Echoes in the Dark. Robin D. Owens

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