Trion Rising, page 19
“I’ll tell you about the owls later,” Oriannon told Margus as they hurried toward the huge ironwood entry door, this time staying low in case more probes lurked nearby. Because where there was one …
24
Was this the same place, the same Great Hall?
Oriannon gasped as she gawked at the soaring high ceilings criss-crossed by sturdy timbers, the surviving stained glass windows set into the stone, the rainbow of colors glittering down on them and bringing marble floors to life. So much had already been repaired and cleaned up. She studied an elaborate tapestry hanging from just below the windows, a scene with flowers and trees and the Trion that naturally reminded her of Corista.
And for the first time in a long time she felt a twinge of homesickness, mixed with something else far deeper than she knew.
“Why do we have to come here?” asked Margus. “Can’t we get something to eat instead? I’m hungry.”
“Shh!” Wist signaled to him as they heard Becket’s booming voice echo through the chambers.
“We only light it up for special occasions.”
They turned to see Becket entering through a door by the fireplace, this time dressed in a tan linen robe, and flanked by the other six members of the Council. Minus Suuli, of course. Becket said nothing else but motioned for them to remain standing.
“So this must be a special occasion,” Margus whispered.
Oriannon didn’t answer, just glanced at the massive front door barred shut, and a good thing too. She could just imagine what would happen if a probe found them in here. This time there would be no shadows to hide in; every torch and wall sconce flickered with bright golden light. And from the sides of the Great Hall they noticed even more torches approaching like flickering lightning bugs, carried by the people of Lior. Before, when the hall had been dark, she hadn’t realized how far it stretched in either direction under stone archways and beyond.
And then Jesmet himself stepped into the light, joining the crowd and standing in front of the fireplace where Suuli had stood before. He dressed like all the other Council members. But unlike the other members, his face almost seemed to glow in the torchlight as if he was a part of the illumination himself.
“Oh-oh.” Margus quietly groaned at the sight, but Oriannon wouldn’t let him hide behind her. Why would he want to anyway?
“Well.” Jesmet smiled at them the same way he had when they walked into his orchestra class. “We seem to be safe in here for a while. Very nice of you to be here, Oriannon.”
She opened her mouth to say something but decided against it for now.
“Mr. Leek,” Jesmet went on, and what could Margus do but stand there? “The last time we saw each other I seem to recall you putting in several good words on my behalf. I appreciate your enthusiasm.”
Owlings on each side of them murmured their approval. So Margus had already made a few points here in Lior without saying a word. But still he stammered and shook his head as if the words rebelled in his throat. Finally he sighed and looked straight at Jesmet.
“Listen, I’m not who you think I am.” He carved a circle in the stone with the toe of his bright blue running shoe. “I can’t stand up here and pretend that—”
“I hate to argue the point, Mr. Leek … Margus.” A smile escaped Jesmet’s lips for a brief moment as if a joke had been told between them. “But I know exactly who you are, and I know exactly what happened back in Corista. That’s all behind us now.”
“I’m sorry, I—” Margus’s face went pale as Jesmet went on.
“I know you are.” He stepped over and rested a hand on Margus’s shoulder. “But it’s all right, Margus, really.”
Margus teared up as he nodded his head. And now Oriannon couldn’t help wondering who this man was, dressed in a simple robe, telling Margus not to worry.
“I thought you used to be a music mentor.” She wasn’t sure she should ask, as all eyes turned her direction. She took a deep breath. “But who are you really?”
It seemed like a reasonable question at the time, even if Margus poked her in the side to keep her quiet. Jesmet just rubbed his forehead as if he’d just been hit by a killer headache.
“You of all people should know, Oriannon,” he answered. “You’ve seen it all, and you remember it too. No one else can say that.”
“Maybe there’s a difference between remembering and knowing?”
“Yes.” A little smile crept over his face, the look he got when he was looking for the right answer from one of his students. She’d seen it more than once before. “Yes, there is. But does that mean you have no idea?”
“I didn’t say that, exactly …”
Once more Jesmet had backed her into a corner. How did he do that? He waited for her to explain herself.
“I just wanted to hear you say it,” she said. “That’s all.”
“After what happened with the yagwar, you don’t know?”
Of course Oriannon remembered everything about how Carrick Trice had been frozen in fear and nearly attacked, how Jesmet had turned away the wild animal with a whistle and a sharp word.
“After what happened in the dining hall, you don’t know?”
The smell of those horrid gelatin-spinach dumplings flooded her mind, and how he’d swept them all off their plates, just like that.
“And after what happened to your friend Brinnin Flyer, you don’t know?”
Now Oriannon remembered every detail of Brinnin falling off her ladder, of Jesmet pulling her to her feet, from death to life. No doubt about it: Brinnin had been dead.
“And are you telling me you were with me all those days in orchestra, and you still don’t know?”
She opened her mouth to defend herself, but that wasn’t going to amount to anything. What was her excuse? She was just asking a dumb question.
“All that music?” He went on. “All those songs, and you still can’t tell me?”
No one else said a word. Did everyone else in the Great Hall know the answer to his question, everyone but her? But she knew. Every detail, every word, everything he’d done. All the music he’d taught them, the same music the Owlings sang. She remembered, and then … then she knew. Not just remembered, but really knew.
“The song.” She finally managed to un-stick her dry tongue from the roof of her mouth. “You are … you’re the song. I don’t know how, yet, but you’re the Maker’s Song.”
And then he smiled wide and bright, as if he would burst out laughing for her having said so.
“Well. You’re finally getting it, Oriannon. And you know what? You don’t have to be an eidich to understand our music. Only the Maker can clear your head that way.”
Only the Maker? Then who had cleared her head just the day before, given her back her mind?
Jesmet waved his hand at the Owlings around him, and they nodded as if they knew exactly what he was talking about. Well, they probably did. And yet Jesmet was only just getting started.
“But that’s not why we’re here today.” He looked at the other Council members, to the right and to the left. “We’re here because Miss Hightower missed an important date by coming to Shadow-side, and now we’re going to see what we can do to make it up to her.”
“You are?” Oriannon wasn’t sure what was going on with Margus and Jesmet, but now it was her turn to get shaky-kneed. What was he talking about? “I mean, we are?”
“We are. And so the rest of the members of the Council have graciously allowed us to hold this special Seer Codex ceremony for Oriannon Hightower of Nyssa. A reminder of the Maker’s promise to everyone on the planet, Coristan and Owling …”
Oh! So this is why they were summoned! And now Jesmet had slipped into the language of the Seer Codex, the words she’d heard dozens of times before when it was for older cousins or friends— but never for her. The Owlings stood quietly to the sides, their torches still flickering, as Jesmet turned once again to her.
“Do you remember the words, Oriannon?”
The words she’d known since before she could walk? Her turn:
“You are the light of Corista.” Words from the Codex tumbled from her lips. “There is no hiding a city high on a cliff …”
How many times had she read those words and never known what they’d meant! Of course even though no one had ever tried to explain them, she had never asked. She wiped a tear from her eye and looked around at the torches these kind people held up for her.
“Torches were never meant to be hidden,” she went on, and the words tumbled out of her mouth like a stream whose ice-dam had just melted and broken loose. ” … but held high for others to see. Lift up yours so the shadows will flee, and so all of Corista can know whose light you bear.”
Her words echoed now in the Great Hall, and after a few more verses Jesmet motioned for her to come forward. He pulled out a plain silver necklace from a fold in his frock and held it out to her. A small black stone dangled from the end of the necklace, set with even smaller white stones in the pattern of the Trion.
“Now that you see, Oriannon Hightower, wear this to remind you of the song we sing, the light we seek, the promise of your Maker.”
She looked at the three tiny, blazing stars and nodded before taking the necklace and fixing the clasp. The symbol of Jesmet.
A few Owlings began to clap, quietly at first, then more and more, until they all joined in their cheers. For Jesmet. For Oriannon. For all of Lior. Jesmet smiled at her as the cheers turned to singing, the way only Owlings could sing. Even Becket smiled as a young messenger hurried in from outside and whispered something in his ear.
“Wonderful.” He looked different when he smiled. And now he cleared his throat and straightened up, the way a new head of the Council probably should when announcing something important. He raised his hands and waited until everyone finally hushed.
“Er, sorry to interrupt the singing. But I’m told the Coristan probes that were released this time have all been destroyed, and their ship has once again left us, the way we’d prayed.”
Wist gave Oriannon a quick look, as if saying, “See? I told you not to worry about it.” This time Oriannon couldn’t help cheering with everyone else, only catching herself when she thought of her father, and what it would have been like for him to be here too.
But by that time the songs started all over again, chorus after chorus. How these Owlings could sing! When Wist pulled Oriannon into their circle dance, though, Margus headed for the corner of the room.
“Come on, Margus!” Oriannon laughed and held on to the hands of the Owlings on either side of her. “If I can do it …”
But Margus only shook his head no and went to warm his hands by the fire.
“Is your friend shy?” yelled Wist, passing by in another line.
“Or cold!” Oriannon tried not to worry about it as she twirled about with the rest of them, clapping her hands and joining in their wonderful but complicated storytelling music about the lights in the sky, of brave Owling warriors from long ago, of the Maker and his Song.
If only more people in Corista could hear this! she thought. If only Daddy could hear this!
Even the Song himself joined in, and at one point the dance came to a full stop as Jesmet added a short chorus to the epic tale of a hunter and his brave little owl. Oriannon stood with the others, swaying in time, listening to his clear, true voice.
But Jesmet would not sing for long. Because with a little nod he finished his line and stepped back into the line as their dance began anew.
“Here we go again!” Wist skipped past, never slowing. But a few minutes later Oriannon finally dropped out of line, gasping for breath yet still giddy with the celebration. She stepped over to join Margus at the fireplace and rested her hands on her knees.
“What a workout!” she told him, between breaths. “You really should try it.”
“Not unless you want me to step all over your feet.” Margus kept his place, leaning against the warm stones. And now several Council members even came over to clap her on the back, as if she was the one who might have chased the Coristan invaders away. She accepted their congratulations with a puzzled smile until Jesmet finally made his way over to see them as well.
“You enjoy the songs?” he wondered.
“Of course!” Oriannon glanced over at Margus but couldn’t quite read his face.
“Then,” replied Jesmet, “perhaps you’ll share some of them with your friends back in Corista.”
“If I ever go back.” Oriannon surprised herself with her own words. “I mean, of course. Eventually.”
“Or sooner.” Jesmet rested his hands on their shoulders, looked straight into their eyes. “Because actually, Oriannon, you do need to return to Corista right away.”
She coughed, wishing she had heard him wrong.
“You’re not serious? You want me to leave Lior, just when I’m starting to get used to it?”
“And go back home. Yes. You and Margus both have family who are terribly worried about you. And things are going to change very soon.”
“What kind of things?” she wondered.
“Yeah, actually, Oriannon.” Margus finally joined the conversation, though he steered it off-track. “I do need to get back. My parents are going to kill me for being gone like this. I just don’t know when the next Coristan ship is coming.”
“Margus!” Oriannon looked around, hoping no one else had heard him. “Don’t say that.”
“What? Oh, right.” His voice fell. “I guess Coristan ships aren’t exactly too popular around here. But how else do we get back?”
“Wist is going to show you another way,” Jesmet told them, pointing toward the back of the Great Hall.
“But if the Coristan ship does return?” asked Oriannon. “I could, I could …”
She could … what, exactly?
“It’s not all about what you can do, Oriannon.” Jesmet broke into her worries. “You start with what you know is right, but then you let go— and let me take care of the rest.”
“Let you?” She thought she understood, or maybe not.
“That’s right.” When he reached over and mussed her hair, she remembered how her father used to do the same thing. “But now I believe it’s time for you and Margus to go.”
Of course not before saying good-bye to Becket Sol, who had taken a breather by the fireplace as well.
“Thanks for saving my life, Mr. Becket … Becket Sol.” She held out her hand and he hesitated for a second before taking it. “But Jesmet says it’s time for us to leave.”
Becket nodded as if he understood, finally unlocked his grip and pointed toward one of the Great Hall’s wings.
“Wist will show you another way out. But …” He looked Margus over and frowned. “You’re not going out there dressed that way, are you?”
“Well …” Margus didn’t have a swift answer, so Becket held up his hand for them to wait, stepped away through the crowd, and returned a moment later with two wooly coats. Each had a blond fur hood, the kind Owling hunters wore out in the cold.
“Here then.” He held out the coats. “Wouldn’t want you to freeze, would we?”
Oriannon tried to thank him but wasn’t quite sure what came out of her mouth. And before she could turn away Becket wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a big hug.
“Jesmet will go with you,” he whispered. “But you’d better hurry. The danger is coming.”
The Way Home
25
After saying their goodbyes to Jesmet and the rest of the Owlings, Oriannon and Margus followed Wist away from the crowd, away from the high-ceilinged Great Hall and through the arches, away from the wonderful multicolored windows and bright torches, down a long, marble-tiled hall that disappeared into darkness.
“That was kind of different,” Margus told them, but backtracked when he saw the expressions on both the girls’ faces. “Uhh … I mean, nice different, the way I would have wished my Seer Codex had been. You know. Simple. Meaningful. Without a lot of—”
“We get the point.” Oriannon fingered her Trion necklace and couldn’t help breaking into a smile. She had to give him credit, just stepping into this place the way he did, not knowing what was going on— even less than she did. “You’ll have to tell me how yours went sometime.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment, as if he was thinking about it. When he finally answered, his voice sounded hoarse.
“Oh, you know. They wanted to have it right after Jesmet was sent away. So the priest stood up, read a bunch of stuff nobody understood, and then he waved his hands over us and that was pretty much it. Now we’re supposed to be grown-up all of a sudden. You missed out.”
“Isn’t that how you thought it would be?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was just strange because you and Mentor Jesmet weren’t there. So it wasn’t anything like what they just did here. Everybody back in Corista was so serious.”
“Serious is okay,” said Oriannon.
“Serious can be good sometimes,” agreed Wist.
Who were they kidding? Oriannon knew what Margus was trying to say. And before they got too far away from the Great Hall she had to pause just once more. The faint sound of singing and clapping echoed faintly down the hall.
“That song …” She remembered it this time, every note, every harmony, just as before. And since Wist didn’t need to remind her, they just smiled in the shared memory and continued down an echo-filled hallway that sloped downhill, steeper all the time and dimmer with each step. Here and there a glow vial cast a weak blue circle of light, but after a couple of minutes they left those lights behind them as well.
“Slow down, Wist.” Oriannon tried to hold on to the other girl’s sleeve. “We can’t see as well as you can in …”
Oriannon’s voice melted when she saw a blinking red light in a dark corner, a tiny glint of metal. Or thought she did. She caught her breath and skidded to a stop, trying not to stare.
