Echoes in the Dark. Robin D. Owens

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