doors were set in it. He knew exactly which one led to the Caverns of Prophecy; dread filled him when he looked at it. Another led to the chapter house, the third resonated strongly of the Singer, probably went to one of her personal suites. The beauty of the room masked the threat of the caverns.

For a moment he considered his options. Going down into the bowels of the planet, subjecting himself to whispers and vapors and misty visions of the future…many futures. He didn’t have to endure this. But he didn’t like giving in to fear. And he didn’t like being used as he had been used for the past year.

He could avoid confronting the Singer in her place of Power, abandon trying to rescue the new Exotique, who was meant for the Singer and her Friends. Might even be the next Singer. He could wait for the other Exotiques to arrive and they could all speak to the Singer herself. He shook his head.

The Singer would be a stone wall to the others, and the more they pushed, the more adamant she’d be.

So he squared his shoulders, opened the door and Sang himself a light spell for illuminating underground chambers—usually hot springs or bathing pools rather than caverns or dungeons. Light flickered along the top of the smoothly worked dark brown stone tunnel twisting downward.

Luthan headed into the depths of the caves, ignoring the susurration of the whispers around him, the vague mists that floated near, sparkling with images if he cared to see.

Hair prickled along his body, and he quashed apprehension.

As he descended and breathed the vapors of the cavern that triggered prophecy, it became impossible to block visions of the future. The first bad one was his brother’s nearly unrecognizable burnt body, skin black and bone white. Luthan fell to his knees, gasped. A broken-fingered dead hand was clasped in Bastien’s, Alexa’s. Luthan’s pain rose as he saw his brother holding what was left of his mate. Beyond them were a pile of dead; he saw the staring blue eyes of Jaquar, and Marian’s red hair. He forced nausea away, his gorge down.

Since they were all planning to invade the Dark’s Nest, ready to die to stop the evil alien being, this wasn’t an unexpected vision, but it hurt his mind, his body, his heart to contemplate such a future.

After a few breaths, the image faded. The cave was dark and echoing with a faint swirl of mist near the top. Shuddering, he rose to his feet, felt clamminess on his face and didn’t know if it was vapor or tears or sweat.

When he came to a three-way fork in the tunnel he closed his eyes and listened. He could hear the Singer, the echo of her words or Song, and the sound told him how to go. More, it seemed like the bond they’d established between them was true, because he could see a link also, a deep blue and occasionally glittering silver thread. She was in the direction of the middle path before him, but it was not the way to her. It was the left-hand path, again, that reverberated with Song, and showed the cord winding between them. So he took the left.

Descending deeper, the scent of weeping rock and incense came to his nostrils, the mists of prophecies became full, iridescent wraiths, tempting him to look and study. The Songs of them increased from whispers to a steady hum. His skin itched. How did the Singer stand it? How had she stood it for over a hundred years? Did it diminish or grow stronger or was it her own strength and control that grew? If so, he was a fool to set himself against such a being.

Concentrating on her, he held off most of the visions.

But not all.

Dark encroached. His mouth dried. The light dimmed, his field of vision narrowed. He set his jaw. The Dark had encroached into Lladrana for centuries, particularly in his lifetime, especially in the past decade.

He drew his gauntlets from where they were folded over his belt and put them on so he could trail his hand against the cavern wall.

Four steps down the corridor his solid steps wavered, the mist pushed around him as if it knew he had the Power of Sight. Wisps curled in his nostrils and he couldn’t help breathing them.

Six steps and the heat was vicious—like that of an active volcano. The Dark’s Nest.

Seven steps and a horrendous explosion occurred, the heat searing his eyes, but not before he saw a mountain island explode flinging bodies into the sky—volaran and human.

One of the bodies wore white leathers like his.

Again his legs gave way and he gasped, fell to the floor, knees bruising.

Endured the horrendous noise of a dying Dark, the screams of volarans and the Exotiques echoing in his brain as they died, too.

Then nothingness.

For a long moment he lay and ached…body, mind, soul.

He rose once more and wiped his arm across his forehead, glad these were his regular white leathers and not dreeth skin that wouldn’t absorb his perspiration. Panting, he staggered through the dank mists and discovered he was humming. The realization jerked him to a stop. Bracing himself on the wall, he converted the hum to a Song and immediately felt better, his vision cleared. The tendrils of mist still lurked, but he’d developed a shield against them. He thought of the words he chanted—“I am fine. I can handle this. Not all visions are true.” Rough words, not harmonious to the ear. But he’d Sing them until he could craft a potent poem.

He was still working on the wording when he saw an ancient door and beyond the door he felt a great cavern where the Singer and some of her Friends waited—Friends who didn’t have any prophetic Power, as she did. As he did.

He heard the murmur of real human voices and the last fading note of crystal bowls. He realized that though it had seemed like a trip of hours, it had been less than five minutes. Nevertheless, his skin was bathed in sweat. He hoped his undergarments were releasing a pleasant scent as they were supposed to. The Singer had a nose as sensitive as her hearing.

When he opened the door the ghosts of prophecy faded. He let out a breath of relief and stepped into the large, rough cavern. The circle of Friends, some behind small tables holding bowls, some with cymbals, the best Singers with no instrument at all, circled a flaming blue-energy-lined pentacle. The Singer, a tiny woman especially for a Lladranan, looked down at a figure.

Then the Singer looked at him, her pointed brows rising high, and pitched her voice so it sounded next to his ear. “You made it all the way to the Summoning Cavern.”

He couldn’t tell whether she was impressed or dismayed or both. Then a slight, secret smile lifted the corners of her mouth. He didn’t ask what she knew. He didn’t want to know. “I was not mistaken in you,” she said loudly.

Luthan looked her straight in the eyes. “I was in you.”

Striding to the outside rim of the circle, he stared down. As expected by all, the Summoned Exotique was a woman. A lovely woman, beautiful more in the manner of his own people than that of Exotique Terre: long, dark hair flowing around her torso, old ivory and gold complexion, lush lips. He swallowed hard and waited for his innate revulsion for Exotiques to hit.

Marshalls’ Castle, the same time

Raine Lindley found her feet carrying her to the great round temple in the Marshalls’ Castle. Again.

There’d been something in the air of her small purple home office that wouldn’t let her settle. Time and again she’d erased the line of the ship’s prow she was designing. When she looked out the window, rainbows seemed to dance on the air and somehow she caught a scent of incense and the reverberation of a gong.

So she’d mounted her flying horse, her volaran, for the short two-mile trip to the Castle and the temple, accompanied by her companion, a young magical shape-shifting being called a feycoocu. This compulsion was more than was natural or healthy.

Because look what happened when she last followed a compulsion. At home in Connecticut she’d been so obsessed with her grandmother’s mirror that she’d stare at it for hours, think about stepping through it, and how strange was that?

Then she’d thought that giving the mirror away to one of her brothers—newly engaged—was the right thing to do. To top off all this foolishness, instead of driving around the inlet, she’d packed the mirror and taken it onto the open sea in a new boat she’d built. In the winter. It was a mild day and the water was calm, but the action had been unwise beyond belief.

Thunder, lightning…storm from nowhere. The quilts and ropes around the mirror falling away magically. The glass blazing white like nothing she’d seen. The boat breaking up under her, the wind whipping her into the mirror, then landing her in the cold sea of here—an alternate dimension or universe or whatever. Lladrana.

She’d been Summoned by the Seamasters, who’d done it on the cheap. They hadn’t even known they’d succeeded. Just called a person from Earth and when she didn’t seem to show, they wandered back to a market gathering.

That forced Raine to fend for herself in a strange land where she knew nothing, and, in fact, got sick if she were more than a couple of miles from the sea.

Of course the worse had happened. One of those Lladranans who had an instinctive, irrational repulsion for people from Earth—Exotiques—had found her, been in a position of power over her. Tormented her. She’d lived like that six months before she could escape.

A winged horse had found her, brought a nobleman—Faucon Creusse—to her, and then she’d been tuned to this world and the sickness had gone away. Maybe that was why she was here, in the temple. The ritual to tune her had been here, in this large round building separated into sections by fancy screens.

Now the feycoocu was playing in the pool as a baby seal. Raine glanced at her, then stared at the crystal chimes that had run through her body last month, plucking inner chords she didn’t know she had, and shivered.

There were seven chimes, and her friend Bri Masif, another Exotique, a healer, said they corresponded in sound and color to the chakras. The chimes sat on a large marble altar carved with symbols of the four elements, one on each side. Raine’s, like Bri’s, was water, which was the only thing that really made sense. Because she was a shipbuilder and would create a vessel that would carry an invasion force to fight the Dark.

One fast ship that might escape notice, loaded with the best fighters in Lladrana, and the Exotiques to Sing and trigger a weapon knot that would probably explode the whole damn island.

Raine peeked inside the chimes. She was sure that during her ordeal these had been lit somehow, but there was no candle wax inside. They were probably storage crystals like the ones embedded in the beams above her. She cleared her throat. She was learning all about Power—magic—and how it manifested in music. She hummed, true C. The red chime sounded the same note and lit, staying bright. Raine ran the chakra scale and grinned when all the chimes lit.

Then she stared at the silver gong, nine feet in diameter. Naturally it was suspended in the frame with Power, didn’t have holes in it. She narrowed her eyes. Did it have an aura? Probably from all the magic in the temple, all the times it had been used in ritual, still…She circled the altar to look at it from the back. As she watched she thought she saw it vibrate faintly, heard a soft, trembling note. But when she shook her head it went away. She examined the gong again, there was something about it….

“What are you doing here? Do you have a final model for the Ship yet?”

Raine jumped. She hadn’t heard the doors open. The Castle staff was keeping them too well-oiled. Slowly she turned to face the man who was also a great draw for her to come to the Castle. The sexy guy she’d longed would notice her, Faucon Creusse.




3


Since Faucon had been dumped by another Exotique—okay, the whole lot of them—he didn’t give Raine the time of day.

For some damn reason she swallowed sudden tears, hoped they didn’t show in her eyes. How humiliating. She dragged a silk handkerchief from her pants pocket and stumbled over to the low stone built-in benches that circled much of the temple. Sank down onto one of the fat jewel-toned cushions and sniffled.

I am here. We are fine. Her feycoocu levitated over to her, leaving a dripping wake, then glared at Faucon. The little creature didn’t give Raine any advice, a blessing since she wasn’t very wise.

“Pardon,” Faucon said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have been so rude.” He was cold, which was worse. His face was expressionless, masking the irritation she’d seen the first time they’d met and every time since.

“Is something wrong with the Ship?”

“The ship.” She bit her own irritated words off, tried for the chilled courtesy that he’d mastered. “Nothing is wrong with the ship. I should have a final model this week.” She bent her lips in a smile. “As for my welfare, I am a little touchy since all anyone cares about is my crafting of the ship, but I will get over my mood in a bit, thank you for asking.”

She thought his golden skin tinged red. He inclined his head. “I am sorry to intrude.” He hesitated. “Did you touch the gong? I thought I felt…thought I heard…”

She blew her nose and tucked the handkerchief away in a pocket. “No, I did not. But Summoning a new Exotique seems to be on all our minds. I wasn’t asked to be Summoned.”

“By the Song,” he muttered. “Only Alyeka was asked and came of her own free will.”

“Didn’t know what she was getting into,” Raine said.

“But the others have stayed with us to fight the Dark. I don’t remember them being so fussy during the time they were making that decision.”

He misremembered, she was sure, she’d read their accounts. But what came out of her mouth was, “My family! They still think I’m dead. And I don’t know what’s going on with them!”

He flung up his hands. “Is that all?” Now he strode to her, locked elegant fingers around her wrist in a strong grip, pulled her to her feet.

The feycoocu hissed, had turned into a little snake when they weren’t looking.

Faucon ignored the small being, and said, “Why haven’t you talked to mirror magician Koz about getting a mirror to your family so you can see what’s going on?”

Raine shook her head. “He hasn’t been around, has been in the east studying advanced mirror magic or something.”

“Well, he’s here now. We’ll go see him.”

Turn her over to Koz, Faucon meant.

She shrugged out of his grasp, turned again to the gong. She was sure she’d seen it tremble. A strange push of air popped her ears. She put a hand to her head. Faucon frowned, lines digging into his face, and steadied her with a hand to her elbow.

We must stay until it’s done, said the feycoocu.

Singer’s Abbey

Luthan stared at the new Exotique and waited for the screeching of all his senses into a cacophony. An awful Song that hurt until he learned to know the person behind the pummeling sounds that shrieked “mutant.”

Those who didn’t experience the horrible Song called the effect “an instinctive repulsion” and it was that, but it was more. An assault on his inner ear, his inner sight, his inner self. He’d learned to control it, of course. There was no honor in attacking an innocent person who had no knowledge that their Song was hurting him.

He waited and it didn’t come. Instead he saw the long legs of the woman dressed in that sturdy blue material the Exotiques liked so much. Soft cloth draped her breasts and a harmony ball gleamed against their round fullness. She had equally full lips. Her eyes were as tilted as his own, as his people’s, her skin not as golden as most Lladranans, but not that strange paleness of the other Exotiques, or Marian’s hint of olive.

Studying the length of lovely legs and slender torso, he knew she wouldn’t have the height of Lladranans. Marian would still be the tallest, this one was near to the size of Calli, the Volaran Exotique with the yellow hair. But this woman’s hair wasn’t yellow, or the red of Marian’s, or the browns of Bri and Raine. Nor the black with varying deep colors of his people. It seemed to be a very dark brown with black mixed in, not the other way around.

No repulsion. Had he finally mastered it? Squeezed the hideous moment from full minutes to less than a second? He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He only blessed the Song that this lady brought no instinctive repulsion and following shame.

In fact, her Song was vaguely muffled, heard dimly and not with the clarity of everyone else’s in the world. Odd, but relieving.

A red cockatoo watched over her.

His anger at the Singer had dissipated. It would return, but now he felt only extreme wariness. He inclined his torso to the Singer, not the full bow he had given her when he’d first become her representative two years ago.

“Sweet Song salutations, Singer.” Difficult not to hiss the greeting, to keep the proper rhythm and lilt, but that’s how she judged her Friends, judged him. Irritation would have made his tones hard and he was glad he’d lost it. He’d be courteous until the new Exotique was settled.

When his gaze met the Singer’s, he knew she saw that he doubted her deeply. There was a flash of arrogance there, her own annoyance.

A long glint caught his eye and he peered into the shadows of the cavern wall opposite them and saw a huge mirror, the glass covered with a faint sheen of blue that he thought could be sapphire dust.

He’d taken part in tuning Raine to the vibrations of Amee. Grimly, he said, “I see that you have chimes, and the crystal bowls for additional Song, cymbals to approximate the gong. But not the gong itself. You brought the Exotique by mirror magic.”

The Singer’s eyes flashed Power. She lifted her chin. “Do you presume to think that my Summoning could be inferior than the Marshalls’ puny chanting Song? Especially now that Partis has died and cannot lead them?”

A shaft of pain speared him—Partis had been his loved godfather. Luthan held his ground, narrowed his own eyes. “Your Song is incredibly more Powerful than the Marshalls—”

Her expression relaxed.

“Your voice magnificently trained, your Friends almost as good a team as the Marshalls.”

“Almost!”

“I have fought with the Marshalls, been mentally linked with them as a team in battle, in healing circles after battles. They are the premier team on Lladrana.” He gestured to the people in colored robes around them. “Neither you nor these Friends have experienced life-and-death circumstances that form such a bond. Further, the Marshalls participate within their bond as equals. Your Friends will never be allowed to be equal to you. Could never be equal to the Singer.”

Her expression showed pride mixed with irritation. Not many told her the truth. “But my team must have done well enough. We drew her here.”

Luthan nodded. “She is here, but how tuned are her personal Exotique Terre vibrations to our planet of Amee? You have the chimes, the crystals, cymbals. But you do not have the gong.”

“And the gong is so necessary?”

“I have been at four Summonings and a tuning, have seen and felt and heard what occurred. You have not attended. Yes, I believe the gong is necessary. Unless you want to limit and cripple this Exotique to stay near the Abbey, as the Seamasters crippled their Summoned one.”

Again the Singer’s eyes flashed with Power. Her lips thinned. “If the gong is needed, the gong will sound and be heard!” She raised her hand and fisted her fingers in a snatching, twisting gesture.

The low note of a gong—could it really be the silver gong in the Marshalls’ Castle so many leagues away?—resonated throughout the chamber.

The woman, who’d sat up, flung back her head. A cry came from her throat, but the sound held music.

The Singer’s gaze snagged his again. “How many times?”

She knew, he’d reported the damn ritual five times, hadn’t he? “Three.”

Another clench of her hand, pull of her elbow. This time the gong note held longer, echoed loud against the cavern walls.

Another long wail from the woman, a thrashing of her limbs. By the time her body finished shuddering, she’d changed her position, sat cross-legged and hunched. She raised uncomprehending eyes and stared at him. He was watching her, but the Singer’s gaze had not left him.

“She felt the tuning with my cymbals thrice already,” the Singer said in her musical voice. “Now you insist that she experience the gong. Do you think she will be pleased with you?”

He forced his stare from the beautiful woman to the Singer. “Doing what is pleasant isn’t as important as doing what is right.”

The Singer lifted both of her hands, fingers straight. She nodded. “As you will, then. And three!” She closed her hands.

The sound was massive, clanging against his ears. He staggered a step, saw Friends fall from the corner of his eyes. A long, ululating cry came from the woman, matched by the warble of the bird.

There was a tinkle of chimes, and the mirror in the cavern faded—was it real or illusion? How much was truly needed for a portal between the worlds?

Marshalls’ Castle

Raine staggered away after the third sounding of the gong, her ears still ringing despite her hands over them. Faucon had kept her upright with a grip on her upper arms.

The huge wooden doors from the courtyard burst open and Alexa, the first Exotique, and Bri, the healer, shot into the room, along with their men.

Raine stared at them in surprise.

Alexa, hands on hips, with the aura of the most Powerful warrior in the country, small and silver-headed, examined the large room in one whirling turn. “Where is she? Why did you do it?”

“What are you talking about?” Raine asked.

Bri, medium-brown hair gleaming, creamy complexion pale, rubbed her hands up and down her upper arms. “I felt it, a great change in Lladrana, in Amee. I heard the gong!” She glanced at Alexa, who was nodding.

“A Summoning,” Alexa said. “Just a little while ago, and now the gong has sounded.”

“No Summoning here.” Raine and Faucon spoke together. He released his grip on her and she missed it. But Raine knew about sounding gongs, at least. “Tuning an Exotique to the world,” she said between dry lips.

“Ayes,” Alexa agreed. “But you didn’t sound the gong.”

“No.” Then in Lladranan, “Ttho.” Raine swallowed. “What’s going on?”

“I can guess,” Bastien, Alexa’s husband, said grimly, towering over his mate. “The last Exotique is for—”

“The Singer!” Alexa shouted. “And that sneaky old woman has Summoned her!” She broke from Bastien’s grasp and ran into the courtyard, yelling for her flying horse. Bastien followed.

Bri sent Raine a look and said, “Sevair and I rode the roc up from Castleton, we’ll get there quicker. Are you coming?”

Everyone had been overprotective of her, and the Marshalls’ Castle nearly a cage. Now, to leave it in the dark and fly south to the Singer’s Abbey that she’d only heard spoken of in awed tones, seemed scary. Still, Exotiques stuck together. “I’ll come,” she croaked. Blossom! she called her own winged steed mentally. Prepare for a flight to Singer’s Abbey.

Bri drilled a look at Faucon. “You?”

He shrugged. “Ayes.”

Bri nodded and ran out, hand in hand with her serious husband.

But Faucon wasn’t as casual as he seemed. Just standing near him, Raine could feel his tension. He strolled to the door, threw her a look from over his shoulder. “Come along, though I’d wager that this will be a futile quest. Despite everything, we won’t wrest the new Exotique from the Singer’s clutches.”

Raine was cold and her throat too tight to reply.

As they flew away, the Castle alarm sounded, calling warriors to battle. Raine saw Alexa and her volaran flinch, but she didn’t look back.

Knowing that Chevaliers and Marshalls were running through the Castle to their volarans, rising in a cloud to the North to fight monsters, Raine didn’t look back, either.

She’d learned that looking forward was always best. That way you sometimes saw doom coming.

Singer’s Abbey

Jikata was barely aware of what was going on around her. She thought there was a big, gorgeous Asian man looking down at her, wearing white…leather? Then he stepped out of her line of sight and she was surrounded by the people in rainbow robes. Most of them were smirking and she didn’t like it.

A couple of them had looked at her in horror and disgust, had trembled and shrunk away from her gaze, pressing themselves against the cave walls.

Cave walls?

She had an uneasy feeling that she wasn’t in Denver anymore. But she was more than confused, she’d just begun to figure out her surroundings when wave after wave of sound ran through her, electrifying her nerves. It felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. By the time it was done she could only lie quivering.

The older woman who’d said she was the Singer gestured to two women and they lifted Jikata gently, set her on her feet, steadied her as if she were a precious child learning to walk. She wasn’t sure she liked this extreme care any better than the revulsion. Looking around for the one being who was slightly familiar, she saw Chasonette on the man in white’s broad shoulder, staring at him. He was staring back at her in surprise, then he turned and met Jikata’s gaze with a dark chocolate one of his own that made her tremble in more ways than she understood.

Then the elder was in front of her, demanding attention. “This cavern and the tunnels leading to and from it are filled with the tunes of prophecy. I am the Singer and have Summoned you!” She spoke English.

Jikata saw White Leather Man’s grimace and an odd expression flicker on his face. She’d seen him come from that door to the tunnels, right? Now that she scrutinized him, he looked a little worse for wear, lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth that she didn’t think were usually noticeable. There were also smears of grime on his forehead, his face, his white leathers and gloves.

Chasonette warbled and again words sifted through Jikata’s mind. Let Luthan escort you. Best for you both. The bird tugged a strand of the man’s hair from a tie in the back and Jikata realized it was longer than shoulder-length. A good look for him.

She took a steadying breath. “Luthan?”

The Singer frowned, the man strode forward, lifted his arm and Chasonette walked down it to his wrist. Keeping that arm raised, he bowed, brown eyes never leaving Jikata.

“Luthan Vauxveau,” he said. As he straightened he rolled a gesture from himself to her and spoke more words. Frenchlike. She knew some French from songs and thought he said something like, “I am at your service.” He held out his opposite arm in a formal offer of support and the women’s hands on her tightened. The Singer’s eyes narrowed and her lips pursed.

Jikata didn’t know what was going on, but the emotional currents around her spoke of power plays. From the sheer force of the Singer, Jikata thought she was the major player in this situation, the turf was hers, the…minions. And the Singer had such life force, such ki, that Jikata could literally feel it.

Best even things out a bit, though the man, too, was a presence to be reckoned with. Jikata had been dealing with movers and shakers in the music world the last few months and knew authority when she saw it. This Luthan Vauxveau must represent another faction. Of what or whom, she didn’t know, but it couldn’t hurt to follow Chasonette’s continued murmurings in her mind to go with Luthan. So Jikata put her hand on his arm and the cockatoo warbled approval even as a small shock went through Jikata. The hard muscles under her fingers tensed and she became all too aware of him, most particularly the melody coming from him. As if he had a personal theme in the soundtrack of her life.

Her fingers curled hard around his arm, but he didn’t falter. The women who had been steadying her let their hands fall away. Everything—everyone—around her was…giving off…sound, from a ripple of notes to Luthan’s harmonic melodies, to the Singer’s full orchestral symphony. Jikata thought the cave itself issued long, deep tones.

She did have a soundtrack in her life now, and the thought was daunting.

Luthan took a small step toward the door and Jikata followed. Her stomach clutched. She stopped and looked around, peered back where she’d seen the theater, hesitant to leave this place. A slight mist hovered in that direction, beyond which was dark, no sheen of a mirror or electric lights.

Nothing but rock walls arching to roundness above her. Excellent acoustic chamber, but…not Denver? Couldn’t be, if she listened to both her mind and her heart. Did she dare leave?

How could she stay? There was nothing here. She had to go with them to get answers.

The Singer had glided beyond them to the door, along with a woman in a royal blue robe who opened the door. Luthan hissed through his teeth and began singing. He had a strong tenor. Beautiful. Great breath control. His chant was simple and strong. The Singer had begun her Song, too. Intricate and forceful but with a delicacy, and, again, a slight quaver.

A sense of impending change flared in Jikata. Her life would never be the same again, and the moment of decision had passed by so quickly she hadn’t been aware of it. She wanted to slow events down, felt the edge of a tide of exhaustion lapping inexorably to her. Maybe she had fallen asleep on the chaise lounge in her dressing room and this was all a dream.

Chasonette fluttered from Luthan to Jikata’s shoulder, and she felt the small prick of claws. Then the bird Sang, too. So much music from everyone overwhelmed her as she tried to sort it out. The others were lining up behind her and Luthan, the Singer was no more than a small pace ahead.

The tunnel was larger than Jikata expected, with a smoother floor though the walls remained rough. When they stepped into it a mist coalesced around them, wisping into faces she knew—the major record producer, her agent, other singing stars—and with all of them came more tunes that seemed to suit their personalities. And they seemed to be leaching the heat from her.

She blinked and saw herself singing with a huge Grammy behind her. Fabulous!

When they turned a corner the mist formed into five women in front of them, Caucasian women—a small white-haired one, a redhead, a blond, two brunettes. They all scowled at her, gazes hot. The sound they made was incredible, going beyond Jikata’s hearing range in each direction. Waves of heat rippled around them, reached out to lick her with flames, and she was almost glad, she was so cold.

“We trusted you!” they snapped in chorus. “You betrayed us.”

The heat of the anger and the cold of the tunnel and the tide of exhaustion was too much. Jikata slid into blackness and blessed quiet.



Luthan swung the new Exotique up into his arms, the bird fluttered around them, making soothing sounds, a lilt of encouraging notes. The Singer took the lead.

Oddly enough, his muscles eased. The muffled quality of her Song held most of his visions at bay. But he’d seen the future again: a wondrous ship, rough seas, the looming volcano of the Dark’s Nest in the distance. The battle. Monsters against Chevaliers and Marshalls. The Exotiques and their mates Singing the Weapon Knot loose, the City Destroyer spell.

Death and destruction. Again and again. Only one thing remained the same. Calli, the Volaran Exotique, and her bondmate, Marrec, lived. For that Luthan gave thanks. If even one Exotique lived the outcome was good. Usually the Dark expired, too; when it didn’t, it was too wounded to rise for generations. Good.

He plodded after the Singer, trying to keep his mind shielded from the prophetic wraiths.

Luthan, what the hell is going on! Bri, the healer, demanded, and he sensed her within the Abbey proper, arriving by the roc sooner than the others. She and her husband, the formidable Citymaster, Sevair Masif, were spiraling down on the roc to the main courtyard. They would sense Luthan, come to him, might even sense the new Exotique.

For years Lladranans had fought invading monsters sent by a great Dark until the magical northern boundary began to fall and the Marshalls had dared to Summon the first Exotique, Alexa. She’d found the way to mend the fence posts, but had set them on a course to defeat the Dark itself.

Marian had come then, for the Circlets—the Sorcerers, Tower community—had discovered that the horrors invaded to regain some specific item. Marian agreed that the battle should be taken to the Dark. And she’d found the knot that would be their greatest weapon.

Then Calli was Summoned for Luthan’s own portion of society, the Chevaliers, and the volarans. She’d scouted the Dark’s Nest.

When a sickness sent by the Dark had swept the country, the Cities and Towns had paid the Marshalls to bring a medica from Exotique Terre. Twins had arrived, Bri and Elizabeth, and had fulfilled their tasks…and Elizabeth had returned with the Snap, when her home planet called her, opening a portal in the Dimensional Corridor, giving an Exotique the choice to stay or return.

Unknown to the rest of Lladrana, the Seamasters had tried a Summoning—Raine—and had thought they’d failed, and left. Now she was to build a great Ship to carry an invasion force to the Dark’s Nest itself and kill it.

The fractured communities of Lladrana were combining for that one purpose. To kill the Dark.

To send one swift and stealthy Ship to the Dark’s Nest, manned with the best warriors of Lladrana to fight the horrors and the Master defending it. There the Exotiques would untie the mysterious Weapon Knot Marian had found—the City Destroyer—with Song and…and leading the Song would be this last woman.

The sixth and final person to be Summoned to battle the Dark.




4


A cold wind whipped around Luthan, whistled through the tunnel, some of the Friends’ voices broke and were silent. Luthan drew on his Power to keep going, to protect the woman in his arms, as the bird shrilled a distress call.

The Singer remained untouched and serene, her pace regular, her Song soaring.

But she knew, like everyone else, that all their lives hung in the balance.

When they reached the white-and-gold anteroom, her Song faded. She turned toward Luthan with a flinty gaze. “I will not let you take this one away. She is mine to train! Her voice is not sufficient, yet, to master the spell Circlet Exotique Marian discovered to destroy the Dark. This one must develop her full range, as I have. She is the key. She will lead the others.”

The Singer gestured and a hefty man hurried from the rest of the Friends’ to stand before him, arms outstretched to take the burden of the new Exotique. Luthan held onto her.

The door to the caverns was still open, the room was small and not everyone could crowd into it. Friends in the tunnel whimpered. Then their ranks broke and a line of them hurried by the Singer and Luthan and the large Friend, through the door to the chapter house. The Singer ignored them. Luthan couldn’t, he sent what Power he could to soothe their fears. They didn’t acknowledge him.

He’d made the right decision. He would no longer represent the Singer.

“Look at her,” the Singer said, pointing at the woman in his arms. “The shadows beneath her eyes, the gray tone to her skin, she is exhausted.”

Luthan? Bri called. She, Sevair and the roc were just outside the octagonal tower door that led to the caverns. He was connected to her through his bond with his brother, who was pairbonded with Alexa. All the Exotiques except Raine were strongly linked to Lladrana men—and to each other.

“Summoning is hard on a person, she’ll recover, better she be with her own kind,” he said.

The Singer’s smile was knife-edged. “My Song has reverberated in her life. She was fated for me, will probably be my successor. That means she has prophetic Power, untapped and untrained. Can’t you sense it?”

Focusing now on the inner woman and her Power—her great Power—instead of her outer beauty, Luthan studied her. He’d never heard such a complex Song, and as the Singer had pointed out, there was a well of Power within her that appeared to be trapped behind a door just cracked open—recently. She’d seen visions in the caverns, he realized. His gut tightened.

“You can take her from me—” the Singer’s voice held a mocking note “—but her Power for prophecy has already been unlocked. Will you take the task of training her? Do you forget, then, how it was when you had your own first visions?”

He suppressed a shudder. He would never forget the visions that had come to him as he’d gone from boy to man. Terrible to experience that alone, to fear for your sanity.

Luthan, I know you’re nearby! Bri kicked the outside door.

“So, what will you do, Luthan Vauxveau?” the Singer asked.

His lips firmed as he considered. If he broke ties with the Singer now, he’d be leaving an Exotique solely in her Power, with no connection to the others from Exotique Terre.

Or he could let the Singer think he was yet her dupe, come and go freely in the Abbey. So he bowed his head. “Very well.”

“You’ll explain to the others?” She smiled again.

He wanted to refuse. “I’ll do my best.” But his loyalty had changed, from the Singer to the…Not the Marshalls, even though Exotique Alexa and his own brother Bastien led them. Not the Chevaliers, he’d outgrown them and their specific concerns.

He’d serve Lladrana itself, the planet Amee, and the Exotiques. They were the spearhead against the Dark.

He would double-check all the Singer’s statements. Reluctantly, he transferred the lovely new Exotique to the burly Friend. Chasonette settled on the man’s head and he winced.

Bri, Luthan said mentally, keeping his tone calm and un-hurried. The Singer has convinced me that the new Exotique should remain here.

But—

There are good reasons. The last Friend sidled through the chapter house door. The Singer went to her own door and flung it open for the man holding the Exotique. There was a tinier room that Luthan understood was a box that moved between floors. The Singer stepped in, watching him.

“She will be taken to a luxurious suite that has been prepared specifically for her,” the Singer said, her smile turning satisfied.

Luthan didn’t like any of her previous smiles, nor the smug one she sent him now. She lifted a hand. “You have been an excellent representative. Take care of the problem of the other Exotiques. We will talk later.”

Anger welled again. She’d held great Power—the Power of the Oracle of Lladrana—for too long. And her secrecy had helped separate the factions over the past decades.

He had much to discuss with the Exotiques and they didn’t totally trust him because he’d been the Singer’s man. He’d have to talk fast.

If he were clever and lucky enough, he could speak with them one at a time and convince them to let the new one stay with the Singer. Save himself grief. Not a good position for a man who’d once been called the most honorable in Lladrana to be in.

Luthan opened the door to Bri and Sevair. The healer’s husband had a grip around her biceps and she shifted from foot to foot. She’d cut her brown hair again and it was shorter than most men’s, some standing out in spikes at the top. In style, she was the most outrageous of all the Exotiques, but at least the purple streaks were gone. She wore a medica’s red travel tunic with a white cross.

The roc had moved to a spacious courtyard within earshot, eyes gleaming and wicked beak slightly open as if ready to pounce.

Bowing, Luthan addressed them, “Salutations.”

Bri frowned. Sevair had taken to carrying his stonemason’s hammer as a weapon in a sling on his hip. His fingers touched the handle, but he inclined his head. “Salutations, Luthan.”

Luthan raised his voice. “Lady roc, if you are hungry, the Singer’s cattle herd is to the northwest.”

Thank you, Chevalier, the roc said, projecting her thoughts into all their minds. Her tone, too, was mocking and Luthan was getting damned tired of that, but he’d brought this situation upon himself by trusting the Singer and following her orders.

Using the common link between the Exotiques and their men, Luthan spoke mind to mind. Perhaps we can adjourn to my home estate? It’s not too far from here.

Sevair frowned. Castle Vauxveau is far northwest.

Not my father’s home, but my own, Luthan said. It was the house he’d inherited from his mother’s aunt that he’d claimed as soon as he could leave his father. Not that he’d made it a home then. He’d run wild for a couple of years until he realized his younger brother was following in his footsteps.

Past mistakes, he’d made a couple of bad ones. Then he’d done fine for years, but recently…

He waved toward the entry station of the Abbey and the volaran landing field beyond. “While the roc is feeding, we can fly to my home. I’m sure the Singer won’t care if you use a couple of her volarans.” Not if it meant getting disruptive people away from her domain.

Bri’s face went stubborn. She crossed her arms under her breasts and adopted a militant stance that looked more than a little like Alexa’s. Habits were rubbing off. “I’m the Exotique Medica, I want to examine our new addition.” Bri shook her head. “Summoning is tough under any circumstances, but by the Singer—”

“The most Powerful person in Lladrana,” Luthan ended smoothly. “I saw the lady myself.”

“Female?” asked Sevair.

“Ayes, one who looks more like our people than the others.”

As expected, curiosity lit Bri’s eyes, but she stuck to the topic. “She appeared well, and tuned to Amee?”

“Ayes. The Singer Summoned her through mirror magic without my knowledge. There were the chimes, and cymbals to approximate the gong.” He raised his hand when Bri opened her mouth to speak. “When I refused to accept that the cymbals would be effective, the Singer drew the sound of the gong to us.” He shook his head. “Amazing.”

Bri huffed a breath, her stance softened. “We heard it.”

“I’m sure everyone did.”

Fingers drumming on her opposite arm, Bri searched his face. “She was well?”

“I give you my word. She appeared as if she was weary before she arrived, and the Singer immediately sent her to bed to rest. If we petition the Singer now to see her, she may deny us simply because the new Exotique is sleeping.” He paused. “She is meant for the Singer, you know.”

Bri seemed unconvinced. Luthan saw a man in the shadows. “Jongler!” he called. The man hesitated, shuffled forward. He bowed briefly, looked at Bri’s hair, glanced away. “Ayes?”

“The Singer has Friends who are medicas?” Luthan asked.

“Of course.” Jongler’s forehead lined. “She has been ill and is of a great age. We have the best medicas in the land here, two came from the Marshalls’ Castle last year.” He bowed, deeper, to Bri. “I should say the best medicas other than yourself, Exotique Medica.” A gleam came to his eyes. “If you would stay with us, I guarantee that you would be well paid.” He turned to Sevair. “And there is always work for a skilled stonemason and architect on the Abbey buildings. The Singer is delicate, and the person of the greatest importance in Lladrana. Her visions are so necessary for the future, please stay—”

But Bri was backing away, hauling Sevair, who was studying the conglomeration of buildings within the compound. “Thank you.” She glanced at Sevair, then planted her feet, raised her chin and stared at Jongler. “I insist you have a medica examine the Exotique…Singer tomorrow morning and send me a report at my tower in Castleton. You do have a crystal orb?”

Jongler was bowing again. “Of course, of course, the very best crystal, bespelled by the great Circlet Sorcerer himself, Bossgond. We also have mirrors, though none of the new, advanced ones. Yet. Still, they will do.”

“Crystal,” Bri said firmly. “You know my address?”

“The ancient Ronteran’s Tower in Castleton.” Jongler breathed the name reverently. “Ronteran was not only a Circlet Sorcerer, he was a Singer’s consort.” Jongler waved. “He designed a few of the buildings.”

“Thought I recognized his ornate style,” Sevair said. Luthan followed his gaze to a row of gargoyles.

There was a belch overhead and the scent of sweet grass—from the roc. A magical creature indeed. The great bird fluttered down. Jongler sent its bloody beak a glance of abject terror, scrambled back, still bowing to Bri. “If you ever want to change venues…” He vanished around a corner.

I flew around the compound, the roc said, eyes glittering a rainbow of dark colors. The new Singer is Powerful, healthy, resting. She is where she must be.

Bri and Sevair matched Luthan’s sigh. Magical creatures were usually cryptic.

Bri stared at Luthan. “Have you had any visions of her?”

He could feel a prophecy coalesce, didn’t want it. “No.” The vision came in a flash anyway. Despite his wishes he’d become expert in deciphering flashes of prophecy. “Only that she and I will meet you on a road, still summer.”

After searching his face, Bri nodded. “Then we’ll leave.” Again she shifted. “This place makes me nervous. I don’t want to be kidnapped.”

Luthan’s jaw flexed before he said, “I did what I had to do.”

Wincing, Bri said, “I didn’t mean—Before my time. Anyway, let’s go home. I’ll contact Calli at her estate and give her the info.” Bri took Sevair’s hand and led him to the roc.

Sevair still scanned the buildings. “Perhaps some time in the future we can visit….”

“Maybe.” Bri mounted the roc, then Sevair settled behind her. With a short, “Bye!” they flew away.

Luthan’s home

Luthan flew, intercepted Alexa and Bastien, Raine and Faucon in the air and led them to his home. A few minutes later they all landed in the yellow cobblestone courtyard between the small manor and the moat.

Alexa and Bastien went inside, but Luthan lingered to talk with Raine and Faucon, neither of whom had dismounted.

He convinced these two that all was well, he’d explain everything to Bastien and Alexa. Raine and Faucon could return to Castleton. He sensed they were glad to go, and didn’t want to spend any more time together. Faucon would grimly escort her to the Castle, flying with Distance Magic, and they wouldn’t need to converse or interact. Their relationship was interesting, and he made a note to tell the Singer—No, he would not be reporting anything of importance to the Singer.

Faucon had the opposite reaction to Exotiques than Luthan. Luthan had never spoken to the man about his innate attraction to Exotiques, could only imagine that Faucon heard a siren’s song of love where Luthan experienced a painful clash of sounds screaming “wrong.” But of the two of them, so far Faucon had been the one most emotionally hurt.

Raine looked back over her shoulder, frowning, as her volaran rose into the sky. Wanting again to be reassured that she wasn’t abandoning her friend, Alexa, or the new Exotique. Luthan sent her mental soothing—All is well, I promise. This is not like your own experience, the Singer will cherish the lady.

And you are an honorable man, Raine replied, her expression easing. She waved.

He waved back, then entered his home, passing his housekeeper, who’d brought brandy and tea to the shabbily masculine sitting room where Bastien and Alexa waited.

Now to convince Alexa not to storm the Singer’s Abbey.




5


Luthan strode in. Bastien lounged in his chair, sipping brandy. It was good to see him there. During the two years they’d lived together, after Luthan had put aside his wild ways, the seat had conformed to Bastien’s butt. That was years ago and Bastien was a hardened warrior now. He was even a Marshall like their father, not a troubled young man with strange and spiking Power that went with his striped black-and-white hair.

He was grinning, watching his bondmate pace the room. Since Alexa was an Exotique and smaller than Lladranans, and the shortest one, too, it took her more paces than it would have anyone else. Luthan noted that Bastien watched her butt. “So what’s so wrong about the Singer Summoning the next Exotique?” Bastien prodded his wife.

She scowled and stopped in front of him, fingering her jade baton, her best magical weapon. That would have made Luthan nervous except Bastien was a good judge of his wife’s moods. Bastien continued, “You just wanted her to bond with you and the rest of the Exotiques first, before you handed her over to the Singer. Raging curiosity, lover.”

Alexa pouted then plopped herself on Bastien’s lap. He wrapped an arm around her, and Luthan felt a stinging surge of envy.

Bastien met Luthan’s eyes, his expression unusually sober. “Fact is, we Marshalls have been working as a group on the complex Summoning spell. We had the chorus harmonies right, but…” He shrugged. “We lost Partis, and his was the voice with the strength and timbre and heart that brought the Exotiques through the Dimensional Corridor.”

Luthan froze as he noticed tears dribbling down Alexa’s cheeks. He didn’t think he’d ever seen the strong woman cry.

Bastien cradled her against his chest, gave her a cloth.

“It was Partis’s voice that drew me,” Alexa said between quiet sobs. “He comforted me for the loss of my friend. He was so strong and so gentle. Such a serene man.”

“An amazing quality in a Marshall. They tend to be fierce and passionate,” Luthan said, pouring her a cup of the tea she favored and that he kept on hand, dumping in a couple of lumps of sugar and stirring it.

She sniffed, took the cup with watery eyes, steady hands and a crooked smile. “A compliment, thanks.” She drank, then sighed. “We Marshalls are determined.” She patted Bastien’s cheek. “Even him.”

Bastien’s arm tightened on her. “Determined that you aren’t going to face the Dark alone. I am your Shield.”

The Shield was the defensive person of the Marshall Sword-Shield pair, though Bastien had many years of outright battle as a Chevalier himself. He tucked her head under his chin. “We were training Marwey for the main solo, but she didn’t have the range. There’s a young Chevalier we were encouraging to test for Marshall.” He rubbed Alexa’s back. “Just as well the Singer brought her over. Mirror magic, you said?” He raised his brows.

“From what I saw.” Luthan squinted to bring details back. “The Singer called the cave the ‘Summoning Cavern’ so—”

Alexa continued, “—Other Singers have brought people through. She had some sort of crystal that showed Calli this world when she was growing up on Earth.” Alexa shot Luthan a dark look. “I’m still mad at you for hurting Calli and Marrec.”

Luthan closed his eyes.

Bastien said, “It was more than a year ago, give it a rest. And he made a mistake, didn’t you?” he asked Luthan.

Luthan opened his eyes and stoically met Alexa’s frowning gaze. “No. It wasn’t a mistake. I followed the Singer’s orders.” He walked to a table and poured himself a short brandy, downed it. His jaw flexed. “I am sorry for any upset I caused—”

“To Marian and Jaquar and Bossgond and me and Bastien—” Alexa obviously still kept a list and a grudge.

“I didn’t upset Bastien,” Luthan protested.

“You upset me. My upset disturbed Bastien,” Alexa ended frostily.

No way to escape this. Again. “I am sorry for the upset I caused, but looking back, I believe that Amee, and destiny, was well served by my actions.” He sank into a large, comfortable chair. “The Singer was right in that instance.”

“I don’t think so,” Alexa said. “I think that if she, or you, had considered the matter, you’d’ve found a better option.”

Luthan shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

“It’s past,” Bastien said.

“But, I am done with being her representative,” Luthan said.

Both Alexa and Bastien straightened. Bastien nodded. “Good.”

“Good!” Alexa echoed.

“When she first requested I become her liaison to the Marshalls and other segments of Lladranan society, I thought it was good the Singer and Friends would be less isolated in the Abbey. At first she kept me well informed and I knew why she gave the orders she did and followed them, even if I did not agree totally with her. The past year or so, though…” He shrugged. “After that last illness…she’s become secretive, autocratic. I’m done with her, and will tell her so…soon.”

“Hmm.” Alexa finished her tea and set the cup on a side table. “Now the new Exotique will be the one to integrate the Singer and her Friends into the rest of Lladranan society. What did you say her name was, again?”

They hadn’t been introduced, but Luthan thought back, recalled the trilling of the bird’s mental voice. “Jikata.”

Alexa gasped. Her mouth dropped open. She put a hand on her heart. “The Jikata?”

Luthan frowned. “It’s a title?”

Alexa was shaking her head. “No. She’s a singer.”

“Of course,” Luthan said.

Alexa hopped off of Bastien’s knees and strode over to Luthan. “I mean she’s a popular singer in our world.” Her hands waved. “A local star going national—international.”

That was gibberish to Luthan.

Alexa began pacing again. “A…a well-known troubadour?”

Luthan shared a glance with Bastien, for Alexa to be impressed meant the lady was someone.

“Wait, wait,” Alexa muttered. “Didn’t I hear…yes!” Her eyes went bright. “I read that she had a four-octave voice.”

This time they all shared a glance.

“The requirement for the City Destroyer spell while unloosing Marian’s weapon knot,” Bastien murmured.

“Wait ’til I tell the others! Especially Marian.” Alexa settled onto Luthan’s lap, looked up at him with a winning smile. “She’s from Colorado, too. How did she look? Tell me all about her.”

He met Bastien’s gaze over Alexa’s head. His brother smiled and raised his mug to him.

So Luthan told Alexa all he knew of the Summoning.



Luthan waited up after Alexa and Bastien went to bed, prepared to convince Circlet Marian and her husband Jaquar that Jikata should remain with the Singer.

He sat in his firelit study. Like all the other rooms in the small manor, it was comfortable but worn. The walls had faded to an even duller color than the original beige. The sturdy wood and leather chairs showed nicks and scratches. Occasionally there was a settee or couch with a dim pattern reflecting his great aunt’s taste.

He still liked this place. Couldn’t imagine living in the great, cold castle where he and Bastien had been raised by a whining, disinterested mother and a dictatorial father.

Since Bastien had formed an unexpected bond with their father before his death and told Luthan about their father’s foreknowledge of his own death, Luthan understood the man better. Luthan didn’t despise his father anymore, but he would never be able to respect his sire.

Tonight the Sorcerers—Circlets—would come, Exotique Marian and her bondmate Jaquar. Since the weather was clear with only a few drifts of mist, they wouldn’t ride lightning, but fly on volarans. He didn’t know what experimentation they might have been conducting when they felt the Summoning, but they’d been on their island in Brisay Sea. His stable master had been alerted.

Luthan would wait for them, get the confrontation out of the way when there were only two of them, no matter how formidable. Taking the Exotiques one at a time was the best strategy.

Besides, he didn’t want to go up to bed. Bastien and Alexa tended to be noisy in their lovemaking. He didn’t begrudge them that, but it did remind him of his loneliness, his single state. The invasion of the Dark’s Nest was preliminarily scheduled for less than three months from now, perhaps as little as a month, determined by the building of the Ship and the trip. Though they hoped they’d survive, they were all prepared to die.

He’d never thought he’d die single, always had believed he’d find a bondmate—was that fantasy or wishing or a vision that had gone awry?

It was near midnight when the doorharp sounded. He rose from the chair where he’d been dozing and went to the door. Beyond the thick wood he sensed great Power. Marian and Jaquar were here.

With a low whistle, he set the spell torches lighting around him in the entryway, then opened the door and bowed. “Salutations.”

Marian, the Exotique Circlet, was tall and voluptuous with long, dark red hair, blue eyes and a slightly olive tone to her complexion.

“Salutations,” Jaquar said. He was tall with silver streaks of Power at both temples and eyes a little darker blue than Marian’s. Some old strain of Exotique blood was in his background.

Neither of them appeared angry, but both looked as if they had prickly questions.

“Come into the sitting room,” Luthan said. “I have brandy and mead.”

“Prepared as usual,” Marian murmured. “I don’t sense the new Exotique here.”

The skirmishing had begun.

Luthan continued to the sitting room, poured brandies for Jaquar and himself—he was drinking more tonight than he did in an entire month—and Marian the mead she favored. As the couple sat together on a loveseat, Luthan caught a half smile on Jaquar’s face. The Exotiques’ men were enjoying him trying to handle their women, and Marian could literally be a force of nature. She was a weather mage like her husband.

Thankfully, she began sipping her mead. She leaned against Jaquar and closed her eyes for an instant. Like the new Exotique, Marian had shadows under her eyes. Ayes, she was interesting with her blue eyes and red hair, but not lovely like the new Exotique. Jikata’s delicate features, long dark brown hair with black, tilted brown eyes and complexion close to the golden of the Lladranans appealed to Luthan more.

Best to begin. “There are many reasons why the Singer Summoning the last Exotique was best. Time is of the essence and the Marshalls were not prepared to do the Summoning, since they’d lost Partis.” Luthan lifted his hands as Marian sizzled a glance at him. “No, I did not know the Singer was going to do so. She did not inform me, nor did she ask me to participate. My taking her orders is at an end, but I haven’t cut the association yet.”

Frowning, Marian said, “I’ve been concentrating on the City Destroyer Weapon Knot and the Songspell to untie it, training my voice with others. I knew Partis was the lead singer of the Marshalls, and of course knew of his death, but I didn’t…” She shook her head, and a distant expression came to her eyes, recollection of when she was Summoned, Luthan supposed.

“He was a strong, quiet man, a Shield to his Lady’s Sword, more important than we all knew,” Jaquar said.

With a watery sniff, Marian nodded. “I should have paid more attention to Alexa, or she should have told me. The Tower community has several good teams now, including good Singers…between all of us, the Castle and the Tower and the Chevaliers and the Cities, we could have forged an excellent team.” She shrugged. “Well, the Singer took advantage of our distraction and inaction.”

Jaquar put an arm around her waist and squeezed. “It is our duty to figure out the Weapon Knot.”

“And you have?” Luthan asked.

“Pretty much,” Marian said. “It’s for an ensemble of at least three and no more than fifty, and the lead solo must have a four-octave range.”

“The Singer would Summon no one with less,” Luthan said. “And she’s the best to train such a range since she has it herself, and since the spellsong will be complex and difficult—” he raised his brows in question and Marian nodded, “—the Singer is the best to train anyone in Power made by the voice alone.”

Jaquar shifted. “Her voice isn’t the only Power of the new Exotique, is it? All the signs indicate that the lady will be strong in prophecy, too, like the Singer herself. And you.”

Luthan didn’t want to recall the visions he’d had in the caves. “The new Exotique is Powerful, and like all the other Lladranan communities, the Singer would have requirements for the one she Summoned.”

“Which would include prophecy,” Jaquar pointed out.

“Which would include prophecy, though I wasn’t with the lady long enough to gauge her Power,” Luthan said, then told them every detail of the Summoning, his talks with Bri and Raine and Alexa.

“Hmm,” Marian said at last. “This Lladranan cockatoo, I’ve never heard of one.”

Another squeeze from her husband. Jaquar said, “You all have animal companions, why shouldn’t she?”

“If you consider the feycoocus animals,” Marian said. “They are more beings of pure magic.”

“Who take various animal forms,” Jaquar added. He looked at Luthan. “Was this cockatoo a real bird or a feycoocu?”

Luthan hadn’t considered the matter. He went with his gut. “A real bird.”

Marian sighed. “Looks like my feycoocu will be mostly bird in the future, along with his mate and the baby, since Bri has the roc. I must admit I prefer mammals.”

“Birds may be more useful during the trip,” Luthan said. “A Lladranan cockatoo comes from the forests of the southeast, a beautiful, intelligent bird.”

“Ah.” Marian yawned, stretched and rose.

“One last thing,” Luthan said. “Alexa recognized the name of the new Exotique.”

Marian tilted her head.

“The new Exotique’s name is Jikata.”

Marian stared at him for a long moment. “I can’t believe it,” Marian said. “What is she doing here? And why would she possibly want to stay?” She seemed shocked.

Jaquar stood and put an arm around his bondmate’s shoulders. “With that attitude, perhaps it’s wise that the Singer has charge of her.” He glanced at Luthan. “For now.”

“For now,” Luthan agreed.

But tears shone in Marian’s eyes, and she clutched Jaquar’s biceps with both hands. “But we all know that the Snap to return an Exotique home doesn’t come until after she finishes her task. If she’s a four-octave Singer who’ll lead us in the City Destroyer spell, that means her task—”

“Is to go with us when we invade the Dark’s Nest and kill it,” Jaquar finished.

“The most dangerous task of any of us. Does she have any free will at all?” Marian asked.

Singer’s Abbey

Jikata awoke, stretched luxuriously, smiled at the velvet canopy above her head. The Ghost Hill Hotel was lovely and she had the Presidential Suite.

But what was truly excellent was the music. She didn’t know what radio station the hotel carried, but it was primo, something she thought she’d never find in Denver, though that public station in Greeley came close.

The piece was new-age ambient, full orchestral with rich, intricate melodies, and the acoustics of the room were wonderful since the sound surrounded her. Better than her home system. She’d get her sound engineer here to talk to the management.

She frowned, rubbed her face. She had ended a tour yesterday, that meant the crew was officially on vacation and—

She was due at her great-grandmother’s at ten! She scrambled up, shoving the binding covers down, bad dreams again.

Weird dreams—

Ishi would never forgive her for being late.

Ishi was dead.

That came flooding back, along with all the regrets and emptiness of her life. She fell back against fat pillows.

A flash of scarlet and there was a beautiful red bird sitting on a perch near the bed. It trilled a liquid melody. We are in Lladrana, where we belong.

Jikata blinked and blinked again. Cleared her throat. “I beg your pardon?” Her voice was raspy. Everything seemed slightly off.

The bird fluttered to the bed next to her. Jikata wrinkled her nose but didn’t smell musty feathers or bird manure. She smelled lavender.

I am Chasonette. We are here, we are home, we will triumph!

A mind-singing bird. Not slightly off…way off.

Music all around. Jikata concentrated and thought she could hear music coming from the very walls of this place and that sent a little shiver down her spine.

Harp notes rose and fell, then came the creak of a door, followed by the wonderful smells of eggs and bacon, freshly baked bread. Saliva pooled in Jikata’s mouth. A plump young woman walked in bearing a tray, obviously breakfast. Jikata shouldn’t eat so heavily…but she was coming off a long, stressful tour.

She noticed the food first then her gaze went from the red lacquered tray to the woman and she stared in disbelief. Music streamed from the maid in simple, repetitive notes. Jikata shook her head hard enough to dizzy herself. But when she stopped, the woman’s music was still there.

Chasonette fluffed her feathers. The bird, too, emanated music without one warble from her throat, a high lovely tune that seemed to pierce Jikata’s heart.

Jikata recalled the notion that she had a soundtrack for her life. True again this morning. More disturbing now. Surely it had to be in her mind, but she could live with it.

The woman dipped a curtsy and flushed a little. Jikata scooted back, wary, but ready to be served. She didn’t keep servants herself, but had stayed at homes of both old wealth and nouveau riche where maids were common.

After a tour she treated herself to resorts where she could be pampered. Perhaps this was just one and she’d forgotten the travel, or the Philberts had arranged for her transport. She wondered what sort of spa facilities this place had.

Speaking in a Frenchlike patter—or perhaps patois—Jikata didn’t understand, the serving woman set the tray on Jikata’s lap. Chasonette nipped half a slice of bacon and after crunching a chunk, dropped the rest in a small china dish on the corner of the tray that held a mixture of seeds.

The bird was going to eat from Jikata’s tray? That couldn’t be sanitary. Chasonette buried her beak in the bowl.

A word from the woman caught Jikata’s ear with the rising inflection of a question. “Po-tat-oes?”

Jikata stared and the servant repeated it. “Potatoes?”

Potatoes for breakfast! Glancing at her plate, Jikata saw scrambled eggs with cheese decorated with pepper and dill, and two strips of bacon. She shouldn’t even be having this. An egg-white omelet with fresh vegetables and a touch of cheese, an in-season fruit cup. Nothing like this. The thought of the cheesy eggs on her tongue made her mouth water all over again.

“No,” she said. “No potatoes.”

The woman’s eyes sharpened. “Ttho. Ttho potatoes.”

Jikata shifted in her bed, she’d been hoping that despite everything, this really was Denver. Pushing down panic, she decided to go with the flow a bit until she could discover more.

With a steady movement, the servant pulled all the bed curtains open and tied each section to the carved bedpost. Jikata gasped. In front of her was a wide rectangular window. The near distance was a field of white stone towers and spires, some embellished. Beyond that was land of a green that Colorado rarely saw except for a couple of weeks in a very rainy spring. Nothing like California, either. Or the tropical island she’d planned to recuperate on.

In the far distance were hills of various shades of green, highlighted by golden streaks of sunlight, a blue, blue sky and puffy, white castle-clouds. It all had an exoticness that spoke nothing of the rocky hills and rockier mountains around Denver.

Jikata’s mouth dried and she swallowed. She needed something to drink.

As if on cue, another woman and a man entered, both older than the first plump maid, who was dressed in yellow. The woman wore blazing red and held a beautiful folding table. The man wore rich blue and carried a tray loaded with fabulous china in a wildly colored chintz pattern on the tall coffeepot and fluted cups rimmed with gold.

The fragrance of jasmine tea rose from the spout of the pot and Jikata’s nose twitched.

None of the three had a bone structure that Jikata could quite place, not northern Chinese, or Mongolian, Korean, Thai. Definitely not Caucasian. Gorgeous all the same. And they all had streaks at their temples, the younger one silver, the older ones the color of spun gold. Jikata recalled that the old woman last night—the Singer had pure gold hair. Those streaks and that hair must mean something. Another frisson slid through her.

The older woman in red set the table beside Jikata’s bed, stepped back and folded her hands, but her sharp gaze scanned the room as if checking to ensure everything was correct. Jikata had seen that professional housekeeper’s glance before. The man poured the tea, lifted the lid of a sugar bowl as if in question.

Jikata shook her head, then remembered the word, ttho.

With exaggerated movements the younger maid shook her head and said, “Ttho.” Then nodded vigorously, smiled and added “Ayes.”

“Ayes,” Jikata said faintly.

Everyone echoed her, and the sound of the word was sometimes eyes, or ice or even ah-yes.

Deciding that her language lesson had progressed well enough and not wanting to think or talk about it further, Jikata fed her rumbling stomach. The first mouthful of eggs nearly melted on her tongue, with a nice garnish of spice, and a small bite of what might be something like paprika or even chili.

She was famished, as if she hadn’t eaten in days—or after a major performance, which was the truth.

“Velcome,” said the older woman and bowed.

“Velcome Lladrana, Exotique Singere,” said the man with a self-important incline of his head.

Since her mouth was full of soft buttered bread giving joy to her taste buds, Jikata merely nodded in return. He reminded her of a thin-nosed agent who’d rejected her and now was probably regretting it. That gave her a warm feeling, too. Always did.

He gestured and the younger woman came forward, took the tea and handed the thin china cup to Jikata. She sipped it. Great tea, but she could have done with some strong coffee. She wondered if they had coffee…not thinking about that!

The man spoke in halting English. “Ven yu dun, she weel take yu Singer.” He pointed rudely at the maid, whose eyes flashed, but she bowed her head.

Jikata nodded again and continued eating, said nothing to his raised brows. He swept from the room, followed by the housekeeper, who sent a last look around the chamber and lowered her own brows in a stern gaze to the younger maid.

With a sideways glance at Jikata the maid stood tall and sang a perfect round C. The door swung shut.

Jikata choked.




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.

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.

“Ayes.” Jikata didn’t like being treated like a rude pupil.

“My Power was understood from when I was a child. I was brought here to the Abbey.” She lifted a hand and her fingers showed a fine trembling, then she put them back on her lap. “The old Singer had had prophecies, of course. I would be one to Summon an Exotique.” She breathed through her nose. “Not once, but twice. I would be an extraordinary Singer, at the cusp of a great age. Whether I did my duty would ensure whether many people would live or die, would—” She stopped, shrugged. “I was told, and given to experience Songs and visions of my own. I could grow large, as large as my people and have less Power. Or stay small and have greater Power. I chose to say small.” Her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “The decision was made when I was passing from child to woman. Not many Singers have a consort. Few men or women can match the Power of a Singer, and most of us want a partner, bondmate. More visions came and I knew if I stayed small, I would have a chance for a consort, a man from Exotique Terre. He would find me more attractive if I were small. At the threshold of womanhood, I longed for the love of a man, dreamed fantasy dreams of a mate.” She shrugged again. “I Summoned him, my Thomas. He came, taught me English. Left with the Snap. He did not love me enough to stay.” Her gaze shifted from the distance to bore into Jikata with a penetrating spear of disapproval that she actually felt.

Jikata’s mind whirled at the strange words: Exotique, bondmate, Snap. “What are—”

“We will discuss other concepts later.” The Singer leaned back and closed her eyes. “I am tired.” She snapped her fingers and an attendant sidled into the room. Obviously snapping the fingers was an indication of a bad mood. “Send the medica to me. I promised that the Exotique would be examined.”

Oh. Fun.

A tall, strong woman wearing a red tunic with a white cross over a long red robe entered and went to the Singer, gently took her hands. The old woman didn’t open her eyes. The medica began to hum in an excellent voice, head cocked as if listening to responses only she could hear. Then she placed the Singer’s hands back on the arms of the chair. “You are doing well, Lady Singer. As we anticipated, the new Exotique has help—”

“Examine her for Bri,” the Singer said.

Jikata wondered what bri was.

The medica dipped a deep curtsy, turned to Jikata. She’d stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles in a casual pose. She would not act like a scolded puppy. She’d asked a simple question. But she was sure, now, that all of her simple questions would have complex answers, and her blood thrummed in her veins at the thought of duty and prices to be paid.

But the medica made a curtsy almost as deep to Jikata as she did to the Singer, and her eyes were curious and kind, not condemnatory. “You will please sit up straight, feet on the floor.” Her language was simple and accompanied by gestures. Jikata sat, realized that with her feet flat on the floor, the chair was too deep to support her back, and stood.

The medica nodded and moved in front of Jikata, smiling. “I at Marshalls’ Castle last year. Know Exotiques.” Was what Jikata heard.

The Singer sniffed.

The medica let out a little breath and held out her palms, obviously for Jikata to take them.

Reluctantly, recalling the nastiness of the ordeal the night before when chords were painfully plucked inside her, Jikata put her fingers in the other woman’s larger hands. They were unusually warm. The woman Sang and it was as if pulses within Jikata warmed and glowed and vibrated almost pleasurably. “You healthy, more rest and good food,” the woman said. “Potatoes—”

“Potatoes?”

The medica beamed. “New wonder food.”

Jikata narrowed her eyes.

A chiming filled the room and she followed the sound to a round lump in the medica’s pocket. The sturdy woman took out a crystal, and Jikata stared at moving wisps of mist within the orb. “Apologies, Lady Singer, third time Bri—”

“You may report to Bri somewhere else,” the Singer said.

The medica left hurriedly. So Bri was a person.

“‘Jikata’ is how you are called,” the old woman said.

“Ayes,” Jikata said. The Singer still had her eyes closed. Not vulnerable, showing that nothing and no one could assail her defenses. Ishi had been like that, had refused to let anything bother her.

“We will have lessons. Stretching for the body, our instrument. Then voice lessons both in range and in Power. Then, training in prophecy. We are done for the day. You may go.”

Jikata’s mouth dropped open. Training in prophecy!

She had a hunch that all the previous hunches in her life had been true.

And her life had taken another unexpected twist.

Castleton/Marshalls’ Castle

Raine had tinkered with the latest design of the ship at her pretty house in Castleton, then left her drawing board. Before she made a model, she liked it to simmer in her head.

Restlessness claimed her and she found herself walking the two miles up to the Marshalls’ Castle. It was good exercise and she never did it alone. There was always a guard or two, or some Chevaliers who’d been in town for one reason or another, or even Bri and Sevair, who’d accompany her if she didn’t fly on Blossom. Today she walked with some Chevaliers who let her brood.

She hadn’t gotten much sleep, she’d been so churned up about the Summoning and Faucon that she couldn’t settle.

Then one of the recurring nightmares had come. She’d awakened in a cold sweat, thinking for long, confused moments that she was back to being a despised potgirl at the rough tavern, The Open Mouthed Fish.

She’d dragged herself out of bed late when the daily housekeeper had come in to leave food and tidy up. Not that there was ever much out of order. Having slept in a corner for six months and not had any place to call her own, Raine now prized the exquisite furnishings of the lovely house. She certainly took nothing for granted anymore.

Enerin, her companion, the baby feycoocu, was with her parents, being schooled in magical shape-shifter business.

Raine was at the front gate of the Castle when the alarm sounded and everyone tensed. The monster invasions of the north had diminished in frequency if not in ferocity. But the siren blared a pattern requesting folk gather in Temple Ward.

An announcement about the Summoning last night. Of course Alexa would do something publicly and to anyone who wanted to hear—merchant folk at the Castle, guards, Chevaliers, not just the Marshalls. Raine didn’t know a lot about how the Castle had run before Alexa became Lady Knight Swordmarshall, but knew things had changed.

Since the great round white stone Temple continued to tug at her, Raine shuffled along with a crowd through Lower Ward to Temple Ward to listen.

Alexa beamed at Raine, giving her mixed emotions. The other Exotiques were good with their support and not putting pressure on her, but their unspoken expectations were weighty. Raine spotted Calli, the Volaran Exotique, first, the sun glinting off her blond hair. Raine blinked. Most of the summer days had been cloudy and cool. Sunshine today would please the Coloradan Exotiques since they were all used to more sun than she. Then Marian and Jaquar, the Circlets, joined Calli. They’d just flown in from Luthan’s southern estate, Raine realized. Calli held the hand of her adopted son. Marrec had their toddler, also adopted, sitting on his shoulders. Raine felt a wave of dread as she walked toward them with a false smile that wouldn’t fool anyone.

No wonder she was dragging her feet about the ship. Once she was done, everyone, including Calli and Marrec, would be committed to destroying the Dark that had sent monsters from the north for ages. Raine had little hope that they’d kill it, or any of them would survive.

Calli, the nurturer, wrapped her free arm around Raine, and they listened to Alexa, who fully believed that leaving the new Exotique with the Singer was important and right, and that relieved Raine. No one should go through what she had.

When Alexa was done, the crowd stayed, discussing the news. They all approved of Alexa’s actions, of course. Reluctantly, Raine went with the other Exotiques to hash over everything again. The guys had made themselves scarce. Before they entered the keep, she scanned the crowd one more time.

Faucon was there, ignoring her. Though her gaze lingered because he was so darn handsome, she looked for someone else.

“Where’s Koz?” she asked Marian, his sister.

“Around, he’ll see us shortly,” Marian said.

Raine sucked in a deep breath, “Really?”

Marian linked her arm with hers. “Ayes, we’ll talk of the mirrors for your family.”

Swallowing hard, Raine said, “Thank you.”

“Welcome,” Marian replied absently. Then they were climbing the stairs to Alexa and Bastien’s suite.

To keep anticipation from eating her alive, Raine, too, thought of the newly Summoned one. She’d heard of Jikata, though she hadn’t listened much to her music or bought her albums. Raine had liked industrial. Past tense here in Lladrana. They did have some of Marian’s and Bri’s music. But Marian preferred longhair and Bri had strange things like atonal chants by Tibetan monks or African women clapping and singing. Not a jammin’ track in the bunch.

“Jikata.” Alexa rubbed her hands with glee as she paced the sitting-dining room. Raine hoped the munchies would arrive soon, eating usually kept Alexa still for a few minutes.

“It was obvious that we all knew of her,” Marian said. “That made it easier for everyone to accept her being in the hands of the Singer.”

“How on Earth did she get here?” Raine asked.

Alexa stopped and put her hands on her hips. “One name, or maybe two. The common thread among us, I think.” She studied Raine. “I don’t know that we asked you about them.” She cleared her throat. “Trenton Philbert the third, U.S. District Court Judge in Denver.” Alexa waggled a thumb at herself. “I was acquainted with him during my very brief legal career. Brief, ha!”

Marian winced. “Really, Alexa.” The Circlet rose when the doorharp sounded and took a loaded tray from Alexa’s maid. The scent of French fries—“twin fries” as they were called here for the two women who introduced potatoes—filled the air, making Raine’s mouth water.

“Marian had a significant encounter with them,” Alexa said.

Marian put the tray down on a large round dining room table and they all took chairs. “Yes, I did. Juliet Philbert is the owner of a Denver new age shop called Queen of Cups. She gave me the Lladranan weapon knot book.”

Calli added, “The Philberts have had a ranch next to our spread for generations.” She took a ham and cheese sandwich on a croissant. “And you, Bri?”

“Dad’s roomie in college,” Bri said around a fry. “Elizabeth’s and my godfather. Only met his wife once, though.”

They all looked at Raine. She nodded. “Yes, they commissioned a seagoing yacht from my family last year after buying some oceanfront property. Big gossip in Best Haven.”

“So anyone know how they got Jikata?” Alexa asked.

“Think so.” Bri wolfed down another fry. “When I last talked to my folks in the magic mirror they said something about planning to attend the grand opening of a rehab project Uncle Trent funded.” She raised a fry dramatically. “The Ghost Hill Theater. The jewel of the opening gala was a performance by one Jikata, local girl made good.”

“Little did we know that Jikata would be our new Exotique,” Marian said, cutting her sandwich into smaller rectangles. “The opening would have been last night, I presume.”

“Probably. By the way, the Singer’s medica has reported that she’s in good health,” Bri said.

Calli frowned. “Bert, I mean Trent, is sure throwing a lot of money around.” She shrugged. “But he has it.”

This whole talk of Summoning was too much. Raine pushed her plate away. It had smelled good and she’d eaten some fries and a bit of sandwich, but the conversation had dried her taste buds. “When do you think Koz—”

Her impatience was stopped by the strum of the doorharp.

“Bet he hasn’t had lunch.” Alexa drew her plate close. “He’ll want our fries.”

“He can have mine,” Raine said.

“I’ll cut half your sandwich for him,” Calli said, “but you should try to eat the rest.”

Alexa swallowed a fry then called, “Entre.”

Koz strode in, a big man with big bones. He was roughly handsome but nothing to compare with Luthan or Faucon. His face was animated, showing a lively mind behind the dark brown eyes. An Earth mind. The Lladranan body carried an Earth soul.

He greeted them, pulled up a chair and looked at Raine.

“Salutations, Koz,” she said belatedly.

Nodding, he said, “Hey.”

She found her fingers had twined together tightly. “Mirrors for my family?” was all she could force out.

He hadn’t brought anything with him.




8


Koz said, “Yes, I can establish connections with Earth through my mirrors. Links I think will even survive when the Dimensional Corridor shifts and Earth is no longer accessible from here.”

A mirror set in her father’s house! Or one of her brothers’, or even all of her brothers’! She hadn’t really hoped for so much. She gasped. Calli came and rubbed her shoulders.

Reality cleared her mind. “There is no way my father or brothers will believe in mirrors that suddenly appear in their houses, in talking mirrors, in any of this.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t get something there, and you can’t check up on them once and a while,” Koz said. He lifted his forefinger. “However…”

Raine tensed.

“I can’t place the mirror or mirrors myself. Bossgond must do that.”

Raine’s spirits sank.

She’d had a few sessions with the most brilliant Sorcerer in Lladrana—the cranky old man. She didn’t think the CIA could debrief better.

“Sorry.” Koz gave her a half smile.

Marian coughed. “Maybe he’ll be reasonable….”

Everyone stared at her.

She shrugged. “All right, he won’t, but we should try, and right now.” Pulling out a small crystal sphere from her pocket she called Bossgond.

The ball hummed for about a minute, then came a voice but no image. “What! I’m working!”

“Koz and Raine have a project for you.”

A heaved sigh, then wisps in the ball solidified into the image of the skinny, wrinkled Sorcerer. He sat with arms crossed and listened as Koz explained what he needed.

Bossgond sniffed. “It will cost you.”

Raine had anticipated this, but anger spurted through her anyway. She jumped to her feet. “Cost me!” Glaring at him, she said, “Am I or am I not the one who spoke to you for hours about every little detail of my Summoning here and my life? Haven’t I given you masses of information about…stuff. My grandmother’s mirror that originally came from Lladrana. The Summoning. Living here on my own. Travys who had the innate repulsion.” She waved her hands. “Whatever. You should owe me!”

“She’s got a point.” Koz rocked on his heels, grinning.

“Excellent strategy,” Alexa said.

Another big sigh from Bossgond, though Raine thought she saw the eternal curiosity that marked a Sorcerer in his eyes. “You can locate your father’s home?”

“My father and four brothers.” Raine stuck out her chin. It didn’t matter that none of them would believe in talking mirrors or interdimensional communication. She wanted a connection to them all.

Bossgond let out an undignified squeak. “Five!”

“Yeah, tough,” Raine muttered. “I love them all, and they love me.” Even if there hadn’t been much understanding among them. She’d wanted to take the family shipbuilding company into the second millennium with double hulls and metallic alloys. The guys had insisted on staying with wooden sailing ships. She probably would have left the company by now, but that was all in the past. Her future, for the moment, was on Lladrana.

“I want to get a message to them that I’m okay, too.”

Koz gave a little cough, gazed at Raine, then switched to Bossgond. “I have an idea.”

“Ayes?” asked Bossgond.

Koz looked Raine in the eyes. “Are your father and brothers honorable men?”

Raine had rarely given that phrase much thought on Earth. Here in Lladrana it was important. “They’re known for always keeping their word.”

“Right.” Koz nodded. Again he swept a look from Raine to Bossgond. “What say we send the mirrors to their attorney. You know their attorney?”

“Yeah, I know him well.”

“You could locate his office,” Koz said. A gleam came into Bossgond’s eyes. He loved discovering new places of “Exotique Terre.”

Raine shrugged. “No problem. They’re a family firm, too. A family firm run by men doesn’t often change drastically. They’ve been in that building for twelve generations. The Lindleys were upstarts in Best Haven at four generations.”

She looked around and Marian anticipated her, whisking a piece of paper and pencil in front of Raine. With a few quick strokes Raine laid out the plan of the office.

Koz took the layout with a low whistle. “You are one good draftsman. Draftsperson.” He studied the map for a couple of seconds. “What if we deliver five mirrors to this attorney, along with money, saying it’s an inheritance from your great-grandfather’s lover’s estate…”

“That would be the Singer here on Lladrana,” Raine said. She still marveled that her great-grandfather had been an Exotique, the last one Summoned before Alexa.

“Yes. A mirror for each of your brothers and your father. To be hung in their living rooms for…say…three generations. With the mirrors will be some sort of payment. We’ll think of that later.” He waved a hand like a man who’s never known poverty. “Like helping convince my sister that I should be on the invasion force.”

“I can’t—” Raine started.

“How soon do you wish this project to be done?” asked Bossgond from the crystal ball.

“I have a stock of mirrors ready,” Koz said.

The older man raised golden brows. “Ayes? You don’t want to consult the Singer on her mirror, one that can be tuned to the Dimensional Corridor, too?”

Marian said, “You old fox. You just want Koz to do some research for you.”

Bossgond pursed his lips, said, “The Singer does not answer my calls to her crystal.”

“What of her Friends?” Koz asked.

Silence from the old man.

Koz rubbed his chin. “Okay, I’m hooked. I’d like to visit the Singer, in case she’ll give me more and better info.” He glanced at Raine. “That all right?”

“Whatever’s best,” she said.

Nodding, Koz said. “I’ll fly to the Singer’s Abbey first, shouldn’t take more than a day or so if she’s cooperative.”

Marian snorted, and Alexa said, “Not likely,” then stared into the crystal ball. “These old, Powerful folks don’t do anything they don’t want to. Pity they’re so stuck in their ruts.”

Bossgond huffed, said, “I will be on the invasion force.”

Koz turned to Raine. “After that, you and I can go to Bossgond’s island and the dimensional telescope. You can leave a note with the mirrors, say you ended up in France with your great-grandfather’s lover’s family or something.”

Raine tottered. She’d never considered what she could say to her family to reassure them, explain without explaining, and not sound like a selfish, insensitive bitch or raving lunatic.

But she did know something. She swept her gaze around the room, meeting everyone’s eyes. “I don’t want to go. It would be faster if you went alone.” She met Bossgond’s gaze in the sphere. “You have my notes and a good enough map of Best Haven. Pearson and Pearson is located in their own three-story building on the southwest corner of Main Street and Seadrive Boulevard. Koz can find it.”

Koz raised his brows, then grinned, rubbing his hands. “Fun.” Then he winked at Bossgond. “More time to look around the town, than if Raine came with us. You know Marian likes us to limit our time, but without Raine…”

Marian frowned, turned to Raine and asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to go yourself, see your home?”

Raine didn’t think she could bear it since there was no way she was going home before the ship was built…but if she had strong moral support…“Would you be coming with me?” Raine trusted Marian.

“I can’t, I have—”

“I have responsibilities, too—the ship,” Raine said. “My task for Lladrana, Amee. My turn, now.”

Koz said to the crystal, “I’ll be there no later than tomorrow unless the Singer cooperates. I’ll let everyone know if that happens. See ya,” he said to Bossgond, then waved the crystal ball dark, leaving a grumpy sound coming from it.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, looked at Raine and again sympathy was in his eyes. “I’ll give you time to think of a story, write a note.”

Raine raised helpless hands. “What can I tell them that they might believe?”

Shrugging, Koz said, “I dunno.” His grin was fast and charming as he scanned them all. “Bunch of very creative women, you’ll think of something.” He sketched a bow and left, whistling “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction.”

Babble erupted as the women began to brainstorm. Alexa and Bri concocted the most outrageous stories. Marian frowned and tapped her lips with her finger, Calli just shook her head.

A few seconds later Koz popped his head back in. “Oh, hey, down payment could be a hat like Bastien’s. Thought it was ugly at first, but every Chevalier who is a Chevalier has one.”

“Guys wear those hats,” muttered Alexa. She sniffed. “We have cowboy hats. The Exotique Gang.”

Koz winked again, this time at Raine. “’Kay, I’ll take one of those, too.” He shut the door.

It was going to happen! She would be able to see her father and brothers after nearly a year. The emotions swamping her were too huge. “I have to go.” Raine bolted to the door. “Arrange stuff with the master tailor in Castleton.” That lady would have Koz’s measurements.

The talk stopped, the other Exotiques shared a glance.

Calli said, “Honey…”

Raine didn’t listen but heard Marian’s voice in her head as she hurried down the flights of stairs. We’ll figure out some story. A soft sigh. But I think Alexa and Bri are right. It may have to be a sailing accident, amnesia, a wealthy foreigner with pressing business and a private jet. A love affair in Europe. We’re thinking Sweden. Your memory has just returned.

Raine gritted her teeth—sounded like some novels she’d enjoyed but didn’t believe. Obviously the others had the same taste in fiction.

Her body remained tense until she knew nobody was coming after her, though from the buzzing in her mind she understood that the others were discussing her. Fine.

She’d meant to turn back to town, but her feet took her to the Temple. As usual, the hum of Power in the building enveloped her, merged with her own, and she felt less anxious, more able to handle anything that happened.

She wasn’t the only one in the Temple. Knots of Chevaliers were discussing the new situation and she sensed they were all relieved not to have been in a Summoning circle.

Some individuals were Singing—praying. Raine heard one soprano requesting she do well on the trials for the invasion force and be chosen to go on the great adventure.

Raine shuddered.

Though people nodded at her, no one bothered her and she went to the altar again. The chime candles were lit.

She stared at the gong. There was something about it. She walked around it, brushed it with fingertips. There was an energy she couldn’t quite understand but thought she should….

Raine! Puppy Enerin bulleted to her, jumped into her arms.

Looking up at her with huge brown eyes and tongue lolling, Enerin said, I can now do many, many shifts and forms. As many as I like! The puppy rolled from Raine’s grasp to under the altar cloth and emerged as a kitten.

You like this form best. She smiled a little cat smile showing baby teeth.

Raine smiled back.

Now I can go with you on the Ship.

Raine stopped smiling.

Singer’s Abbey

The next morning, Jikata awoke late and only thought she was in Denver for a few seconds. The new soundtrack of her life reminded her she was in Lladrana. For better or worse. She was managing to deal with the day-to-day stresses. Still, she’d need some answers soon.

Chasonette chirped, “Salutations, Jikata.”

“Hello, Chasonette.”

Apparently the bird took that as an invitation to fly through the open side bed curtains and perch on her knee. Chasonette tilted her head and revved up her personal Song. Jikata eyed her. “So, Chasonette, what do you want?”

The cockatoo shifted from one of Jikata’s knees to the other, her tail lifted and dipped and Jikata had misgivings but the cover stayed clean. A tiny sound almost like the clearing of a throat came from the bird.

I am your companion.

“I suppose so.”

So I should be with you all the time.

Jikata chose careful words. “I don’t believe that’s true.”

The bird seemed to perk up. No?

“No.”

The feycoocus and volarans said so. One yellow eye turned to consider Jikata.

“What are faycouscous and volarans?”

Chasonette preened. I am with you to help you learn our ways.

“Thank you.”

Feycoocus are magical beings. A trill of Song, full of wonder. They can shape-shift into many bird forms. Animals, too. Chasonette clicked her beak in disapproval. They are about my size, whatever shape.

“Ah.”

Volarans are winged horses.

“Oh, right.” The maid had used that word last night when Jikata had opened the curtains at the foot of the bed. Jikata had been nude and that hadn’t seemed to bother the young woman, but leaving the curtains open had. They’d had a mimed discussion that got vigorous, particularly after Jikata had asked who’d see her from the third-story window, with no close buildings around. The maid had flapped her arms like a bird, then galloped like a horse. Jikata hadn’t believed her, they’d both thrown up their hands, then the maid had made a pleading face. Jikata had given up and gotten into bed fully intending to open the curtains but had immediately fallen asleep.

The afternoon before had consisted of a quick tour, then lunch, then bathing in a wonderful spa-like pool under one of the buildings, a massage, then dinner.

Learning to live with a soundtrack had taken a lot out of her and she’d retired early.

Now she said, “Flying horses?”

Of course.

They stared at each other. Chasonette clicked her beak. Come to the window, then. She flew there.

Jikata slid off the high bed, grabbed a robe hanging on a garment rack, slipped it on, tied the belt, then sauntered over to the window.

Chasonette gave a piercing whistle that had Jikata stumbling back, then the bird turned her head and ruffled her comb. Wait. They are not as fast as birds.

Jikata shrugged, looked for her backpack. Obsessive or not, she always checked it every morning and every evening. The bag, and smaller pouches within, were all she had of her own…world. Everything was there, but a little jumbled, not in the order she liked. She arranged the smaller bags.

Chasonette whistled again, and Jikata looked up, irritated.

And froze.

Hovering outside her window was a gorgeous animal.

It looked like a horse with wings.

The song coming from it was ravishing.

It is one of the Abbey volarans. It is glad to see you so it can gain status with gossip. But it is not good at staying in place. Chasonette tapped the window glass with her beak. The horse flung up its head, then fell away, wings beating.

“Wait!” Jikata dropped her pack, but by the time she reached the windows it was out of sight.

I am your companion, Chasonette said. She slid a glittering gaze toward Jikata. But I don’t think I need to be with you when you have your lessons from the Singer this morning or visit the Caverns of Prophecy this afternoon. She fluffed up her feathers as if cold.

Jikata felt a chill, too. Of change, of premonition.




9


Marshalls’ Castle

Raine watched her beautiful model boat cruise around the sacred pool in the Temple. She was pretty sure this design would work to take an invasion force to the Dark’s volcanic island. It had room enough for crew, provisions, twenty-five pairs of Marshalls, twenty of the top Chevaliers, six Circlets of the sorcerous persuasion, six Friends from the Singer’s Abbey, flying horses for all of them, the four Exotiques and their mates and the remaining two Exotiques, which included her.

She didn’t want to go invade a hideous evil so huge and ancient it could suck the life out of a planet.

It was the biggest ship she’d ever designed by herself or with her family in Connecticut. It was all wrong that she should be working on a galleon, a battleship, instead of a yacht. It was beautiful.

She’d gotten used to building models by magic here in Lladrana, designing them on heavy handmade paper, cutting and folding them until they looked like the ship she’d seen in her mind, setting them in water, then concentrating hard with her Power, and making the pulp in the paper into wood that was a model ship. She didn’t think the process would work for a real, full-sized ship.

Not to mention it lacked a power source.

The model floated and cut through the water of the pool fine, pushed around by her Power. She couldn’t imagine even the most Powerful of the mages on Lladrana mentally propelling the ship. Wouldn’t it drain them quickly and leave them stranded?

Of course it had two big masts, two small ones and sails. They could take advantage of the wind.

Except no one had consulted any sailors. The anger of most of Lladranan society toward the Seamasters who had messed up Raine’s own Summoning was still in force.

Raine’s early days on Lladrana were fading into a bad dream.

But right now she was all too aware that she couldn’t build the ship, power it, sail it, alone.

That meant she had to release the last bit of grudge against the Seamasters and make the first overture, bring them into the fold to help plan the defeat of the Dark.

She’d spent a month understanding the needs of the Lladranans, designing and revising the ship. It was a fine vessel and a work of art and would carry exactly what everyone told her it needed to carry. She had different versions for different power systems, steam and diesel.

Here in the Marshalls’ Castle and her tidy house in Castleton, she’d hidden and healed. Now she was nervous about the time it would take to build the ship. All the prophecies of this land stated that the battle would take place this year.

Since time flowed the same here as at home, that meant they were in the beginning of August. Casually, she’d dropped questions about shipbuilding to Marian, who spent most of her time working on the final “City Destroyer” spell. Marian thought it could take out the Dark’s island.

Probably with all of them on it.

But most were primed for the suicide mission, to sacrifice their lives to destroy the Dark.

Raine had never planned to “go” that way.

So she’d concentrated on the ship instead, as all of them wished, and had asked Marian how long it took to build a ship. Marian had gone all distant, as if recalling something she’d read. She’d absently replied, “Three days with Power,” turned her mind back to her studies and didn’t see Raine stagger away.

Looking again at her model, which had floated to the center of the pool and sat in dead calm, Raine shook her head. She could do another test of seaworthiness on it—making the pool ripple with huge waves to batter it. Raine had lived with tides and oceans all her life and knew to the salt of her blood how they moved. But the ship was excellent, one of her best efforts.

It had no Power source.

Time to look at a real ship.

Everyone had been very protective of her. Except for the strange flight a couple of nights before, Raine had stayed in the Castle and the city for the past month—she’d never lived inland and away from the sea for so long. She yearned for the scent of the beach, the sound of the surf.

Just as the month before that she’d yearned to be able to go inland more than a couple of miles.

She really wanted to come and go as she pleased.

She left her ship in the pool and exited the Temple to a cloudy summer day, cool for Connecticut and cool for Lladrana. The planet was dying under the onslaught of the Dark, the weather chilling. She’d welcomed the two previous days of sun.

The courtyard of the Castle bustled, as usual. That morning there’d been an alarm that monsters were invading from the north. Marshalls and Chevaliers had flown to battle. Raine had clutched her newest model in her hands and run to the Map Room, had seen that the incursion was minor, and forced herself to finish her last experiments in the Temple. She had really wanted to stay and watch the animated map, particularly the orange-red shields that were Faucon and his team. But she had her own task.

Now she heard the clang of the siren pulse in notes that told everyone the Castle teams had been triumphant, and waited, heart squeezing, for the pause then the indication of casualties. The quiet went on and on and she heard a couple of soldiers next to her sigh as she did. No deaths.

They bowed to her, a man and a woman, and she smiled back, cleared her throat. “How long will it take for the Marshalls and Chevaliers to return?”

The man’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “They were north and far to the east. Quite a distance. A few hours.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Seamistress Exotique.”

She jolted inwardly at the title but didn’t let it show. They walked away, the woman whistling.

Seamistress Exotique. The title was wrong. She could design pretty ships, make sure they were seaworthy, but knew little enough about the seas and oceans of Lladrana—the Brisay Sea dotted with islands off the western shore, the colder waters north on the way to the Dark’s island, the narrow channel between continents that was the only way to approach the island.

Time to remedy that, to finish her job. When her particular task was done, the Snap would come. The Snap was the call of Mother Earth to her wandering child to return. Earth was a lot stronger than the planet Amee. If Raine wanted to return, and she did, all she had to do was let herself be taken home by the Snap.

She only hoped that part of her job was not invading the island, prayed it was only finishing and building the ship.

But she had to take the next steps and the sooner, the better. She knew of one ship only that she could study in complete safety, Faucon Creusse’s yacht. Surely it would have an additional power source other than sails.

He didn’t like her and she was wildly attracted to him. But she wasn’t going to get involved with a Lladranan. Four out of five women from Earth had already fallen for sexy Lladranan men and forsaken their birth homes.

Raine was ready to return to designing fast, double-hulled vessels of cutting-edge metal alloys. She’d been unhappy with her place in her business, but hadn’t been willing to cut the bonds.

With the Seamasters’ faulty Summoning, the bonds had been cut for her. She loved her father and brothers, suffered at the thought of their grief in thinking she’d been lost to the sea, but when she returned she wouldn’t stay with the business. She was tired of wooden ships.

She snorted. One last, huge, wooden ship to build, then freedom.

Now was a good time to go to the coast and look at Faucon’s yacht while he was flying back from battle.

Raine called her very own winged horse mentally, Blossom!

I am here, Raine, Blossom replied, sending along a wash of love that had Raine sniffing back tears. She was so blessed now. She had a being who loved her, who would put her first before any other person. That was a gratitude she clutched close to her heart, so much different than six months ago, when she’d been a despised potgirl in a fishing village inn. Raine sensed Blossom at the Landing Field. Raine had magic now, a great deal of it, called Power. And that was so different than a year ago when she’d been much younger and rebelling against family tradition.

Lladrana was so different, so scary in those first isolated winter weeks that, looking back, she wasn’t quite sure how she survived.

But she had, and now she was an Exotique, a person valued above all others—except by those who had an instinctive repulsion to the alien women.

Time to see how free she really was. Please request one of the Castle squires prepare you for a flight.

Blossom squealed in joy. We are flying? More than just exercise?

Ayes, we go to Faucon’s castle, Creusse Crest, and back. She should have made up her mind earlier. Even with Distance Magic, the trip to the coast and back would be a long haul…if she’d accepted the land the Lladranan’s had offered her, she’d have had a seaside estate and could have stayed there tonight. But she was minimizing strings, already had bonded with too many to be comfortable.

Raine started walking through the flagstoned courtyard called Temple Ward to the keep where she wended her way through the building and the maze outside to the Landing Field. Blossom was waiting, a beautiful white volaran with big brown eyes and wings of subtle white shades. Gorgeous creature. As soon as she saw Raine, she trotted across the field, fully caparisoned in colorful tooled sky blue leather and gold thread. She wore a saddle for Raine’s benefit, but only had a hackamore around her nose for reins. Raine had been instructed in “volaran partnering” and gave Blossom most of her cues mentally or by shifting her body.

We go to Faucon’s? Blossom repeated as Raine mounted and they took to the sky, flying west.

Ayes.

Blossom lapsed into silence. Raine was glad that she was quiet because she wanted to enjoy the flight. As always her spirit soared riding on the winged horse. She inhaled deeply, the clean air of a land that knew no machines. Beneath her the landscape was one of green and rolling plains, a low ridge of hills that tugged at her heart. When she caught the distant scent of the ocean, her pulse picked up.

Since she’d been unconscious when she’d been brought from the coast to the Castle, all she’d seen were maps. The land was far more beautiful.

Blossom caught an updraft and rose higher, the sound of the wind swishing through her feathers a soft accompaniment to the rush of the air against them.

Distance Magic now?

Raine sighed. I wanted to see Alexa’s and Bastien’s estates.

We do Distance Magic for a little bit, then come out, look at their estates, Blossom said. Then do more to Creusse Crest.

Won’t that take more Power?

We have plenty of Power.

All right. Then Blossom drew on their combined Power, fumbled to merge it for the spell. A tweak, some disorientation and a clear bubble formed around them. Each beat of Blossom’s wings took them much farther, as if the magical bubble had no inertia and it zoomed through the atmosphere. Propelled by magic? Could a ship travel like that, too? Raine didn’t think so. Power would be a part of the energy source but it wouldn’t be Distance Magic that made a ship go. Sails couldn’t be used by people who couldn’t see or feel or scent the air. Fishing folk couldn’t have a bubble around them to haul in a catch.

Pop!

Alexa’s and Bastien’s estates.

They were side by side and looked comfortable and well-established. A volaran herd running free on Bastien’s land lifted their wings in salute.

They are old or tired or lost their riders, Blossom said, her voice laced with pity. She lifted her head, rose higher.

Blossom had lost her rider, too, but not from battle. One of the Summoned Exotiques had returned home, Blossom had been her volaran. Raine’s stomach sank. You know I don’t want to stay here in Lladrana.

You were treated bad. When you are treated good you will stay.

Raine winced. There was another pop as Blossom formed the Distance Magic bubble around them.

We will fly due west, then south, she said with a cheer that sounded a little false. Raine realized she’d poked a sore spot and shook her head. She was just getting her balance here, why did she have to make decisions right away? But what decision was there to make? Could she really see herself facing the Dark and fighting and staying here forever? No.

Blossom was flying due west to the coast because that was where the estate the Lladranans had offered Raine was. She’d seen drawings, and pictures from Bri’s camera, but not the place itself. She shouldn’t be curious.

And the island where the Exotique Circlet Marian lives is due west, too, Blossom reminded.

Raine gritted her teeth and called up a map in her mind. I think we need to angle south.

Faucon’s main estate is almost due south of your land.

It’s not my land.

A big beautiful seaside estate. Lots of room to fly and run, a nice stream, good stables for volarans and horses.

Raine had never been on the back of any sort of horselike creature until she’d met Blossom.

Big house for you, too. Bigger than where you live now. Blossom didn’t care for Raine’s house in the “city” of Castleton, there was no room for a volaran stable. From what Raine had seen in the pics, the place on the tiny peninsula was a small castle.

The world blurred outside the bubble, but Raine thought she smelled the ocean. Mixed emotions welled inside her. She loved the ocean, couldn’t imagine not living close to one, but her first months in Lladrana had been hideous.

Now she only had a few more, one way or another.




10


Singer’s Abbey

Jikata’s voice lesson with the Singer went well, they treated each other with exaggerated courtesy. Before actually doing the exercises, they did some body stretching. After the scales and range practice, the Singer spoke of Power, and spells initiated by sounds, notes, tunes, “songspells.” Jikata opened and shut windows and doors, locked them, released the locks. She learned various humming bits to Summon Friends.

The Singer watched with a careful eye as Jikata stirred water, lit a fire in a fireplace, made wind chimes tinkle and moved dirt in a planter. By the time she was done with the “simple” spells, Jikata was exhausted and would have smelled of sweat except her gown absorbed perspiration. Since the dress released an herbal scent, it was obvious how hard she worked.

The old woman, of course, demonstrated all the tasks serenely and with little effort.

Jikata ate lunch by herself, a light one of fruit and cheese and crackers with a hardboiled egg. Then came the baths, massage and rest. She could almost believe this was a resort—Club Lladrana, a retreat specifically for singers. She’d reluctantly decided differently, let the knowledge that she was in another place incrementally filter through her, and focused on the incredible instruction she’d been getting.

In the afternoon she went with the Singer to a suite of personal rooms above an octagonal tower. The old woman had several suites throughout the compound for various activities—or various levels of visitors. Certainly the Friends in different buildings were of different status.

“These are the rooms where I receive Marshalls who come for a Song Quest,” the Singer said. “I do not use them otherwise because they are very close to the Caverns of Prophecy. Listen and feel.”

Jikata recalled her Summoning, the caves, the sounds, the visions, and didn’t open herself up fully. She’d already learned how to tone down the soundtrack around her, hear selectively. It was a matter of control, like breath control. If she opened herself fully, she’d be overwhelmed by Song, especially in the Singer’s presence. She thought of her Power like the flame of a gas oven, opening a valve and giving the burner more energy.

So now she set her Power on low, listened.

Hollowness under her feet. She knew the sound of stone—worked and raw around her, beneath her. The different, deep chord of the planet itself. Only now, when she heard that strange Song, did she realize that she’d always heard a rhythmic beat quite different, that of Earth.

Whispers. Perhaps even hissing like gas. Dangerous if she were open and defenseless to it.

Jikata! Pay attention! It was the Singer’s voice, in her head. Jikata sucked in a breath. All right, she should have expected that people could speak telepathically, too.

“One moment!” She wouldn’t let the woman rattle her. She wasn’t a tyro in the music business.

But the Singer had that smug smile Jikata was beginning to intensely dislike. Eyes widening, Jikata realized the Singer had spoken to Jikata with her mind, while she’d answered aloud.

The Singer had spoken Lladranan.

Jikata had understood.

She was learning the language through Song and telepathy and hearing it spoken around her. She’d been a fairly quick study before, but nothing like this.

Letting her knees soften, becoming aware of her ki, she let Songs sift into her, or into her awareness and Power.

Her senses slipped down from this chamber to below to the Caverns.

Whispers coalesced into sound, into language—English. A vision formed.

She saw the man in white leather. They were walking along a sandy beach, surf foaming near their feet.

They were talking. No, they were flirting. Warmth tingled through her, then and now. A half smile curved his lips, lightening his serious expression and making him dangerously attractive. There was an easiness between them, as if they had a lot in common. His eyelids lowered over a very male glint, and he took her hand, raised it to his lips.

His mouth on the back of her hand sent frissons through her and she knew that this night they’d make love.

Then he froze, dropped her fingers, reared back, shock on his face.

Followed by utter revulsion. Pain. He shook his head, slapped his hands against his ears.

She stared at him in horror. Worse, she could feel tears backing up in her throat, rising, rising. She had to get away…. She stumbled, blinking frantically to keep tears back. Why hadn’t she learned a spellsong for that?

Jikata! The Singer’s voice.

Suddenly she wasn’t there and then, but here and now. That was Zen, this is Tao, she thought with ironic humor. Her throat still burned.

The Singer was frowning, her face wrinkled into a thousand lines that spoke of age and experience…and some of them of lost love. “What did you see?”

Jikata cleared her throat. “The man from the other night.”

“The night you were Summoned.”

“Yes.”

“Ayes.”

Did the Singer mean her to parrot “Ayes?” Jikata didn’t want to play games. She nodded.

“That is Luthan Vauxveau, a wealthy, Powerful noble of the Chevalier class. He wore Chevalier leathers and is my representative to the rest of Lladrana,” the Singer stated.

Chevalier meant what? Horseman? Knight? One of those who flew on the winged horses?

A knight in white leather. Was that as good as in shining armor? He looked more like a Western knight than a shogun. No, he acted more like her idea of a Western knight, though her ideas of both knights and samurai were formed by the media.

As the Singer crossed to a dark red door, Jikata understood that though the woman had spoken telepathically, she hadn’t seen into Jikata’s mind and that was a blessing. She didn’t want anyone to do that.

The Singer opened the door and gestured Jikata into what looked like a closet. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but it was hardly big enough for three people. Everyone on Lladrana seemed to think personal space was a lot smaller than Jikata believed.

The Singer waved her hand up and down. A moving box.

An elevator.

We descend to the Caverns of Prophecy now.

Jikata hesitated. The Singer lifted her brows. I promise neither will hurt you. Jikata wasn’t accustomed to being patronized in her own mind. She shrugged and got in.

The Singer Sang a scale, starting at the top of her range and descending. The elevator moved gently and silently down. This is the only moving box in Lladrana, and I am the only one who can Sing the songspell.

Then the door opened and they were in the caves. As Jikata watched, mist gathered into wraithlike shapes and solidified….

A piercing high C and the mist dispersed. Middle C and Jikata’s vision blurred and she understood the Singer had curved some sort of force field around them. Handy. From her last time in these caves, Jikata figured that the man in white, Luthan Vauxveau, didn’t know that particular spell. But Jikata had also sensed that the man didn’t know the Caverns. Thinking back, the majority of the Friends didn’t know the caves, either.

The Singer walked with a sure step through dark brown rock tunnels, following a spell light brighter than Jikata had learned to make…yet, in the two days she’d been here. “Time passes the same?” She wanted reassurance.

“Ayes.” The old woman didn’t pause, but as they turned left, Jikata saw a tiny marking on the rock wall at about her eye level. High for the Singer, lower for the rest of the Lladranans. The Lladranans, like most Earth peoples, had grown bigger and taller over generations? The sense of the caverns was ancient. Long smoke smears—from torches?—were even with Jikata’s head.

They jogged right and went through an old door. Jikata didn’t recall going through the door before, but now the Power was stronger. It slid smoothly across her skin with a touch that sent warning throughout her body. Danger, visions ahead!

Seven Mile Peninsula

Blossom dispersed the Distance Magic bubble without a sound and she and Raine spiraled slowly downward to a tall gray keep on the bluff overlooking an equally gray sand beach. This was the estate the Lladranans had offered Raine. The place itself was well-kept and looked old and weathered, but still seemed a good stronghold. It was on the southwest side of a small piece of land thrusting into the ocean called Seven Mile Peninsula.

Around it were green fields. The village that supported the castle was farther south, where the land smoothed toward the ocean and provided a good port. Part of the income for the village would come from fishing. Raine wondered if any of the folk could help her if she accepted the estate or whether they’d be as suspicious as the Seamasters themselves. As she and Blossom flew south, still within the boundaries of “her” land, Raine saw a huge building and docks with several boats, one being built the old-fashioned way.

They would owe fealty to you. Want to descend?

No! She could imagine what her father and brothers would say if some clueless guy from the government showed up. But she spotted a couple of men dressed in bright green who shaded their eyes as they watched Blossom and her fly over the open sea. The men raised their arms and waved. Raine thought she even saw a flash of teeth through bearded smiles.

She would rather figure out things on her own. A matter of pride, particularly since she’d been considered useless when she’d first arrived. Her ego and pride had been battered out of her, then, and were just reviving. A thought struck—Blossom?

Ayes?

The land where you found me…the hamlet where I worked, is it owned by anyone? At the time she’d thought the place was owned communally by the Seamasters since it was near Seamasters’ Market, where the great fisherfolk held seasonal fairs.

Blossom snorted. Owned by a great Chevalier. She now knows to keep a better eye on it, and on the Townmaster. The volaran snapped the Distance Magic around them once more. Raine relaxed into the ride, checked Blossom’s and her own energy levels, which were good, and let the flight soothe Blossom’s irritation—that Raine hadn’t committed to staying on Lladrana, hadn’t adored the castle or the estate, and at the memory of Raine’s mistreatment.

Raine went quiet, was sorry she couldn’t see their route to Faucon’s castle, but could tell when they flew over ocean or island on their trip. The feel of the water, more than the sound of surf against land, filled her.

Singer’s Abbey

Caverns of Prophecy, Caverns of Prophecy, the syllables pattered a rhythm. Jikata had a wonderful voice, an instrument, she knew that. Since arriving on Lladrana she’d felt Power. Magic outside her that ruffled, pulled at magic within her. She’d enjoyed learning magical spells.

Did she really think she had a “gift” of prophecy?

Uneasily she recalled the hunches she’d felt all her life, even before the chimes and gong the last couple of years, though her intuition had flashed more often since then. She’d known that to further her career she would have to leave Denver, disappoint Ishi, who wanted her to be a teacher. Jikata could never see herself in a classroom, only and always on stage, singing. Was she supposed to ignore the gift of a beautiful four-octave voice?

Arguments with Ishi buzzed around her head and she grew irritated with the past and herself for dwelling on it. She’d accepted being disinherited.

Ishi’s death, and now the air around her, brought it all back.

Flashes of intuition, vivid dreams that sometimes came true. She hadn’t believed she was psychic. It was easier, even here, to believe in magic outside herself.

They moved into smoothed rock hallways. These floors had thick carpets and their footsteps were lost in fine wool. Jikata still sensed the layers of sediment of the ages above her. Below her was the throbbing heartbeat of the planet. The dim sound seemed to ignite a glow of light in her chest and expand it.

A few minutes later they came to a door of black wood with a rounded top and strap work and hinges that seemed like iron, but were tarnished silver. Beyond the door was a hum of great Power.

The Singer looked at her and for the first time dissatisfaction was gone from the back of her eyes, leaving them serene. Whatever Jikata dimly sensed beyond the door, the Singer felt a hundredfold more strongly.

“You have trained enough to open the door. Listen closely.” She inhaled from her diaphragm, Sang crystalline notes from four octaves in a pattern that stirred Jikata’s blood.

The doorknob glowed, an intricate design of gleaming silver. The Singer touched the knob, said “Lock,” and the knob turned black-on-black again. Then she waited, gaze fixed on Jikata.

Jikata ran a couple of scales to warm her vocal cords. Had she known the Singer would make another of her impatient demands, Jikata would have limbered up her voice as she walked. Then she replicated the Song and the doorknob glowed once more.

“Good.” The Singer nodded shortly. She touched the knob and they both stepped back as the door swung outward.

The Singer went in first. “This is the true Chamber of Prophecy, where Power gathers. This is the room where every Singer for time out of mind has listened to the Song—of Amee, of the universe, of the great creative being we name the Song. It can be many tunes or one or even pure silence.” Her voice had sunk to a whisper.

Jikata stepped into the room and onto layers of thick, colorful rugs and gaped. In the middle the rugs became a pyramid, smaller and smaller until one just long enough to cradle the Singer was on top. There was a down mattress atop it.

The glitter of the walls took her breath. She was in a massive geode, a domed chamber with walls of protruding crystals all colors of the rainbow. Every color of quartz. Or were they tourmaline, precious gems, colored diamonds? She didn’t know. She couldn’t imagine the number or the color variations, the sizes of all the crystals, all of which would resonate with a different note.

They seemed to emit sound beyond her hearing. She quivered like a tuning fork.

“It’s the Power,” the Singer said with relish. “Some of the crystals store it, some project it, some even dampen it. The Song is endless and various.”

Jikata couldn’t speak. She blinked and blinked again, then narrowed her eyes to slits and shaded them with her hand. Even the filters she’d been building didn’t stop the unheard melodies affecting her so she rocked on heels and toes.

The Singer breathed deeply and Jikata understood the Power here supported and refreshed the Singer, probably led to her great age. But one thing Jikata had agreed with Ishi on was that living to a great age was not a goal to be sought at all costs, not even if the quality of life was acceptable.

For everything there is a season. She’d recorded that song because she’d agreed with it.

The Singer went to the pile of rugs and sat on an edge. She gestured. “I do not need the tools in the four directions of the room, but you may. We must explore which divination tool is best for you. Look around.”

The room wasn’t big, perhaps twenty feet in circumference, enough space for the rugs in the middle and the largest rug—surely commissioned for this chamber. As Jikata turned in place, she saw four different…thrones, and noticed that where they sat there was a shading streak of the same color. Deep blues spearing down to the palest shade of blue that seemed almost clear; the same with reds through orange to citrine with only a hint of yellow; dark purple amethyst to the lightest of lavender; great milky crystals that became more and more translucent until only the reflections on their facets showed they were there.

Each streak of color was equidistant from the others. The chairs were of silver, of gold, of polished wood, of slick obsidian. All had fat pillows near them in bright contrasting colors for seat and back. All had a pedestal she could barely see between the back of the chair and the wall.

She walked to the clear stones. On the pedestal was a harp that appeared to be fashioned from thick glass, shaped like an ancient lyre.

“Ah, my own element, air,” the Singer said approvingly.

Jikata yearned to touch the instrument. “I don’t know how to play it.”

The Singer’s laugh was sincerely amused, her face crinkled with humor, and Jikata saw the vibrant woman she’d been before age and sickness and something else—worry…the burdens of being a great oracle?—had taken their toll.

“It is meant to be strummed, a tool to vibrate the air around you so the visions come. Sit, try it.”

Jikata hesitated.

“We will not be leaving this room until we have found your best tool,” the Singer said calmly. “I was first here when I was nine. Two days after I arrived at the Abbey.”

But she was a Lladranan. The small woman’s hand was on Jikata’s shoulder, urging her down. Jikata sat on the silver chair and took the glass harp in her hands. It wasn’t large—about a foot and a half and fit easily in her lap. She didn’t know how to hold it, so she put her arm behind the glass top and set the bottom at an angle on her opposite thigh.

“If you have a question, ask. If not, just let your mind relax and see what comes.” The Singer’s voice lilted, hypnotic.

Creusse Crest

Blossom dropped the Distance Magic for the final time and Raine saw it was late afternoon. In the near distance was a crescent between two jutting promontories that was Faucon’s land. His castle was built of a golden-toned stone and both sprawled and rose like a small city in itself.

Raine said, We—I—don’t need to go to the castle. I want to look at Faucon’s yacht down on the dock, it shouldn’t take very long.

But Blossom was licking her lips. I have flown far and deserve good food.

Raine shifted uneasily, enough to have given Blossom wrong cues, if they hadn’t been ignored. Raine hadn’t asked Faucon’s permission to inspect his ship, to come here and demand food for a hungry volaran. She’d hoped to pop in, look at his yacht and pop back out, no harm done. She should have asked, even if he did avoid her.

Blossom said, You should go up to the castle to greet the people. You did not thank them for your care last month.

Because I was knocked out and taken away! But Blossom had said enough to prick an underlying guilt in Raine. The housekeeper of Faucon’s castle and a couple of maids had been the first people to treat her decently since her arrival on Lladrana. Raine would have written thank-you notes but she still didn’t know how to write.

Blossom alit on the dock near the yacht and Raine dismounted. She’d no sooner began to stretch her muscles before the flying horse took off to the castle above. Raine ground her teeth, then turned to the yacht. Beautiful lines, wood painted white, it was about two hundred feet long and one glance told her no money had been spared in her making. She walked to the stern and probed with her Power, her magic, for a rope ladder, then found and lowered a gangplank that had fancy carving on the sides. Raine just shook her head and gently settled the plank on the dock, then hurried up it.

The rocking of the ship under her feet made her catch her breath, and swallow hard. She hadn’t been on a boat in eight and a half months. She closed her eyes and a small moan of pleasure escaped her as her soles tingled and she got her sea balance. Somehow the water beneath her wasn’t like Earth oceans. Were the tides and the ocean swells that different? Lladrana had a moon that looked only a little larger than Earth’s. Maybe it was the difference of the planet Amee under the ocean, or with the ocean, or whatever. Raine sniffed and again shook her head at the fanciful notion.

Singer’s Abbey

Letting her mind wander, Jikata strummed, closed her eyes against dazzling brightness. How odd that such a conglomeration of crystals should form a hemisphere focusing Power and prophecy. Surely it couldn’t be natural.

I made it. Crafted it like you craft your melodies. A rippling laugh and Jikata angled her head to see a Lady dressed in a white toga, a Lladranan woman with long silver hair, dark eyes that showed a brilliant white starlike pupil. She held her hand against her lower abdomen. I wanted my peoples to listen to me. She smiled and it was the sweetest, most heartbreaking smile Jikata had ever seen. There are places like this in many lands, but only my Lladranans listened.

“Who are you?” Jikata breathed.




11


Iam the planet Amee thanking you for coming. But air is not your element and you know that. Try others before you settle on the one you love.

Jikata started from her daze, opened her eyes. Placed the lyre carefully in the stand. Then she went to the blue crystals and the dark wooden chair inlaid with a lighter wood in a complex pattern. On a wooden pedestal was a delicate stone bowl. In the bowl was swirling water.

“Go ahead,” the Singer said. “Look into the water. Feel the Power around us. See what the bowl shows you.”

Jikata had no sooner glanced into the bowl than Amee was back, her face troubled. I have called you and the others here for a purpose. You give me hope after ages of despair. Her star-pupil eyes flashed like a supernova, tears ran down her face, then she vanished.

With a shaky breath Jikata levered herself from the chair, moving within a dream. The air around her was thick with sound, tinkling crystalline whispers and vibrations she couldn’t hear, could only feel.

She went to the obsidian throne. The Singer had placed a fat red pillow on the seat. Jikata sank into it, looked at the top of the obsidian pillar for a few seconds before she saw the mirror. Reaching out, she found its edges and tensed, not wanting to cut herself. She raised it until she saw her own face, ghostlike, brown-black hair, brown eyes, more amber than chocolate. Behind her the opposite wall with the red streak glowed. Then it wasn’t her face but Amee’s. Her gaze reflected wariness, too. I am fighting and will fight. I ask you to do the same.

The mirror fell from Jikata’s fingers, thumping onto a soft black pad she hadn’t seen. Once again she rose and with measured steps went to the red-orange fiery wall that had drawn her from the first. As she came near, flames ignited and danced in a brass brazier.

She sat and was enveloped in warmth. Amee stepped from the fire, wearing a red gown, hand again at her side. She nodded to Jikata. Jikata, you are here, at last. The sweet, terrible smile. You must know that should you wish, you can become the thousandth Singer. All you have seen here could be yours. The comforts and the Power and the joys of living a life full of music, of listening to your gift of prophecy and thereby helping others. Composing. That can be yours.

One corner of her beautiful lips twisted. Along with the temptation of Power, the burden of foreseen knowledge, the duties and responsibilities of the Singer.

“I’m just becoming accustomed to here,” Jikata said.

Amee’s smile saddened, her star-spark pupils shone behind tears. I brought you to help me, to fight with me and for me. But you are not alone in this endeavor. Finally she removed her hand from her side. A black, hideous swollen sluglike leech gnawed on the woman, and the red of her dress was nothing compared to the red of her blood. Help save me.

Jikata stared in horror at the evil thing, then skin on its head rolled back and she saw shiny, depthless, black eyes that sucked the light from the room as it sucked the energy from Amee. It smiled. First her, then you. It cackled in her mind.

Everything went dark.

Creusse Crest

Faucon’s yacht was two-masted with red and orange sails furled and tied down. A gorgeous Tall Ship. Soon Raine would make her own ship. Joy blossomed in her. Who knew after all those bitter wars with her family that she’d wanted to build a Tall Ship…? There must be more of her family in her than she expected.

The future of ships on Lladrana was what she, Raine Lindley, would make it. That sent a shiver down her spine. It would be more like a galleon than a schooner or pleasure yacht. Good thing she’d designed hundreds of hulls and sails, and now if she remembered her doodlings in middle school, a Tall Ship or two….

Her ship would be as beautiful as this yacht, grander than anything her family had made. As for yachts…she could build something for Faucon, or other rich Lladranans, faster, sleeker than this pretty lady.

But her Tall Ship was one thing only—a troop transport. She set her mouth. No reason it couldn’t be lovely, and they’d want fast.

She just didn’t know how fast the thing would go without real power or Power—magic. She walked along the upper deck, all tidy. No doubt Faucon had a top-notch crew. No indication here of any other propellant source than the sails ready for the kiss of the wind. There was a polished stick where a wheel would be on Earth and she was sure it connected to a rudder, but nothing more.

She went down a level, found the crew’s quarters, hammocks hanging, and grimaced. That was the most efficient way for people to sleep on a ship. She wondered about the fighters. She thought of their tired and grim faces and realized that they wouldn’t care much as long as they had a chance to destroy the Dark and its Nest and the monsters it kept sending to Lladrana.

Raine only hoped that her last task was building the ship, not fighting the Dark itself.

The galley, sitting area and cabins were all gleaming wood. The crew quarters had been in the stern of the ship, and Raine’s eye had told her that there was no “engine” compartment between that room and the ocean.

Now she stood in Faucon’s large and luxurious cabin and studied the wall behind the big bed. There was something beyond that wall, snugged in the forecastle, the front of the bow.

“Your reason for being here is?” Faucon asked.

Singer’s Abbey

Jikata awoke on a fainting couch and jolted upward, but as her mind spun she realized she wasn’t in Ghost Hill Theater but in Lladrana.

“The first true vision can be intense,” the Singer said. “Especially if you touch the Song, or if you see your future.”

Without saying a word, Jikata took a few deep breaths, looked around. “How did I get here?”

The Singer smiled. “I used Power.”

Which could have meant she dragged Jikata through the caverns or teleported her or something altogether different. Jikata decided she didn’t need to know. “We’re in your suite above the crystal room?”

“Ayes. Only Singers are allowed in that room. It is where the Singer experiences the Song. Others—Chevaliers testing to become Marshalls, those who wish a Song Quest—are given drugs to open their minds to our innate Power and we link with them here. Now go to your own rooms and rest and eat, perhaps meditate.” The autocrat was back in full force. “I have had a blank journal placed on the desk in your suite. You should record today’s vision.” The Singer grimaced. “In English since you have not begun to learn written Lladranan.”





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