Four
His last companion had gone to pieces days before. He wasn’t sure how many days, sunrise and sunset had grown so much alike of late, but he remembered holding her tenderly as the last of her flesh rotted beyond the point where it would contain her. When it was all over and her kigh had fled shrieking into the darkness, he’d taken one of her few remaining finger bones, threaded it on a silver wire, and added it to the multitude hanging from the silk cord he wore around his neck.
He kept a bit from all of them. They were his family, his friends, and he owed it to them not to forget.
If he lifted his head, he could see the Capital growing like a carbuncle on the horizon. Although old muscles ached, he was too near his destination to rest.
As he walked, he scanned the faces of the other travelers on the road. A glance, no more, and then his gaze moved on. He’d been searching for so long, he no longer remembered what it was he searched for—he only knew it was important and that he couldn’t be complete until he’d found it again.
His heart began to pound uncomfortably quickly as he finally distinguished the first of the stone tombs that lined the road. Trembling fingers tightened around the carved, bone knob of his walking stick. Once it had been part of a shoulder joint which had, in turn, been part of a young shepherd he had loved. They’d stayed with him longer back then, back before age had weakened his Song.
The sun had risen past the center of the sky when he reached the first tomb, and he shuffled gratefully into the small bit of shade it offered.
“When I was alive,” he muttered, tracing the stone letters as he read, “I was a candle-maker. I was the first to add the scent of oranges or lemons to the wax. My candles burned in the Imperial Palace. I gave one tenth of all I made to the temple of Leetis.… Who in the Circle is Leetis?” He’d never been able to keep track of the Empire’s gods—not that it made any difference in the end. Once it had enraged him that the Circle had a place for gods created from nothing more than a bit of misremembered history but no place for him. He’d grown too old for rage, but he still felt the old pain, the old betrayal. “Every festival, I gave two dozen beeswax candles to the healers. I employed three craftsmen and twelve laborers. My name was Elkan. My mother was Yolandis.”
He tapped a ridged and discolored nail against the crudely cut bias relief of a man dipping candles. “Elkan Yolandis. A good name. My name is … is …” He frowned. No one had called him by name for so long, he had trouble remembering. “Well,” he sighed after a moment, “it doesn’t matter.” Clearing his throat and hacking a mouthful of phlegm into the dust at the side of the road, he began to hum.
A number of those jostling past on their way along the East Road to the Capital grew suddenly uneasy and began to hurry. No one paid any attention to the old man in the travel-stained brown robes as he padded about the tomb.
His circuit complete, he sagged against the barred and bolted door. Although three of the eight panels prepared for epitaphs had been filled, no one had answered his call.
“Too old. Too old.” A long drink of brackish water from his leather flask did nothing to wash away his disappointment. Shoulders slumped, he continued on his way, less certain now that he’d find the companionship he so desperately desired.
He almost didn’t recognize the funeral when he saw it approaching. It took up fully half the road, and the noise rising from the crowd seemed more likely to wake the dead than lay them to rest. As most of the traffic grumbled its way over to the remaining side of the road, he hovered near the edge of a small cluster of the curious.
“Would you look at that.” A beefy arm waved at the four blue-veiled figures carrying a small but working fountain between them. “What’s the point in paying for a blessing of the goddess at a tomb?”
“I heard the family’d paid for a sickbed blessing. I heard they’d paid and the priestesses were getting ready to leave and the healers said not to bother.”
“What? The goddess was late?”
“That’s what I heard. And just try getting your coin back from the temple.”
He sidled a very little closer to the pair of middle-aged women who’d set down their baskets and seemed ready to enjoy the opportunity for gossip the procession created.
“Look at all the mourners. That must have cost a crescent or three.”
“You’d think as they were so close they wouldn’t have minded sharing.”
They? More than one? He strained to see past the white-robed men and women who appeared to be performing a stylized, scripted grief. Between the simulated mourning and honest sorrow—a dozen or so friends and family, many with tears washing channels through the thick white makeup that covered every face—came a pair of biers.
Two young men.
He somehow managed to stop himself from darting forward. Two. Young men. And dead less than a day.
“They were cousins, you know.”
“I heard they were lovers.”
“Everything has to be sex with you, doesn’t it? It’s not enough they were cousins?”
The second woman shifted uncomfortably. “I heard it was bad fish.”
“What was bad fish?”
“Bad fish killed them.”
“Who said?”
“My cousin.”
“The fishmonger?” Her voice rose in disbelief.
“No, my other cousin, the butcher.”
Food poisoning. The bodies would be whole.
* * * *
He made his camp in the rough ground behind the tombs, dug a small fire pit, and coaxed a flame from bits of broken brush. Carefully, he measured honey and herbs into a sooty cup and filled it with the last of his water. When the tisane had warmed so that he could no longer feel it against the inside of his wrist, he drank it slowly, and as the moon rose, he sang the exercises that would tone an aged voice. To lose this opportunity would be heartbreaking.
He had no need to call when he finally approached the tomb. He could feel the kigh, could feel their confusion, could feel them trying to cling to the life they’d lost. It was often that way with those who died young and healthy.
“Hush,” he murmured, struggling with the heavy bar securing the door. “I’ve come to help.”
Had the tomb not been opened that afternoon, he knew he wouldn’t have been strong enough to force the rustpitted metal up out of equally worn brackets. As it was, his arms trembled and he gasped for breath as he finally leaned the bar against the stone.
Fortunately, the hinges still glistened with oil and the door swung easily, silently open. He pushed it back until it would go no farther, then jammed it in place with a fist-sized rock. The spill of moonlight would provide all the illumination he needed.
The smell as he entered the tomb was familiar, comforting, and he breathed deeply of it as he shuffled into the narrow central aisle. Designed to hold eight bodies—the carrying poles of the biers slipping into iron cradles on the end walls—five places had already been filled before this double death. The lower three of the four resting to the left of the door had been stripped by time and rats to bare bone. The fourth wore enough bits of dried flesh for him to recognize a beautiful woman—although no one else could probably have seen her in the desiccated ruin that remained. To the right of the door, the lowest place held a body and a large brown rat.
They stared at each other for a moment, then the rat picked up the finger it had been gnawing and disappeared into the shadows.
Heart pounding, he leaned forward to check the fingers and toes of the two young men lying stacked above and sighed in relief when he found them whole. Although their faces and hands were marked with white smears of makeup from the farewell kisses of friends and family, the scavengers had not yet begun to feed.
“So young.” His voice held more anticipation than sorrow as he touched each gently in turn. They’d been broad-shouldered, stocky young men who’d worn their brown hair cut short in identical round caps and had shared a slight family resemblance about the jaw. One had been a little taller, the other a little more heavily muscled. He didn’t know their names or what they’d done in life—for their epitaphs had not yet been carved—but it didn’t matter. They’d be able to tell him themselves soon enough.
He cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and Sang.
The kigh responded joyfully until they touched the bodies. First the lower jerked and then the upper, an arm flung out to dangle down beside the bier.
He felt the pair of kigh begin to struggle and he threw more into the Song. When they tried to twist away, he caught them. When they balked, he shoved. It always happened thus, no matter how much they’d wanted to return before it began. Over the long years, he’d become well practiced in overcoming the fear of the kigh.
His voice cracked and wavered. The Song slipped into mere sound for a heartbeat before his desperate need for companionship lent him strength and he wrapped it around the kigh once again.
The bodies of both young men were now shaking so violently their teeth clattered in spite of the cords securing their jaws.
Hands clasped together around his staff, praying that he’d been strong enough, he finished the Song.
The silence rang with it for a moment.
Two pairs of brown eyes snapped open.
He had to help them to stand, Singing gentle Songs of comfort to them as their bodies spasmed and they moaned in terror. Lost and confused, they turned to him. He stroked them and calmed them and reassured them that the stiffness would pass. They were like children, his children, and he felt the familiar rush of love spill out over into his Song.
“All right, I know yer in there. Drop what yer holdin’ and step outside where I can see ya.”
A guard. He should’ve known there’d be a guard. These tombs were an open invitation to looters. He murmured a brief prayer of thanks to whatever gods were listening—had the guard shown up before he’d finished the Song.… Leaning heavily on his staff, he led the way out into the night.
The guard snorted when she saw him, brows nearly disappearing under the padded edge of her round helm. “Well, yer old enough to know better, Gramps.” A wave of her loaded crossbow directed him to one side. She glared into the tomb. “The rest of ya can get out here, too. Yer not gonna make me believe this old geezer was workin’ a … Goddess protect us, yer alive.”
“Nooo.” The taller of the two young men fought to pull air in and then push it out in the shape of words. It wasn’t easy as he no longer needed to breathe. “We … are dead.”
She swallowed and backed away a step, obviously wanting to run, forcing herself to stay. “But yer, yer standin’. Yer movin’. Ya gotta be alive if yer movin’.”
The second young man lurched forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with his cousin. His mouth worked, but no sound came out.
The guard had seen death in many forms before. She’d picked it up in pieces after the food riots of eighty-seven. She’d dragged it frozen out of the gutter every winter. She’d held it when her son had been taken, the healer standing helpless to one side.
These men were dead.
Her finger tightened on the trigger. The crossbow quarrel slammed quivering into the dirt at the cousins’ feet. She stared at it, then slowly lifted her gaze to their faces.
These men were most certainly dead.
And they knew it.
Another step back. Then another. Then, biting off a scream, she turned and ran.
* * * *
Halfway through the first verse, Karlene realized she should never have agreed to sing a love song. His Imperial Highness, Prince Otavas had pulled his cushion close, drawn one knee up to his chest—not an easy thing to do with any modesty considering the short style of kilt currently favored around the Imperial Court—and was staring at her with his heart in his eyes. Although at seventeen, he was a strikingly handsome young man, with his father’s dark coloring and the heavy bones of his mother’s northern heritage, those dark, intense eyes were his most devastating feature and he knew how to use them to their best advantage. He was also charming. Intelligent. And very, very young.
If anyone had told me when I left Shkoder that the hardest part of serving in the Empire would be keeping a love-struck princeling at arm’s length, I’d have laughed in their face.
It wasn’t that he was rude, or pushy, or even particularly imperious about his infatuation—he was just persistent. Without appearing to be following her about, he always seemed to be where she was. Had he not been an Imperial prince, a gentle Bardic Command could have cleared up the problem in short order, but as it was, she could only dance around his feelings and try to convince him that certain gifts were inappropriate.
The worst of it was, the prince’s attentions had caused a fascinatingly beautiful lady of the court to politely—or perhaps politically—surrender the field. Nor did it help that the only other bard in the Havakeen Empire thought the whole situation incredibly amusing and had already written a not-very-funny song about it. Could be worse, I suppose. At least with the prince’s involvement so obvious, he can’t sing it anywhere.
She sang the final verse with less emphasis than usual on the “Love conquers all,” but as the prince’s expression remained besotted, she suspected she needn’t have bothered.
A babble of voices rose as the last note faded. Karlene smiled and inclined her head. Pushing her heavy, blonde braid back over her shoulder, she set her quitara to one side and stood.
“You must be thirsty.” Prince Otavas stepped forward to claim her before any of the others could. “Would you care to join me for a drink? They’ve chilled lime juice tonight, I think. I remember you saying once how much you like it.”
Those beautiful eyes looked so hopeful, she couldn’t deny him. Besides, she was thirsty. A pity he’d read a deeper meaning than intended into the ritual response. “It would be my pleasure, Highness.”
“I wish you’d call me Tavas.” Beaming, he fell into step beside her.
“That’s what your family calls you, Highness. I couldn’t presume.”
“They wouldn’t mind. They like you.”
Smothering a sigh, Karlene fell back on the standard Imperial response. “I’m honored, Highness.”
“Tavas.”
“Highness …” She turned to face him. “While I am …” Well, there really isn’t another word for it, is there? “… honored by your attention, I feel it only fair to tell you again that I have no interest in men in that way.”
He shrugged and grinned. “I’m not men. I’m me.”
“And that I’m eleven years older than you are.”
“You don’t look a day over …”
She could see him rapidly examining ages, discarding them, and finally settling on:
“… twenty-one.” He bowed deeply, one hand keeping the back of his kilt from riding up. “Maybe twenty-two.” Impossible not to laugh.
Flashing a triumphant grin, the prince straightened and extended his arm. Shaking her head, Karlene laid her hand on his wrist and allowed herself to be led to the refreshment table.
In warm weather, the Imperial Court spent its informal evenings in a second-floor room with more window than wall. This evening, the three wide pairs of louvered shutters to both the east and west had been folded back to allow the passage of cooling breezes delicately scented by the night-blooming flowers in the gardens below. As always, refreshment tables had been set up at the narrower, south end of the room to either side of the arched entranceway. Karlene often wondered how the guards could stand so close to such mouthwatering bounty and be able to resist throwing themselves on the food.
She bowed slightly as Prince Otavas handed her a goblet of juice, ignored the not-entirely-hidden, indulgent smile of the servant who’d poured it, and nabbed a skewer of spiced chicken before any more of it disappeared. At the far end of the room, a low dais made it possible for her to see the Emperor and the Princess Verika involved in a spirited discussion. Probably about hawking, Karlene decided, studying the hand motions. It wasn’t that difficult a guess as they were both crazy about the sport and could argue for hours over the relative merits of one bird over another.
The prince sighed as he followed her gaze. “They were talking about water rights at the last council meeting and ended up in a shouting match about marsh hawks.”
“It’s nice that the Emperor has someone to share his interests, Highness.”
“It does take the pressure off the rest of us,” Otavas admitted with a smile. He turned to face her, smile broadening. “And while I don’t mind accompanying them occasionally, I personally have a deeper interest in mu …” A gust of wind tore the rest of the words from his mouth and nearly knocked him over. Fighting for balance, he stared at the bard being buffeted back and forth by a swirling column of air. He tried to reach her, was flung away, and could only watch helplessly as she staggered and almost fell.
Somehow, Karlene managed to get both feet firmly beneath her in spite of the surrounding kigh. Long, pale fingers clutched at her clothing and hair. Above the wind-sketched outlines of elongated bodies, thin and sharply pointed faces wore nearly identical expressions as each of the kigh tried desperately to get her attention. By the time she found her voice, there were ten, maybe twelve pairs of stormy gray eyes trying to peer into hers.
“Gently, gently,” she Sang although only the kigh could find words in the pure tones. “It’s all right. I’ll take care of it. Gently, it’ll be all right.”
She continued Singing reassurance as the whole cluster slowed, made one final circuit around her, then sped out through the same window they’d entered, their passage throwing an elderly courtier hard against the tiles and extinguishing the torches that lined the balcony.
A babble of voices rose into the silence that followed. The prince, taking advantage of both rank and proximity clutched at the bard’s arm. “Was it the air spirits?”
Brow furrowed, Karlene nodded.
“What were they so angry about?”
Tugging her tunic back into place, she turned to face him. “The kigh weren’t angry, Highness. They were terrified.”
* * * *
“What could trap the kigh, Gabris? That’s the question.” Karlene walked to the window and stared out at a distinct absence of kigh. Three or four kigh—different kigh, the same kigh; no one could tell—usually hung about the windows of the bardic suite. Today the skies were clear. The kigh she’d called had fled the moment she’d released them. “I mean, even the most powerful of bards can’t compel the kigh to do something they don’t want to.”
“Can’t or don’t?” asked the middle-aged man yawning up at her from behind the scribe’s table that dominated the room.
Frowning, the younger bard moved back to the table. “What do you mean?”
“Bards take vows,” Gabris reminded her. “The kigh are our allies, not our servants. Except in cases of great emergency, they are not to be compelled. However, if they can be compelled, perhaps they can also be trapped.”
“Are you saying that it’s a bard they’re terrified of?” Karlene demanded incredulously. “Because if it is, you’re wrong. First of all, I know the Songs they use to name every living bard, and so do you. Secondly, I’ve heard the kigh identify new talent. Remember when we started testing for Imperial fledglings?” Before Gabris could answer, she continued. “Remember when Ullious showed up? It seemed that with every step he took toward the Capital, a new kigh appeared to tell us he was coming. This wasn’t the same thing. Trust me.” The strides that returned her to the window were jerky and uneven. “This was darker. Older. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, it was unclean.”
“I wasn’t accusing anyone,” Gabris told her gently. “I just want you to keep your mind open to all possiblities.”
Karlene shrugged without turning. “All right. It’s open.” There were still no kigh outside the window. “If it’s been around for as long as they say it has, why haven’t we run into it before? I can’t recall the kigh being afraid of anything.” Pivoting on one heel, she returned to the table. “Can you?”
“No. I can’t. I didn’t.” Both bards had spent most of a sleepless night in a light trance, sifting Bardic Memory for precedents. Gabris waved the quill he held toward a chair. “Karlene, please, sit down.”
“Sorry.” She sank down, shoulders slumped, one hand covering her eyes.
“Better. It’s difficult to think with you bouncing all over the room like that.” Staring up at the arc of the ceiling, he flicked at his chin with the end of his pen.
At the first shunk, shunk, shunk, Karlene straightened, lowered her hand, and glared across the table at him.
Shunk, shunk, shunk. Whether deep in thought or half asleep, he didn’t notice.
He’d been doing it all morning, off and on, and the sound of the goose feather against the short, gray bristles of his beard was driving her crazy. She couldn’t take it anymore. Teeth clenched, she snaked a long arm across the table, grabbed the older bard’s wrist, and forced his arm down flat against the wood. “Please,” she ground out through clenched teeth, “don’t do that.”
Gabris stared at her, confused, and, as she released him, the feather rose. “Don’t do what?” Shunk.
“THAT! With the feather! Don’t do it anymore.” She leaned forward, fingers curled into fists. “Or I’m not going to be responsible for my actions.”
“I think you’re getting a little too worked up about this, Karlene.” His voice rough with fatigue, Gabris very carefully set the pen to one side while he spoke.
“You weren’t there. You didn’t feel their terror. I am not getting too worked up about this!” She surged to her feet. “The Emperor is demanding to know what the kigh are frightened of, but all we’ve managed to get out of them is that they’re afraid of being trapped, they don’t want to talk about it, and could we please get rid of it for them.”
“The Emperor is a lot more reasonable than he appears,” Gabris pointed out, smothering another yawn. “When you’ve been here a little longer, you’ll realize that his bark is much worse than his bite.”
“It’s not the Emperor I’m worried about.” Arms folded, she paced back to the window and stared out at the city beyond the walls of the Imperial Palace. It was probably only her imagination, but the shadows seemed darker, defying the light. Something was very wrong.
“May I come in?”
Imperial princes didn’t have to knock. Karlene swung around and leaned against the sill as Gabris welcomed the Emperor’s youngest son and invited him to be seated.
“Thank you, no.” Prince Otavas politely acknowledged the older bard, then directed all of his attention at Karlene. “I just stopped by to see if you’ve discovered what caused the air spirits to act so strangely last night.”
In spite of a miserable morning, she had to admire the way he made it sound as though that was his only concern. His expression rather ruined the effect, but for a young man not yet eighteen with no bardic training it was an excellent effort. “I’m very sorry, Highness, but the kigh aren’t cooperating.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
Behind the prince, Gabris wagged both brows suggestively.
Karlene fought off the urge to grind her teeth. “I’m sorry, Highness,” she said again, “but no.”
He spread his hands, the dozen or more narrow gold bands he wore adding drama to the gesture. “I wish I was one of the nine, then I’d be of some use to you.”
It had taken years to convince the Emperor to allow his citizens to be tested for the ability to Sing the kigh, but nine Imperial fledglings now studied at the Bardic Hall in Elbasan—the first five would return to the Empire some time before Third Quarter festival, ready to Walk their own land. Eventually, there’d be a Bardic Hall built in the Capital.
All at once, Karlene wondered if the prince’s infatuation with her masked a hidden pain. It had to be difficult for him; the youngest in a family dynastically secure three Imperial children before he was born. Perhaps he was desperately searching for a purpose, a purpose represented by the individual freedom and power of the bards. Had it hurt him to see others given that chance?
“Tell me, Highness …” She used a gentler tone than she usually dared use given how little encouragement the prince needed, and ignored the startled look Gabris shot her because of it. “… do you really wish you were one of the nine? Do you want to be a bard?”
“I’d rather be a prince.” He shrugged, not at all embarrassed by the admission. If he was hiding pain, it was obvious that he didn’t realize it. “Besides, I was tested. No talent. Couldn’t carry a tune if I got the servants to do it for me. I would like your ability to Command others to tell me the truth, though.”
“You’re a member of the Imperial House, Highness,” Gabris interjected. “You can command others to tell you the truth.”
“Not really.” Otavas flashed a slightly rueful smile over his shoulder at the older bard. “Everyone tells me what they assume I want to hear.” Then he ducked his head and shot a smoldering look at Karlene from under the fringe of thick, black lashes. “Well, almost everyone.”
Karlene sighed. Twenty-eight shouldn’t feel this old. “We haven’t really got time for that this morning, Highness.”
“You’re right, of course. I am sorry.” Settling down beside her on the broad windowsill, he smiled expectantly from one bard to the other. “What do we do now?”
“We, Highness?”
“Yes. His Majesty has suggested I give you every assistance.”
Gabris barely got his fist to his mouth in time to cover a sudden spasm of not very believable coughing.
Shooting him a look that singed rather than smoldered, Karlene indulged in a number of treasonous thoughts about His Imperial Majesty, who’d probably been maneuvered into shouting the suggestion at his youngest son in order to get some peace. “We were discussing what we were going to do next before you came in, Highness,” she said at last. “We’ve spoken to the kigh, but as I mentioned, they’re not cooperating.”
“Have you spoken to the others?”
“Others?” The two bards repeated the word in unison.
“The other kigh,” Otavas offered, a little confused at their reaction. “I mean, I know you both Sing three out of the four quarters because soon you’ll have to walk around the Empire with our new bards and His Majesty, King Theron never allows bards who Sing earth to leave Shkoder and … What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, Highness.” Karlene resisted the urge to beat her head against the window frame. “Gabris and I, however, are idiots.”
“You hadn’t thought of it?”
“No, Highness, we hadn’t.”
“That’s all right.” He looked pleased with himself. “You’re tired. I’m just glad I could help.”
* * * *
When Otavas’ mother, the Princess Irenka of Shkoder, came to the Havakeen Empire to join with their crown prince, she brought with her an enduring political alliance, a much younger Gabris, and a religion that enclosed all beliefs, all philosophies within the Circle. As the years passed and more people began to appreciate a system that accepted all gods and vastly simplified a complicated calendar of feast days and obligations, the princess had a Center built in the Capital—endearing herself to the taxpayers by paying for it herself.
The round, stone building dominated the upper half of Temple Street, style and material both looking remarkably out of place beside the local architecture.
As Karlene followed Gabris through the eastern doors and into the cool interior of the Center, she breathed a sigh of relief. Summers in the Empire were much hotter than summers back in Shkoder. She allowed a brief moment of pity for the prince’s guards, now flanking each of the Center’s four doors and undoubtedly baking in their armor, then hurried to catch up to the two men.
They’d been unable to convince Prince Otavas to stay behind.
“I was standing right beside you last night when the air spirits arrived,” he’d pointed out. “Nothing happened to me.”
A startled priest emerged from behind the central altar, eyes wide as she recognized the three approaching.
“If it isn’t an inconvenience, Your Grace,” Gabris began, bowing gracefully in spite of age and bulk. “My companion and I should like to use the Center for a few moments so that we might Sing fire and water in a protected setting.”
“An inconvenience?” The priest returned the bow. “You have only to ask, honored Bard.” She bowed to Karlene. “Honored Bards.” Then she remembered the prince and, slightly flustered, added a deeper bow, the wide, quartered sleeves of her robe sweeping against the stone floor. “Your Highness.”
Karlene nodded in turn, her opinion of Prince Otavas rising as he ignored the priest’s unfortunate lapse. With only two bards in the Empire—even if there’d been two bards in the Empire off and on for the last twenty-two years—they were still a novelty, and for those who’d accepted the enclosure of the Circle, a bard actually Singing the kigh became a religious experience. “Unfortunately, Your Grace, we must also ask that you leave us.” The priest looked so disappointed Karlene nearly relented but, remembering the buffeting she’d taken in the assembly room, stood firm. Bad enough that they’d be responsible for the prince’s safety.
With a final, reluctant bow, the priest sketched the sign of the Circle over her heart and left the building.
Gabris indicated that the prince should be seated on one of the curved benches that filled the area between the walls and the altar, settled down beside him, and gestured for Karlene to go ahead.
“Why aren’t you Singing as well?” Otavas asked him in some surprise.
“Two reasons, Highness. One of us needs to witness and Karlene’s voice is considerably younger than mine.”
“She has a beautiful voice, doesn’t she?”
“Yes, Highness, she does.”
“Oh, great, encourage him,” Karlene muttered under her breath as she stepped out into the open space surrounding the three-tiered altar. She drew in a deep breath of air heavy with the familiar scents of beeswax, water, and earth and found herself unexpectedly homesick. Shkoder and the Bardic Hall suddenly seemed a very long way away. And suppose we find out what’s frightening the kigh. What then? There’s only the two of us.
Wiping damp palms on the front of her robe, she pushed the mood aside with a simple, two-octave scale, then focused on the nearest of the huge candles that crowded the highest tier of the altar and Sang the four notes to call fire.
Almost immediately, kigh danced on a half-dozen wicks, barely defined features flickering and changing, tiny eyes of brilliant white the only constant. Still Singing, Karlene heard an admiring murmur from the prince and the rustle of fabric as Gabris leaned forward. A little surprised at both their size and number, she Sang calming and safety until the dance grew less frantic.
“If fire and water have been frightened as well,” Gabris had said, “perhaps calling them into the Center will make them feel secure enough to tell us what’s wrong.”
Although fire was the most self-absorbed of all the kigh, Karlene could feel them reaching out to her. She couldn’t sense why. Apprehensions a subtle harmony within the Song, she asked if they were afraid. When it became obvious that they were, she asked if they were afraid of being trapped.
Every candle on the altar burst into flame. A blazing tower of kigh surged toward the vaulted ceiling, individuals swallowed up in the terrifying column of white and red and gold. Gulping great lungfuls of heated air, Karlene fought to Sing over the fire’s roar.
She could smell her hair begin to singe.
Hands raised to protect her eyes, she stumbled back a step.
Then another voice joined hers, wrapping a tenor line around her Song, pouring in enough additional power to reach the heart of the holocaust. After a moment, the kigh began to listen. When together the two voices Sang a gratitude, the kigh whirled in one final, flaming vortex over the center of the altar and disappeared.
Karlene coughed and waved away the streams of smoke and the stink of burned beeswax. The candles as big around as her arm had been completely consumed. Puddles of black grease dribbled down over the edge of the altar and into the circular fountain sucked dry by the heat.
“Are you all right?” Gabris panted, dragging her around to face him.
Was she? The skin over her cheeks and forehead felt tight and hot and questing fingers pulled off curled and brittle bits of hair. A quick check found brows and lashes still present. “I got a little scorched,” she muttered, licking cracked lips and tasting blood. “But I’m okay.”
A gentle touch against her arm turned her toward the prince. A weight she hadn’t realized she carried lifted when she saw him, pale and scared but unhurt. “What happened?”
“What happened?” Karlene repeated, glancing down at the blisters rising on the backs of her hands. “I asked the kigh if they were afraid of being trapped.”
“What did they say?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?” The two bards followed his gaze as he stared up at the arcing vault of the ceiling. Soot streaked the stone ribs in a circle the exact diameter of the altar forty feet below.
Her heart pounding, fully aware of how close she’d come to losing control of the kigh entirely, Karlene could only give thanks that Her Majesty had insisted on both traditional dimensions and materials.
“All they said was yes?” The prince’s voice threatened to crack.
“Well, they said it pretty loudly.” All at once, she was shaking so hard her teeth slammed together like some kind of macabre percussion instrument. She grabbed blindly for support as two pairs of hands settled her gently down on a bench. “I’m okay,” she insisted.
“What we need to find out now is what specifically they’re afraid of. What is it they think can trap them?” Gabris murmured. Although the skin of his face looked stretched, he’d taken a lot less heat and a lot less damage.
In unison, the prince and the two bards turned to look at the dry fountain.
“If you don’t mind,” Otavas said with a shaky laugh, “I’m heading for higher ground before you Sing water.”