Crown Of Fire (14 page)

The message ended.

"Nello's?" Brennen raised a dark eyebrow.

Dozens of memories rushed back. "Most nights, it's a factory warehouse. But a group uses it for impromptu concerts, very much frowned on by the noble class. Wonderful music, with the heart of a world in it. Exactly the kind of place where . . ." She halted. Really, there was no use hoping to do this. The Shuhr had proved they weren't waiting for the ceremony. "I used to go to Nello's every chance I got," she said wistfully.

"You'd like to go tonight."

"Of course. But it would be foolish." She could've been among real people, common folks. "There's no point trying to make it a trap, though. Too many bystanders, too little advance warning."

She felt his amusement.

"But there might be one thing we could accomplish," she realized, and suddenly the risk seemed worthwhile.

"What?"

Firebird leaned against the windowbar. "I've discovered something more profound and real than the nine holy Powers—"

"Mari." Brennen frowned. "I know you haven't been vested, but it's still not allowed to proselytize, unless someone inquires—"

"I'm not even Thyrian—"

"You have Ehretan ancestry. You've been consecrated in the faith, and you have epsilon powers—"

"What powers? I can barely quest-pulse."

His eyebrows lowered. He covered his mouth with one hand, and she felt his intense disapproval. "You and I, together, have an ability that—"

"I want to help my people, Brennen—"

"Of course you do. How do you think we feel about other Thyri-ans? Even some of the Shuhr probably aren't beyond redemption. But we are commanded. If others inquire, then we can tell them what we believe. Otherwise," he said, gently prodding her chest, "you would have heard plenty before you ever set foot on Veroh."

Irked, she stood staring at him, working one finger against the side of her thumb. Even when she experienced his emotions, she didn't always agree with them.

His voice softened. "If you cannot obey our codes, we cannot train you. Obedience is all that sets us apart from the Shuhr. This command will change, one day when we've learned patience."

"I could sing to them," she insisted. "There's no commandment against performing an old ethnic hymn. Is there?"

He shook his head, still unsmiling. She could almost feel him thinking,
Pride, willfulness, impatience.

She did recall how patiently he had waited for her to ask about the faith. He hadn't broken his codes, not even for her sake, not even when he desperately wanted her to ask.

She ought to feel honored, by an honorable man. Still, she would like to have known more—sooner.

Maybe she could arrange for Clareen's Chapter house to be built in Citangelo. She would soon have an heir's allowance.

Abruptly, she realized that Clareen would be there tonight, and Clareen was under no prohibitions.

Getting off base proved simpler than leaving the palace. Brennen enlisted a Federate aide, who drove a midsized groundcar to a quiet street, then parked and walked back to the base. Five minutes later, Firebird pulled off the blanket that covered her and looked around from the backseat. "We're clear, Shel. I'll direct you from here."

In an urban area that smelled of industry, at the back of a brown-brick commercial plant, Uri softly voice-commanded a watchman to turn aside. Firebird led the way in.

Two hundred people, most of them dressed in drab, working-class coveralls, sat in chairs or on the floor, surrounding two singers and a lutenist. They were performing a love song Firebird hadn't heard in two years. Months and light-years retraced themselves. Now she marveled at how well the lyrics described Brennen. Some of her irritation with him flowed away.

She edged toward a short stretch of standing room along a wall. The cavernous room smelled of sweetsmoke and sweat. Shel's eyes didn't stop moving, and Brennen's emotions were at fever alert. They couldn't stay long.

The song ended. As the last chord faded, a man jumped to his feet. "Firebird!"

Again, the stares were like targeting lasers. . . this time, friendly ones. Shouts of "Welcome back," and "Sit here," and "Introduce your friends," echoed through Nello's back room. Someone tugged Firebird to the trio's chairs. Shel squeezed forward with her and sat down. Uri and Brennen—dressed in black civilian clothing—stood thirty degrees apart, along the wall. A high-headed small harp was passed hand over hand to the front.

"Introduce your friends," somebody called again.

The place stilled. Its high, smooth ceiling gave it a lively, bright acoustic presence she remembered well.

Most of these people had seen few offworlders, and never a telepath. "This is Shel Mattason," Firebird said. "She's. . . well, I don't go anywhere without her this week."

Laughter bounced out of one corner. Someone asked, "Can she sing?"

Shel glanced left and right, looking no less intense in her casual white pullover than in uniform. "I have no sense of pitch."

Uri extended an arm, calling, "I don't sing, either. But I enjoy listening—and it's my job to watch."

"And this is my husband," Firebird said steadily. Brennen took a short step away from the dark gray permastone wall. He
could
sing. She loved his light, pleasant tenor. Her musical training intimidated him, though, and he rarely sang in her presence . . . except at Chapter. "Brennen Caldwell saved me from a wastling's death. He has given me hope, and love, and shown me how very much more there is to the universe than I found inside palace walls. We have two beautiful sons." What else, what more could she tell them? Brennen had been Danton's strong man, lieutenant governor for the occupation. They'd already formed opinions about him. "I owe him more than I could ever repay," she added, and the truth of that statement washed away the last of her irritation. "And no," she said, "none of them can read your minds without your being aware of it."

Old Tomm Shawness pushed away from a nearer wall. Tomm had taught Firebird some of Netaia's best historic ballads, and though his singing voice creaked, his interpretations always drew cheers. "Sentinel Caldwell," he said, "if all she says is true, then we owe you a debt, too. On behalf of us all, thanks."

To Firebird's delight, most of the others applauded.

"Iarla!" Clareen's voice came from the floor, near her feet. "Firebird, give us the Iarla song!"

Wondering where the Tallan researcher turned up that two-year-old ballad, Firebird placed her hands on the clairsa's strings and played a few experimental chords. This instrument was painted with stylized vines twining up its bow and upper arch, leaving the sound box plain. She tweaked a sagging bass string, then sang her ballad with only one pause to clear her throat, and after the applause settled, she led a boisterous chorus about working conditions in places like Nello's front rooms, adding a few nontraditional chords to keep things interesting. Ballads that had survived the passage of time were anything but ordinary. The real workers sang along. Behind them, Brennen leaned back, appearing to relax.

It was too bad she didn't actually want to incite a rebellion. It could be so easy. A song from the Coper Rebellion, a short speech—

Was there a chance, after all, that her destiny lay along musical lines? She could almost feel energy coursing into her, drawn from her audience. If it hadn't been for her wastling fate, she might have pursued this kind of career. Now that she knew a mightier Singer, this almost felt like a call on her life.

She glanced down at Clareen, then over at Brennen, determined not to waste this chance at center stage. She fingered a soft arpeggio and said, "I want to tell you something wonderful, from beyond the Fed-eracy."

Brennen raised a dark eyebrow.

"But I can't," she said. "Here's a woman who could. Clareen?"

As if she'd been waiting for just such a chance, the bassist sprang up. "There is something much better than the Powers," she said. "They're only personality traits." Someone hooted from a dark corner.

"Your electors are only people like yourselves." She touched Firebird's shoulder.

"Most of them are a lot worse than she is." That from another corner, near a gridded ventilation chute. Catcalls answered it.

"But all this"—Clareen's long hair rippled as she gestured toward both sides and up toward the sky—"came from somewhere. An infinite being is Sovereign over everything that exists. There wouldn't be time tonight to tell you about Him ..." She looked toward Firebird.

Firebird pulled the clairsa against her shoulder. "Here's a song from the Thyrian tradition."

She tried to focus her heart on the original Singer, praying even while her lips formed lyrics.
Let these images catch in their memories. Let
me
bring mercy and, light to my people.

Before the long dreams of eternity flowed

He stood matchless, alone and sufficient

And out of the Word of His speaking

Made light, life, and time, made all things

So that over all living

He might justly command our obedience.

He is beyond time, more brilliant than light

In Him is no darkness at all.

Shaclded by our selfish lust to be gods

We stand powerless, alone and despondent

And only beginning to fathom

The majesty and flawless power

Of this highest of judges

And His right to condemn us to sorrow

For we disobey, and we smother the light

And the darkness falls over all.

Holy One who made time and the light and all things—

Brilliant paradox, transcendent judge

Who promises undeserved mercy

To your servants, flawed as we are!

Holy Speaker, Shaliyah,

With your own hands lift us past sorrow

To your land beyond time, where you are the light

And there is no darkness at all.

The hymn translated jerkily into Old Colonial, but Firebird was glad that the translators had aimed for textual accuracy instead of forcing the lyrics to rhyme. For several seconds, the room remained silent. Firebird carefully avoided looking at anyone, but gave them time to reflect on what they'd heard.

Then out of a corner, someone asked, "Would you sing it again?"

Firebird did, gladly. Then, nudged by Brennen's growing unease, she handed off the clairsa and touched Shel's shoulder. "Let's go."

"Escort," ordered a small, middle-aged woman near the door.

Instantly, the people nearest the woman surged out into the night. Others surrounded Firebird as her group emerged. She felt Brennen's confusion, then his amusement, as servitors and low-commoners preceded, guarded, and followed them, ten deep in places. It was an honor they'd accorded her before, when they were concerned for her safety. This way, she couldn't see a potential assailant, but he couldn't see her either.

As they approached the door, one woman slipped into the open space around them, glanced at Shel, and kept a cautious distance. "I would like to know more about the Thyrian hymn tradition," she said. She blinked small brown eyes, then added, "And that transcendent judge."

I told you, Brenn! I told you!
Firebird turned around, rose onto her toes, and pointed back into the room. "Do you know Clareen Chester-son, the bassist? That woman with the long blond hair? She can tell you more."

"I will ask. Thank you." The mob moved forward, hiding the woman once more.

Shel stayed close as Uri steered the mob to the unremarkable base groundcar. Netaians lingered while he activated the engine, and a sea of Netaian faces parted only a few at a time as he steered through the workers' parking zone. Others surrounded the gates. Uri emerged from the crowd to join traffic.

Firebird craned her neck, staring back at the crowd. "Now you see, Brenn. Now you understand why I love these people. These are the ones Rogonin sees as subhuman. These are the ones Carradee and Dan-ton have tried to help. The people," she added as Uri turned the car out onto Port Road, "who would die in a civil war."

"And you see how little interest most of them showed in the truth."

"They listened," she said. "They were silent. That is a wonderful hymn from an artistic standpoint, too." Still, he was right. The Sentinels' Ehretan ancestors had disqualified themselves to proselytize when they gene-altered their children. She did share that heritage.

She shook her head as a maglev train sped past, one long white streak in the darkness. She couldn't help basking in the sense that she'd done something splendid. "I'm sure Clareen will talk with that woman," she said. "And they may attract others."

Brennen rested one hand on her leg. "The time will come," he said, quoting, "when truth will come in like the tide. No one will be able to deny it in that day."

In Kiel or Kinnor's time, maybe.
His family would ride the crest of that tidal wave. Dozens of prophecies said so, and now she was part of that magnificent heritage. "Maybe that time is now." She stroked his hand. "Maybe the place is here."

Carradee opened her eyes and peered up at a skylight. At last, she and Daithi would begin Path instruction today. She rolled onto her side and eyed his therapy bed. He snored softly under a long regeneration field projector, one of Hesed's few concessions to modern technology. The twins slept in an adjoining room, which she'd vacated to move back in with Daithi.

Today.

She hadn't waited for Path instruction to start praying, though.
Eternal Speaker, Firebird's day is almost here, too. Bring her and Brennen safely through danger. Save her from the unholy Powers.
It felt wonderful to say that, even silently!
Save her from her enemies.

Then a more personal plea.
Guide the searchers to find my daughters' real fate. Protect Hesed and everyone who lives here. Lead Netaia out of darkness. By the power of the Holy Word to Come, let it be.
Then, Go
on healing Daithi. . .
His body was starting to respond in surprising ways.

She slipped into a nightrobe, laid one hand on the regenerative projector over his bed, and kissed him awake.

He opened his eyes and said, '"Dee. I've had an idea."

She raised the projector and stroked curly brown hair off his forehead. "You wake up so quickly. I envy you."

"I read something yesterday that stuck in my mind, about the power of prayer, illogical as it seems. If the Speaker truly wants us involved in the workings of the universe, we should ask everyone here to fast tomorrow. To fast and to pray that Firebird's confirmation will proceed safely. It could be urgent."

"Tell Mistress Anna at breakfast," she said softly. "That is an excellent idea."

The strangest sensation came over her, a sense of approval and right-ness.
Is that you, Speaker?
she asked, delighted.
Are you truly here in this room ?

Dust motes sparkled under the skylight, as if the sun were directly overhead.