"Sight and Song: Chapter 1 (part 1)" by Miriam Doris Plachta

 SEQ CHAPTER \h \r 1            The sun beat down on the sand, illuminating scraggly brush with golden light and reflecting with a blinding harshness where it struck the gleaming contours of rock.  Hot and still, the late morning air bent the light and formed distant mirages of cool blue.

            The building, an odd combination of geometric shapes, was made entirely out of sandstone.  Arches, squares, octagons, and domes were arranged to give it the appearance of being formed from a child’s set of building blocks, and yet it seemed balanced.  Although large, it was not fancy, but sported slowly crumbling mortar and a decided lack of windows.

            From the blackness of a narrow doorway bustled a young woman.  Her slender form moved with the lithe grace that spoke of athletic ability and her thick dark hair was pulled back into a knot behind her head, although several strands had pulled loose to dance around her head as she moved.  Light brown skin was but a few shades darker than the deep tan of the cloth robe that billowed around her.  Her features, though symmetrical, were not uncommonly beautiful; black brows extended to an ever so slightly curved nose, which culminated in delicate rosy lips.  The high cheekbones and carved chin were common among her people, as were the almond shaped eyes, although the pale teal blue color of those eyes was a startling contrast to the darkness of her hair and skin.

            Aiida paused just outside the doorway, instinct raising her head and saving her life.  From across the golden emptiness of the desert silver flashed instantaneously.  Aiida dropped and the knife clattered into the stone wall behind her.

            With breathtaking speed, Aiida rolled to her feet, a dagger appearing in her hand from the thin folds of material.

            “Devotin!”

            Figures rose from behind bushes, moving to surround her crouching figure.  They too wore tan colored robes, making it more difficult to pick them out as targets.

            Aiida, however, was proficient at her craft.  The pale eyes sharpened dangerously, piercing heavy air and shifting constantly to track and analyze her attackers’ movements.  A barely perceptible flick of the wrist embedded the dagger in the throat of the largest, even as Aiida dived forward to avoid the second wave of knives.

            Not giving the six remaining men time to rearm, she threw another dagger as she rolled, coming to her feet with still another two in her hands.  Dodging and whirling she brought down two more before the lucky stroke of a short sword slashed her upper arm.  Four more men appeared.

            Dammit, where was Devotin?

            He emerged the next moment, lunging from the shadows with a savage curse.  He ran one through with the long sword that was his preferred weapon, then cursed again as yet another three rose from the low bushes and charged towards him.

            “Too many, “he yelled in the general direction of Aiida.  “We need more time!”

            Twisting with deadly control, he dispatched an attacker, then began sprinting away from the house, golden hair flying behind him.

            “Phalos!”  He threw the name behind him, still dodging to avoid thrown knives.

            Trust Devotin to leave her no choice but to follow his instructions.  Arrogant bastard.

            Aiida ducked, flung a dagger, then leaped, slamming her foot into a robed shoulder.  Landing with the same easy grace, she took off after Devotin’s fleeing form.

            Annoyed as she was at his lack of protocol– protocol that he had drilled into her, and which clearly stated that when partners danced the deadly dance for life, they worked together, each giving and taking and neither pressing for dominance– Aiida was forced to appreciated the cleverness of his decision.  Phalos was just visible from the house, far enough away so that the sand turned white and gravelly, the sparse bushes became starving baby trees, and the seven attacking men would be fully exhausted by the time they arrived at the ruins.  Aiida smiled ferally and focused on running.

            She was faster than Devotin and caught up with him by the time they reached the first crumbling arch.  Phalos had once been a great city, or so Devotin had told her, but it was hard to imagine anything great about the weed-choked foundations.  Crouching behind a three foot wall, she thought back to the nights when he had put her to bed with a tale.  She had been around eight the first time she’d asked about Phalos.  And he had sung to her, golden voice flowing thickly around visions of towers and crowded streets, glory and fighting, triumph and Singing.  His face was always beautiful, but she had liked it best when he sang, because then it was gentle; the muscles relaxed and he seemed so peaceful and caring.

            Scant years later she had accepted the rareness of a gentle song from Devotin.

            But in those days, at the beginning of a new childhood after the horror of the end of the old one– then he had sung to her of Phalos, and she had been fascinated, if perhaps only because it was a place she had visited, a place she had physically been to, and not merely Seen.

            “Who lived in Phalos?” she had asked.

            “The Somnii,” he had answered.

            “But we don’t live in cities.”

            “No, not anymore.”

            “Why not?”

            He had smiled at her protests.  “Because your people chose not to.”  A deft evasion of the question.  It was years before he’d explained why Phalos was a ruin and the Somnii lived in desert tents.

            Aiida shoved a vagrant curl out of her face and leaned further down, frowning with the memory.  It was still like that.  She was almost nineteen now, aware that she had changed greatly as she grew and accepted her Sight, but Devotin had remained exactly the same.  He hadn’t aged at all, hadn’t lost his beauty, hadn’t stopped avoiding her questions and always telling as little as possible.  But she understood now, as she hadn’t at eight, that  he always hid things under that convincing facade of truth.

            She hated that.  It made her wonder, every time he explained something, why he was letting this little bit of hoarded knowledge slip, what he was trying to teach her, how he was manipulating her mind into growth.

            There had been a time when she’d thought he knew everything.  Although his knowledge still far surpassed hers, it had been her gift that showed her how wrong she’d been.  Perhaps it was this, more than anything else, that had taught her to accept her Sight.  Not because it gave her spiteful revenge to know something he didn’t, but because it made her recognize the importance of what she Saw.  Which was probably what he’d intended to happen.

            She hated reflection.

            Ironic, that.

            Shifting her weight, Aiida focused her attention on the approaching men.  They were all breathing hard now, and moved warily, spreading out to begin a search of the ruins.  Her robe pulled against the cut on her arm and she winced.  Alerted by her movement, Devotin turned beside her, swearing softly.

            “You’re hurt.”

            Aiida shook her head, although she could feel the blood begin to seep through her sleeve.

            “Let’s take care of them first.  I’m fine.”  Not waiting for him to answer, she slipped away, silently stalking the robed figures.

            Aiida sprang at the one nearest to her, shoving her dagger between ribs as she slipped a leg between his and neatly tripped him.  He fell like a rock, just having time to cry out once before he died.  Aiida whirled to see Devotin sliding his sword out of a body and flung a dagger at one of the men surrounding him.

            The two danced around the last four, dodging and striking with unnatural speed and control on rock, grass, and sand alike.  They worked well together; it took scant minutes to finish the dance.

            Aiida kicked one of the dead men onto his back, pressing her lips together as she examined him.

            “Who do you think they were?”

            Devotin shrugged, carefully ripping a strip of cloth from a dead body and wrapping it around her arm tight enough to stop the blood flow.  He glared at her, blue eyes dark.

            Aiida jerked her arm free.  “What’s wrong with you?” she snapped angrily.

            Devotin went still, his voice calm, quiet, and slightly warmer than Immolo’s Darkness.  “Let’s go home.  The desert will soon be unbearably hot.”

            Aiida had grown out of automatically disagreeing with anything Devotin said.  Instead, she paused for a moment to gaze intently at his utterly impassive features.

            “You know who they were.”  It was not a question.

            “I know from where they came,” he corrected curtly.

            “Do you know why they attacked us?”  She hesitated.  “Or whether they were really attacking us, and not specifically me or you?”

            He stared into the distance as the sun shone hot on his face, illuminating golden skin and hair.  He turned finally to the girl waiting beside him and smiled faintly at her expression.  “Patience was never one of your strong points.  Very well, the men would not have attacked for their own personal reasons, and the Tribes have no reason to dislike you, or like me.”

            Aiida grimaced.  “Explanations were never one of your strong points.  Why does who not like you?”  When the stretching minutes became proof that he had no intention of answering, she turned and began to move angrily in the direction they had come from.  Devotin followed swiftly.

            Damn him, anyhow.  Aiida hoped darkly that these Tribes tried again, with better luck.

            The heat grew, leeching steadily at Aiida’s anger.  “At least,” she muttered, “they’re stupid.  If they’d come just a half hour later, we’d both be dead of heat and exhaustion.”  She wiped a rivulet of sweat from her forehead to prove her point.

            Devotin frowned slightly.  “Inexperience cannot be mistaken for stupidity, Aiala.  They were too close.”

            “The first knife, maybe– but it missed.  I ducked, I’m okay.”

            “Because of an instinct.”  He shook his head, eyes studying her intently beneath a furrowed brow.  “Why didn’t you See this?”

            Aiida gasped with shocked fury.  “How should I know?  You ’re the expert, you know everything!  My instinct was right, wasn’t it?”  She trusted her instincts; they were a part of her.  Despite ten years of Devotin’s teachings, her Sight was still separate, held at bay.  She couldn’t control the visions that came and went of their own will, and always left her confused and frightened.  Her instincts, she understood.

            “Aiala, I was only wondering because the last time...your life was threatened, it warned you.”

            Devotin, she decided, had never said sorry in his life.  But she accepted what came close, and continued walking.

            She had another Dream that night.  Uncalled for and unwanted, this one suffocated with its heat; she awoke suddenly, drenched with sweat into the stifling darkness that insulated the air and prevented the fear from escaping.

            She screamed.

            Devotin was there immediately, as though he could sense the Vision, or maybe it was her fear, from his rooms down the hall.  But then, she thought with ridiculous randomness, the “hall” was nearly as short as he was fast.  A candle flame appeared beside her bed and she flinched away from the new heat, still choked and sobbing with fright.

            “Hush, Aiala,” he murmured, stroking her hair with a blessedly cool hand.  Removing his light shirt, he wiped her soaking face and waited for her to calm.  Gradually, the racking sobs slowed, then ceased, as she pushed back the sweaty blankets to sit fully upright.

            Softly: “Tell me about it.”

            Aiida nodded.  “Twenty one men and women sit around a table.”  She squeezed her eyes shut, unsure as to whether she did so to better remember the Dream or to block it out.  “A young man is brought to them.  He’s less well-dressed than the others, but is proud, and...and curious.  I can’t hear what they’re saying, but they ask him questions, and he grows wary.  He’s scared.  Then he says something, suddenly, and one of the questioners stands up quickly, gesturing sharply.  His...his throat is cut, and he falls to the floor.  His blood runs on the stones, laps against the fancy wood of the table legs, but the people just talk, and ignore him, and their jewels reflect his blood, but they don’t care and keep talking and laughing and they killed him and his blood everywhere–“

            She popped her eyes open, sweating again.  Devotin reached to take her hands, but she shook her head.

            “It’s not done.”  She paused, then began more calmly.  “The twenty one aren’t around the table anymore– they’re in a large room, fancier but still dimly lit.  They wear gowns and suits, and talk to each other and many, many others who come and go.  But one stays.  A little girl, blonde, with a sweet smile but sharp eyes.  She laughs too, but differently– her laugh I can hear, and it is sweet and light, but full of power, and the twenty one men and women are gone, dead like the one– no, the many, they killed.

            “And then... the girl is older now, but still golden and beautiful, and she sits at the table alone and her laugh is ugly and..its so hot..”

            Aiida trailed off into a moan, then focused her eyes on Devotin and softly repeated “it’s so hot.”

            He nodded his understanding, although the desert night was freezing; the concern in his blue eyes came from sympathy, not empathy.  Which was better, she supposed wryly, than the apathy that usually characterized him.  He showed caring emotions only during her Dreams, and their horrible aftermath.  Aiida remembered being ten years old and hoping for a Dream that despite its horror would surely bring compassion and love into Devotin’s attitude, and was shocked– and slightly ashamed– that she was still so pitifully insecure regarding Devotin.  Surely she had learned long ago that he had no real feelings to which she could relate, regardless of how emotional he might appear during her Seeings.

            Or when he Sang, but Aiida knew that any emotions he seemed to display or reveal as he Sang were the result of a Trick of his Voice.

            Shaking her head clear, Aiida rubbed at her wounded arm and breathed deeply.  Surprisingly pale eyes locked with darker blue spheres and a carved black brow arched.  Reaching up a hand to rake back the dark mass of tousled hair, she finally asked, “who were they?”

            Devotin frowned.  “I...”  He trailed off in contemplation then said, more to himself, “They had to have been the Advisory...but who was the girl?”  He broke off his musings to shiver as a gust of night wind swept through the dark room.  Aiida nodded towards the robe that hung next to her bed and Devotin gratefully shrugged it on.  After pausing another half second to collect his thoughts, he began to speak.

            “The desert lies in the center of Leiia.  The only known inhabitants of this area are the Somnii– an arrogant statement, considering the desert’s size.  To the east grows the Dundra, an equally large forest which extends east and north to the coast of the Pruma Sea.”

            “South of the ruins of Phalos lies the Pahra,” interrupted Aiida.  “And bordering the desert’s western edge is the Pahra’s historical enemy, the Empire, which has of late united the entirety of west Leiia, till the borders of the Anguage Ocean.  I know this.”

            Devotin nodded, ignoring her impatience.  “I believe the current Guider of the Empire, an Olman Don called Leor, has set his gaze on the islands west of his boundaries– the Republic of Hakka is extremely prosperous.  The citizens of the Republic are governed by an indirectly elected Advisory, which consists of twenty one men and women that reside and legislate in the city of Ran Hakka.”

            “They are notoriously corrupt,” added Aiida, “but infinitely powerful.  Lies, betrayals, bribery, even murder– no tool is shunned in their game for power.”

            Devotin nodded, unsurprised at her ability to combine his explanation with her Sight.  When Aiida was certain of something, it was true.

            “But you don’t know the girl.”

            He spread his hands.  “How can I?  Since the Advisory still exists, as far as I know,”– his voice left no doubt– “we can assume that she is still young.”

            “Or not yet even born.”

            Devotin shook his head.  “News from Hakka tells of a new goal– and more murders for the Advisors.  No longer content with killing each other, they are seeking out law-abiding citizens perceived as threats and eliminating them.  The death of the young man matches descriptions I’ve heard.”

            “So that’s happen– Devotin!” she broke off and gasped.  “They’re killing Singers!  He was one, I know it.”

            Devotin stared, then nodded grimly.  “Until recently, Singers were nearly non-existent throughout the Republic; their talent is considered new there, and by the government, extremely dangerous.  I can’t explain the sudden spree of gifted births.”

            “But in the Republic, people are dying because of it.”  Aiida’s nostrils flared in outrage and the pale eyes deadened into icy rocks.  “The Advisors fully deserve what’s coming.”

            One perfect golden brow rose imperceptibly at her vehemence, so that the change in expression was obvious and spoke volumes, and yet Aiida could not pinpoint a specific shift in features.  “It is the girl that concerns me.”

            Aiida frowned in concentration, then hissed air out between her teeth in frustration.  “I See nothing.”  She hesitated, then added, unnecessarily, “but I can still feel her power.”

            Devotin shrugged.  “Then you will recognize her if you see her...the some way you did me.”

            The last vestiges of horror swept away, Aiida had recovered enough to scowl her resentment as Devotin’s cool manner reasserted itself.  Shrugging thick blankets back over her, she looked pointedly at the door.  Devotin took the hint with the same grace he did everything; a masterpiece of a nod, followed by a proudly confident walk to the door that created the appearance of a completely voluntary exit, one that would leave the host disappointed at best and devastated at worst.  Aiida smiled.                

            Sweat gathered, accumulating in small drops that quivered with movement and threatened to slide from brow to eyes.  Aiida leaped and lunged, following the circle of training that had become her daily routine during her fifth year.  Some families began before that, and all children imitated their elders with mock stick swords beginning as young as one or two.  But at five every Somnii child– male and female– danced their First Circle at the start of the Dancer’s Festival at Monna’s height.

            Aiida remembered her own Festival, or well, if not the Festival itself, then the sound of her father’s voice as he went over with her the steps the night before.  Five year old steps were simple; at that age all children did the same circle, before different levels of talent separated them into different levels of training.  The First Circle was barely a dance, closer to a simple walk in a perfect circle holding a sword.  It was said that Praesul, Angel of the Dance, laughed with the children at their awkwardness.

            “See the circle, Aiala.  It’s perfect, it’s beautiful.  If you move too far in one direction, then always remember to compensate with added distance on the other.  The circle must not be broken.  Come now, don’t look frightened.  It is not so hard that you can’t do it with practice.”  His voice had been deep and warm, brimming with proud amusement and love for his only daughter.  She remembered his face, standing out among the small village crowd as, giddy with anxious nervousness and excited pride, she had danced her first Festival.  He had continued to practice with her, for they were not rich enough to afford a private trainer, for three more years, during which she had grown as an average Somnii girl, hard-working and well-loved.  She couldn’t remember the last time she had heard her father’s voice.

            Aiida twisted and whirled, striking and spinning as she flew along the complex contours of her circle.  Devotin had become her teacher, and a small, shameful voice inside her head informed her that he was a better swordsman than her father would ever have become.  But not, she thought, a better teacher, for that came with the willingness of the student, and Aiida could think of no greater desire than that she had felt from five to eight, attempting to duplicate her father’s patient motions.

            Her mother would not teach her.  She practiced, like any Somnii mother, but she did not teach her daughter.  Aiida had not understood why, still did not understand outside of a conviction that her mother had not appreciated the fighting.  “Praesul’s Dance, child, why must you always carry that sword!”  Her mother had the sharper voice, higher than her father’s and quicker.  “Dadi keeps his with him.”  “Your father is a soldier, Aiida.  You are a young girl, and should learn that war is not life, as the Fight is not the only Dance.  Put it away!”  Aiida had not understood much that her mother had told her.  Fighting was her desire, weapons her hands, the Dance her life.  Dadi had understood her though, and she loved her mother because he had.  Indeed, she did everything because he had.

            Not so anymore.  But she had never been fool enough to model her life after Devotin.  Or perhaps wisdom had nothing to do with it, perhaps such a reversal of identity was simply impossible.

            Thoughts often came to her as she practiced.  The circle calmed her, steadied her thoughts to a manageable flow, provided an atmosphere of quiet meditation while honing her skills to a semblance of perfection, her stamina to something nearly unrivaled by the fittest of mankind.  Aiida never missed a practice.

            He watched her practice.  She was good, truly told, one of the best, and he did not delude himself into believing that her skill was a result of his teachings.  He had guided her training, plotted her moves and explained the different circles, but the passion was her own.  All Somnii possessed some small amount of fighting ability, but few were those that truly danced with their weapons.  Aiida was one such, driven not by an obsessive amount of religious fervor, nor a desire to obtain a reputation among the villages, but by her love of the dance.  The lethal beauty, the self-driven vision of perfection, the absolute control required.

            Not always a good trait in a seer, to value control so highly, but Devotin had carefully guided the child he had taken.  Nearly ten years ago– perhaps not a child anymore.  He hardly ever caught a glimpse of the vulnerability he had so treasured before, yes, he had ruthlessly weaned it from her semblance.  He felt no guilt, after all, some day it would undoubtedly save her, only a slight regret that children must grow up.  It surprised him, this emotion, and he was no longer young enough to appreciate surprise.

            Aiida danced flawlessly, doubtlessly unaware of his presence.  As a student himself, he had ever tried to avoid the trance-like state that always resulted from extended circle dancing; trust did not, and would never again, exist in the person of Devotin.  And he did not have Aiida’s instincts.

            He had taught her to trust those instincts, both in the Dance and the Sight.  Unfortunately, he could not break her of acting on impulse without endangering that trust of instinct, which he judged to be the more important.  And she had the Sight– her impulses couldn’t be entirely careless.  As long as she remembered to think.

            A thought unworthy of her.  Devotin was proud of Aiida, although he would never have admitted it to her.  Not everyone could lead a life dedicated to two different callings and excel at both of them.  Again, he didn’t mistakenly believe himself to be the cause.

            Aiida slowed, finally, and eventually came to a stop, breathing heavily and sweating through her light robe.  She closed her practice with the traditional bow to the small Angel figurine on the crude stone altar against one wall of the courtyard.  Chorus, Lord of the Circle.  His priests asserted that Chorus deserved the title Lord of Life, for what life if not a circle?  The priests of the other nine major angels– only ten Somnii angels had priesthoods, although the villagers prayed to hundreds, many of which were unknown outside of a three mile radius of their “witnessing”– objected strenuously and predictably, each seeing their chosen idol as the most encompassing while decrying the overdone influence of lesser angels.  Politics, succinctly put.  The Republic of Hakka was evidence enough of that, whose ingenious politicians had contrived a way of eliminating all Gods but Iubar, originally the Angel of Freedom; any rivals in political and economic power had likewise been eliminated.

            Thought of the Advisory brought back the Dream of the night before.  Devotin focused on Aiida once more, watching as she approached.  The Seeing’s last traces had been scourged from her eyes from the morning’s practice, and he hesitated to bring them back.  Aiida was unbearable when frightened.  He decided to put off a direct reference to the Dream, at least for another day.

            Aiida reached him and took the offered silk, mopping her soaking face.  “What do you want?”

            Not exactly a polite thank you.  His fault, he knew, and another action he didn’t regret.  Aiida wasn’t made for elegant speech anyway; she accomplished far more with her direct honesty and transparent innocence.

            As if to prove this point, Devotin felt himself smile.  “I was waiting for you to finish.”

            She swept past him, always moving as she never spoke: with infinite grace.  “And?”

            “Have you eaten?”

            “Not since breakfast.”  Whatever that meant; Devotin knew she hadn’t touched her breakfast.  Aiida never ate after a Dream.

            “I made orange biscuits.”

            Aiida looked up, brightening.  Devotin laughed as her pace increased noticeably.  She led the way to the kitchen– Aiida refused to eat anything but dinner in the dining room– where, as promised, rows of orange biscuits were laid out on the table.  She slipped into one of the seats and dug her teeth into the soft dough, eagerly chewing before fixing her startling eyes on Devotin.

            “Aiala, we should to Festival at Phaloaan this year.”

            The eyes widened.  “The largest gathering in the Desert.  Why?”

            “We could use some products, I would like to talk to some people, and the Festival is one of the most beautiful rituals in the Somnii culture, most magnificent when observed by the masses.”

            Aiida always caught the important details.  “Which people?”

            “Friends.”  Old friends.

            The pale eyes narrowed.  “When do we leave?”

            The Festival took place at Monna’s height, a week from the day before yesterday.  The largest gathering of tents– Phaloaan– traveled every year to the center of the Desert for the observance of the Dancer’s Festival.  The journey was more than three weeks long.

            “Tomorrow, if possible.”  Then he added, unnecessarily, “I will Sing speed.”

            Aiida considered.  “Tomorrow’s okay.”  Of course it was– Devotin arranged much of her day everyday. 

            She’s no longer a child.  Give her some freedom; some growth must be self-taught.  In truth, that was a reason for this trip equal to any other, if not more important.  And Devotin knew the young woman seated across from him well enough to understand that she was excited about this chance to see her world.  They didn’t remain within the house all year, indeed, they often visited nearby tent-villages to make purchases and converse with acquaintances, but Phaloaan was a congregation of people greater in number than any Aiida had most likely seen in her life.  She needs this as much as I do.  She’s grown up, we need to realize and accept that.