Trion Rising, page 8
This security glanced around with a frown, obviously not happy about being summoned to an emergency call that was no emergency at all. Of course if he’d arrived a minute earlier, he might have seen things far differently.
But now Oriannon knew without doubt what she had just witnessed, and it made her head spin. Where to put this kind of thing in her mind? Mentor Jesmet saw the security to the doors while the rest of the orchestra drifted back to their seats on the stage, shocked silent. A couple of girls hugged Brinnin and started bawling, while one of the boys tried to tell her that she had died, but of course that sounded outlandish.
Oriannon could only stand in the middle of the grand hall, her body tingling. Replaying her memory over and over. The tipping, the thud, the snap, the broken body. And then Jesmet’s touch, the way Brinnin stood up.
Would this be one of those strange little things her father might be interested in hearing about?
He’d be there in an hour, along with their housekeeper and everyone else in the family, along with everyone else’s family, friends, cousins, great-uncles and aunts … Probably all twelve members of the Assembly too. Here in Seramine, they took this kind of performance seriously, even if it was only the Ossek Prep orchestra playing in the city’s best venue.
Which was fine, but when Oriannon finally took her chair she could only sit there in a daze, just like all the other the kids around her. They heard no jokes from Margus, no whining from Carrick Trice. Just an otherworldly quiet. And though Oriannon waited for Margus to say something in the earbud, he never did. In fact, he had disappeared for a few minutes, probably to the bathroom or something.
Brinnin, on the other hand— the only one who didn’t know exactly what had just happened— leaned over from the next row and whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I know we just ate before coming, Ori, but did you bring anything to munch on? I’m totally starving!”
Perhaps the fall really had done something to her head.
“I’d be starving too,” answered Oriannon, reaching into her bag for a piece of starfruit to share, “if I’d been where you were.”
Which brought the first smile from anyone after the accident, and still more questions from Brinnin.
“Come on you guys. What’s going on? That’s a pretty good joke, but—”
“Brinnin, think for a minute.” Oriannon turned to face her. “What do you remember?”
Brinnin’s face went a little pale.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“What do you remember?” Oriannon repeated, louder. “You were up on the ladder, and then what?”
Brinnin bit her lip and looked around at the group. Everyone leaned closer to hear her answer.
“Yeah, I was leaning over. It slipped, I think. And then next thing I know Mentor Jesmet was helping me up.”
“You fell two stories, snapped your neck, and now you don’t have any bumps or bruises?”
“Uh …” Brinnin felt the back of her head, rotated her shoulders. “No, actually. I feel great. Kind of like warm all over. Really good. Are you going to tell me what I did? I must have blanked for a second.”
“Brinnin, you didn’t just blank. You died.” This time Oriannon’s voice caught on her tears. “You weren’t breathing. Your heart wasn’t beating. And you were all twisted and broken …”
Oriannon couldn’t say anything else, just dissolved into the tears she didn’t want. Brinnin held her hands and looked at Oriannon as if she had just told her a tall tale.
“I do remember falling …” Brinnin’s voice trailed off as Mentor Jesmet returned down the main aisle of the auditorium and Margus slipped back to his place behind the drum row. Where had he been? Soon their audience would begin filling the seats below.
“Brinnin.” Now Mentor Jesmet eyed them all with that twinkle of his, pacing around as if he was going to tell another of his stories. Instead, he stroked his beard and seemed to think for a minute. “I’m glad to see you’re up and well.”
She looked at him with the same question in her face.
“Was I really?” she stammered. “Did you really?”
“Sometimes you’ll see and experience things you don’t have words for,” he told the whole orchestra, leaning forward so they could all hear him. “And right now you still might not own those words. Not yet.”
He strolled to the edge of his conductor’s platform and smiled.
“But I promise you, you will. In fact, that’s what this music we’ve practiced is all about— giving you a way to express what you can’t express in mathematics, or astronomy, or planetary history. Song gives us wings. A way to touch people’s hearts with your own. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
For the first time, Oriannon caught a glimmer of something that finally made sense, a door slowly opening. She could memorize the notes, but until she shared them like this, no one else knew. And now behind Jesmet’s baton the music finally meant something.
She nodded but didn’t notice if anyone else did too. It didn’t matter either way, as he went on.
“All right. Good. And by the way, Brinnin, in answer to your question, since you were the only one in the orchestra who really didn’t see what happened, yes, you really were. And yes, I really did.
“But in the meantime, we have a performance to give, don’t forget. You’ve been practicing for this for a long time. So where’s the soul of that music? Let’s show them that soul. Let’s show them what we can do!”
10
By this time the electricity in the air had picked up in Seramine’s Grand Opera Hall, onstage and in the audience. With everything she had, Oriannon focused on Mentor Jesmet’s hand, the wave of his arm, his baton raised. He whispered a final comment as the curtain went up to show a sea of curious faces. Her father sat at the end of the aisle by the rest of the Assembly, minus the Regent, whose seat remained empty. She hardly noticed.
“Now,” Mentor Jesmet whispered so only the kids in the front row would hear, “as one of your favorite orchestra leaders, Mr. Leek, would say— a one and a two and a …”
The applause thundered in their ears, though the crowd quickly backed off when they realized Mentor Jesmet would offer no traditional words of welcome to their annual concert. He would give them no introductory speech, the way they were used to. That would be a little unusual.
But everyone politely hushed to the sweet sound of flutes, soft at first, then building louder and louder. With a nod from Jesmet the low roll of drums began, building to a crash of cymbals. This was where the strings and the brass joined in. Oriannon waited for Jesmet’s signal as she sat up straight, positioned her fingers on the strings and let them follow in the rise and fall, the swell and the retreat.
And the audience blurred even more into the background as they followed their conductor, each little shrug and each little blink, each sweep of his baton, each smile and wink of his eye. Just then it was as if nothing else existed in all of Corista, only the music and only this conductor. Here she lived in the blend of viol and erhu, kettledrum and horn, but now with a sound enormously different from any they had ever produced in rehearsals.
For the first time Oriannon could taste the sweet sound they made together— like a pomegranate from the tree, picked ripe, full of juice, and surely she had never tasted better. Was this really the same music they had tried to play out in the Glades, weeks ago, stumbling and missing and butchering?
Certainly not this time. Jesmet’s broadening smile told them they had begun to touch something far beyond what they’d ever played before. They had finally touched a nerve, uncovered the soul. And for a moment it seemed every bit as magical as when their mentor had reached down and pulled Brinnin to her feet.
Only now— after sixty spellbinding minutes— they’d pulled the audience to their feet, as well. Because when the final notes echoed from the ceiling and Jesmet finally lowered his baton with an exhausted sigh, Oriannon couldn’t see anyone in the audience still seated. Even members of the Assembly had risen to clap their hands, though Oriannon had to note they were the last to rise. And no, they weren’t whistling and grinning like many of the others in the audience, just politely putting their hands together.
No one else in the orchestra probably noticed, though, behind giddy smiles and little squeezes of the hand or pats on the shoulder. They simply must have understood they had pulled off something very special, and the tears in Jesmet’s eyes only sealed the experience for them.
Still the applause kept on for a full minute, then two. Even from where she sat Oriannon could make out the glow on the face of Mrs. Eraz. Who could not be enchanted by the magic they’d just heard?
But before the applause had finally stilled, a messenger in a starched yellow suit hurried down the center aisle from the back door, stopping only at the front row to hand the nearest elder a message. Tavlin Hightower scanned the note quickly in the midst of the applause that would not stop, and the stormy expression that washed over his face sent a chill down Oriannon’s spine. Anything wrong enough to crack her father’s usual calm expression had to be very bad news indeed. And as the orchestra stood to take a final bow her mind worked to guess the message. What now? Had Jesmet noticed? Would he even know to look?
If he did, he didn’t let on and didn’t stop smiling as they took another bow. However, Oriannon’s father leaned to his side, passing the note and his grim scowl from person to person, all the way down the front row line of Assembly men and women. One started to leave, then changed his mind. Several whispered to each other, and as the audience finally sat down from their standing O, Oriannon’s father stayed on his feet and turned to face the crowd.
“I’d like your attention, please.” Of course no one could ignore Tavlin Hightower’s booming voice. He didn’t need a microphone any more than a person needed a magnifying lens to see how bright the Trion was. Especially not when he held up his hand and everybody went silent.
“We’ve just received word of an extremely urgent issue, one that requires immediate attention.” Oriannon’s father looked around the auditorium before gesturing to an usher standing by the back exits, so the bright house lights came up. “Unfortunately I’m not yet able to share with you all the details, other than the fact that an extremely serious incident has come to our attention that cannot be ignored or left unaddressed. I can tell you that it is grave enough to cancel the rest of this performance as of this moment, and that it requires everyone to leave in an orderly fashion, without panic— but immediately.”
Naturally that sparked a considerable buzz as everybody in the auditorium tried to make sense of his speech. The rest of their performance, cancelled? Once again he raised his hand.
“If you have a child in the orchestra, they will leave their instruments on the stage and come down to join you as you exit. Please be assured that there is no danger to anyone, so there is no reason to panic.”
Still no one moved; perhaps everyone else was as shocked as Oriannon. Her father raised his voice even more, putting on the same tone he did at home when it was time for his daughter to clean up her room.
“Listen to me. I am as disappointed as you are at this turn of events, and I realize this seems unusual or perhaps a bit extreme. But I am certain everyone here on the Assembly will concur that we have no choice but to dismiss you at this time.”
He glanced at the other Assembly members, who nodded quickly and in unison. Finally Oriannon’s father wrapped up his message.
“I assure you we’ll do everything we can to clear up this matter expeditiously, and we’ll be certain to give you further information as it becomes available. Mentor, you will remain for a moment.”
That was it. By this time families started shuffling toward the doors, all of them behaving as if they suddenly understood what the word “expeditiously” meant. Or they were working their way through the crowd and looking over people’s heads to find their kids. Oriannon’s father caught her eye and signaled for her to stay, so she filed down the steps to a safe place in the shadows. Meanwhile, confusion ruled for several minutes before all the orchestra kids and their families finally cleared the Grand Hall. That left only the Assembly members to face a tight-lipped Mentor Jesmet. Finally Oriannon’s father broke the awkward silence.
“I assume you know what this is all about.” Elder Tavlin High-tower looked around the auditorium, probably checking to make sure no one else heard them.
“Why don’t you explain,” replied Jesmet, “so we might all be enlightened?”
“Oh, please.” Her father slumped his shoulders and sighed. “We’ve given you as much latitude as possible, mentor, but there comes a time when we cannot ignore the complaints any longer.”
“What kinds of complaints are we speaking of?”
“You know as well as I do.” The elder shook his head. “What you did in the Glades, for instance.”
They hadn’t called off the concert to ask him that again, had they? He answered quietly that he’d done what any mentor would do, scaring away the yagwar.
“Isn’t that what you would have wanted me to do?” he asked, but they obviously weren’t in the mood to answer any questions, just ask them.
“And what about the probes?” asked another elder, an older man with a gray-speckled beard.
“I’ve had quite a few sent to my classroom,” Jesmet answered. “Is that how all new mentors are treated?”
Typical Jesmet— answering a question with a question.
“Listen.” Oriannon’s father pointed a finger at the mentor. “Only a faithbreaker would do or say the kind of things we’ve heard that you’ve done and said. And you know the Codex condemns—”
“If I were a faithbreaker,” Jesmet interrupted, “I would not be able to bring this kind of music to you. Even the kids know what the music is all about. Or rather, who it’s about. Do you know who it’s about?”
“Don’t confuse the issue. We’re not talking about the music now.” Now Oriannon’s father left his seat to approach the platform. “Although I hear you’ve been teaching the children some rather strange songs. But we might have been willing to work through these differences— misunderstandings, perhaps— if we had not just been informed of this latest incident.”
Oh no. Oriannon slumped to the floor where she stood, off to the side of the auditorium. And now that she realized what her father was getting at, she wished she had slipped out with the rest of the orchestra.
Still Mentor Jesmet faced his accusers with a peaceful expression as they lined up to accuse him. He was, in their words, an embarrassment. A heretic, teaching things forbidden in the ancient Codex— though they never explained exactly what. Still they didn’t seem to have any trouble calling him a bad influence, a faith-breaker, or worse.
And what about the incident in the cafeteria?
“That’s surely not why you stopped the concert today, is it?” This time he actually smiled. “As you saw yourselves, the kids played their hearts out. But something else must have come to your attention that made you afraid to let it go on. Quite a drastic step, I’d say. Personally, I think you owe me a better explanation and you owe the students and their families an apology.”
Oriannon could only see the back of her dad’s head, but she could imagine his face turning red at such a challenge. And sure enough, he now waved the note he’d been given in the middle of the concert, holding it high with a trembling hand.
“You force us to act, Mentor. The reason we’re here is that I was informed of a highly disturbing incident taking place only minutes before we arrived at the concert.” Tavlin Hightower’s voice quavered, and then he gestured at Oriannon to approach. “Assuming it’s true, you know this could be cause for dismissal.”
That was it, then. Her father and the Assembly were here to fire Jesmet, sweep him away. And now Oriannon felt her own cheeks heat up when she realized that someone in the orchestra must have told what happened when the ladder fell and …
Odd. What happened after that? Oriannon tried to call up the memory but suddenly found herself grasping at nothing. She tried again, then dismissed it as due to the stress of the moment. She shook her head, searching desperately for anything she could bring back to mind.
“Oriannon!” Her father wasn’t sounding patient and he looked back at her with a glare that made her jump to her feet and hurry down the aisle. “I assume you witnessed the incident. I’d like you to simply tell us what you saw, right from the start.”
But with each step Oriannon only felt the horrible fog thicken, just like the time she’d been called on to play her instrument in front of the class. Where was it? The harder she tried to push through, the thicker the fog got, leaving her empty-handed. She rubbed her temples, feeling lightheaded. But then she could only stand at the front of the auditorium, feeling mute, wrestling with tiny memory fragments of nothing that made sense.
“We came to practice early,” she finally blurted out, and some of the Assembly members gave her a curious look. She paused once more.
“And then?” her father crossed his arms.
“We played well.” That part hadn’t left her. She could still taste the sound of the music, the pleasure of their audience. “We played from our hearts.”
This time her father rolled his eyes and sighed.
“Everyone enjoyed the performance, dear. But we’re talking about before. What happened to your friend …” He glanced at his note. “Brinnin Flyer?”
Oriannon wrestled once again for the memory, but once again came up clutching zeros. And with each attempt it became that much harder to understand what her dad was so upset about. Mentor Jesmet had done something her father and the Assembly didn’t like. And by this time she only knew that she had once known— and now did not. But then she started to doubt even that. What a strange dizzy feeling, as if she was trying to pull back a forgotten dream. Then, as it faded more and more, she wondered if she had really dreamed it.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I … I can’t remember.”
