Echoes in the Dark. Robin D. Owens

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