A Prison Unsought

by Sherwood Smith

  “Here to be seen?” Srivashti murmured, and when Kestian replied, “Certainly not to be heard,” Srivashti retorted softly, “Appreciation is a skill even the young can master.”

  Kestian flushed as Dandenus yawned, scanning past them for someone his own age.

  Kestian made a more polite effort, engaging Vannis and Srivashti in chat as they moved slowly up the line, and Fierin gratefully turned her thoughts inward.

  Music. Her question should be about music, and it had to seem a joke—Srivashti was making caustic observations about some guests out of Fierin’s line of sight. If she matched his tone, he wouldn’t pay as much attention. And it had to be quick, for she would only have the Aerenarch to herself for a few seconds, judging by the progress of the line.

  Then it was their turn.

  Brandon observed them coming, and readied himself. He’d evaded Srivashti’s questions during their private interview—a game within a game—knowing that their verbal fencing match had been only the first.

  He raised his blandest gaze to meet those disconcerting yellowish eyes, then, after the Archon’s perfect obeisance—severely formal, more suitable for the ballroom floor than a concert—turned his attention to the rest of his party.

  Vannis’s smile was warm, her gaze exactly as bland as his own, and Harkatsus and his heir polite, but he sensed more than tension in the graceful young woman half-hidden at Srivashti’s shoulder. Her eyes, startlingly pale against her dark skin, met his with an imploring look.

  Brandon had noted the authoritative line of Srivashti’s arm as and the young woman approached—with a jolt he remembered that she was Lokri’s sister—and Brandon said to Srivashti, arcing his hand wide to include the entire pavilion, “You see, Your Grace. I took your advice. I hope you will be pleased.”

  “I am delighted you deemed my counsel worthy of notice,” Srivashti said, smiling as he passed on; he sent a summoning look over his shoulder at Fierin, who had sidestepped behind Vannis.

  To give her a moment of respite, Brandon reached for Vannis and kissed her hands, one then the other. She smiled quizzically, but before either could speak, Kestian Harkatsus unexpectedly—and completely without intending to—came to Fierin’s aid by shouldering in front of her, in order to take precedence of that no-family girl Srivashti had gone soft over. His exchange with the Aerenarch was nothing but politenesses. And then the blue eyes gazed directly into Fierin’s, and he touched her outstretched palms, and called her by name.

  Was his mind already going right past to the next one in line? She rose from her curtsey, aware of Srivashti listening a couple paces away, and said with her best smile, “Thank you for inviting me. Any clues on what we’ll be hearing?”

  “Can you wait, and let it surprise you?” he asked, and yes, he was looking right at her, not at the next person.

  Fierin pressed her lips, and spoke as softly as she could. “I just wish everyone could come.” And then, in a rush, so low no one could possibly overhear, “I always believed that music—like justice—has eternal appeal.”

  His eyes, so very blue, gazed directly into hers, and though his smile remained exactly as pleasant as before, his eyelids narrowed and his pupils widened with focus. But as Srivashti’s step was heard at Fierin’s left, all the Aerenarch said was, “I hope the music will please you.” And a bow.

  Srivashti took her arm, “Converse in a receiving line, Fierin?”

  It was considered a gaucherie to make the line stop. She needed another gaucherie, and fast. Flipping a lock of hair back, she said, “Oh, I tried to prise the program out of him. Music, you know, was my study before Jes left.” She admitted ruefully, “I guess I was hoping to show off my knowledge. What else can I use it for?”

  Srivashti laughed indulgently, Kestian Harkatsus murmured something about how his son was better trained, and Vannis smiled. To Fierin’s surprise, a hint of blush rose beneath the warm sienna of the former Aerenarch-Consort’s flawless cheeks.

  Srivashti’s fingers gripped Fierin’s arm and she followed obediently, looking around and commenting on everything she saw, in hopes that Srivashti would forget the incident. And there was much to see. She’d heard that the Ares theater had one of the most extensive morph-tech installations in the Thousand Suns, able to evoke, if not actually imitate, almost any kind of entertainment facility.

  Vannis drew in her breath. Srivashti glanced at her, a slight line between his eyes. Fierin was relieved that his attention had shifted to Vannis, who did not live with him, and who therefore did not have to worry about Srivashti in a mood for chastisement.

  The hall shone brilliant with color; concentric circles around a low pit, wherein stood a single keyboard and a chair. Above, a carillon of crystal sconces refracted light in a glory of rainbow patterns. It was beautiful, but not so much that it should have such an effect on Vannis and Srivashti, Fierin thought, glancing at their faces.

  The Aerenarch is making some kind of statement. Aimed at the Douloi? Oh, yes. Those raised brows and the long vowels of Tetrad Centrum Douloi politesse indicated that some point had been made.

  Those accustomed to observing were aware of the subtle signs of shock, and speculations ringing outward as newcomers entered the theater circle.

  As Srivashti asked for drink preferences, Kestian answered his son’s whispered question with a muttered, “I should think a holo display had already been ordered—”

  Vannis whispered, “No, Kestian. Not with live musicians. Holos are never done at the Mandala when the musicians are present.”

  “The Mandala?” Dandenus repeated, and once again he and his father shared twin expressions of muted surprise.

  Fierin found the elusive memory, like a popping bubble: a chip shown at school, and now she understood the reaction betrayed by the Tetrad Centrum Douloi: the Burgess theater had been adapted to evoke the Halle Concertum in the Palace Minor on the Mandala.

  Srivashti was tense. Fierin could feel it, though his gaze never ceased observing the people streaming in. He and Kestian talked in low voices; Vannis listened, but Fierin noticed how the Aerenarch-Consort’s attention strayed most often to the royal balcony.

  A hum of comment rose above the general susurration in the theater as a single figure emerged onto the stage, a large, rather ugly man, dressed in finely tailored but plain gray tunic and trousers. She recognized him: Montrose, who’d been very guarded with her the one time she’d been able to speak to him about Jes.

  Montrose seated himself on the bench and commenced a somber, wandering melody, more like an introspective improvisation than a performance piece.

  The audience began to quiet in anticipation. Yet there were still arrivals: Basilea Risiena, having received an invitation to sit in the royal box, was the last, for she had been determined to make certain that every one of these stiff-necked Douloi saw her and her girls’ triumphant entry into the royal box, with the Aerenarch.

  Only he wasn’t there yet.

  She scowled, and loudly asked the Marine usher who was playing.

  “He calls himself Montrose,” was the neutral reply

  She exclaimed, “One of the Rifter outlaws?”

  A susurrus of whispers shot around the room, quickly stilled. Under cover of it, Kestian Harkatsus leaned toward Vannis. “Who?”

  “The crew from that Rifter ship, the one Brandon was on before Mbwa Kali found them,” Vannis said, her tone indifferent. “The musician is one, a former member of a minor Service Family. And see that tall woman in black in the end seat, first row down there? With the white-furred sophonts? Apparently she’s the captain.”

  “Dol’jharian, I’ve been told,” Srivashti murmured, his expression amused.

  Fierin looked down into the first level, easily picking out the straight-limbed black-haired woman flanked by the two exotic-looking beings. “She’s very striking. In fact, with a decent gown and something done with that hair, she’d turn every head,” she remarked.

  Vannis’ smile was a shade condescendi
ng. “Of course. Dol’jharians kill their ugly babies.”

  “I’ve always found that curiously compelling,” Srivashti said. “A race that concerns itself entirely with power, pain, and death, yet requires its progeny to be pleasing to the eye.”

  In that first row, Eloatri gazed about the theater with deep appreciation, taking pleasure in the bright formal attire and graceful motions of the audience. To her right, in the end seat, the tall young Dol’jharian captain sat erect. Next to her stood the pair of small white-furred sophonts whom Eloatri had encountered now three times.

  They chittered softly at Eloatri, their immense eyes glittering in the muted light, their twiggy hands briefly forming a simple pattern. It was one of Manderian’s semiotics: We see you. She signed the pattern in response.

  As the man at the organ came to the close of his incidental music, amid the scattered applause, Eloatri leaned toward Vi’ya. “That is one of your crew, is it not?”

  “He was.” Vi’ya’s voice was soft, giving no hint of her emotions, but Eloatri sensed a tension in her. No doubt the emotional radiation of the many in attendance affected her; Manderian had reported that she was gaining control very slowly, struggling with the enhanced sensitivity engendered by her association with the Eya’a.

  The doors to the hall swung shut with a soft boom more felt than heard. Montrose straightened up, his massive body a focus of intent, and began to play a slow, deeply evocative melody.

  Eloatri stiffened, shock flooding through her. She knew that piece. Dangerous. Oh, so dangerous. A rustle and a hum swept through the assembled guests: many of them had recognized it as well.

  She looked up at the royal box, but the Aerenarch still had not yet arrived. This, then, was a warning and a challenge to his enemies on Ares. Perhaps you are your father’s son.

  Beside her, Vi’ya rubbed her temples; the Eya’a chirped briefly, almost ultrasonic.

  “It’s the Manya Cadena,” said Eloatri, and when Vi’ya turned an inquiring glance her way, she added, “It commemorates the great chain of lives that links all of us to Lost Earth through all the centuries of Exile.”

  Seeing incomprehension in the Dol’jharian’s face, she added, “It would have been played at the Aerenarch’s Enkainion during the Three Summons.”

  Above them, Fierin watched as Vannis stilled, her profile intent on the musician, while Srivashti flicked a glance from Vannis to the royal box, his expression coldly speculative. Fierin’s pulse leaped, but when Srivashti met her wide gaze, his face smoothed out.

  The music swelled, rolling around the room, and resonating through bones and teeth; even those, like Dandenus, who had no interest in music were compelled to listen.

  When the last chord died away, the Phoenix fanfare pealed out, the Aerenarch entered the royal box, and the audience rose to make its obeisance. The Aerenarch made his, the ancient ritual as stylized and graceful as ballet. Then expensive fabrics rustled as all sat amid the whispering of expectation.

  “And so it begins,” Vannis murmured.

  Srivashti showed his teeth in a soundless laugh, almost a grimace.

  After the entrance of the Aerenarch the concert proper began, with a medley of ancient music performed by members of the Akademia Musika. Eloatri was impressed; had the Aerenarch chosen these pieces himself? If so, it betokened an encyclopedic knowledge of musical history.

  Then a familiar melody caught her ear, born on the haunting plainsong voiced by a single musician, and her throat thickened. Veni Creator Spiritus. She had first heard that melody at her forced assumption of the cathedra at New Glastonbury. But then it had merely been a pleasant sound; now she knew what it meant.

  With irresistible force the music caught her up beyond herself, drenching the theater with a numinous aura. At her right for that moment sat no human woman, but a luminous flame so bright her eyes watered. Two smaller flares attended her; beyond, like the radiation of an unquenchable furnace, the royal box vanished in supernal light. And in the audience another flaming spirit, red-haired, double-imaged, reinforced by a triune presence.

  Eloatri trembled. These were all linked, yet lacking some vital presence that would complete the hinge of time which they comprised.

  Then the musicians moved on, climbing the years from the Exile toward the present, and the Dreamtime released her.

  Eloatri looked up at the royal box where the Aerenarch sat, merely human now, his Douloi mask impervious. Are there messages here of equal import for others in the audience?

  No matter, she decided; the general impact was plain enough, evoking the deeply praeterite feelings of the Exiles, engaging their dependence on tradition and continuity. They have all suffered loss—none of them know what is to come. He has offered them the familiar haven of their collective memories of Lost Earth. And he was the last of the Arkads, a tradition in itself, the family that had ruled the Thousand Suns for nearly a thousand years.

  The Akademia withdrew from the stage during a brief intermission. Bursts of whispered comment quickly stilled when the Kitharee glided onstage, playing a variety of strange instruments, no two alike, their costumes just as varied. No introductory flourishes; they played as if continuing a musical conversation that had never been interrupted, offering wild melodies sometimes harmonic and sometimes dissonant, strange, wild, compelling, utterly itself, utterly uncompromising.

  Famed throughout the Thousand Suns, the Kitharee saw music as worship, a ritualistic combination of dance, chant, song, and instruments. Each Kitharee made his or her own instruments, which were burned with the musician at death.

  For those able to perceive it, their performance constituted a different statement by the Aerenarch. The Kitharee had never before performed in a secular setting, and many had never heard their music except in rare, unauthorized recordings. Even an Arkad could not have ordered it. Persuasion only would have sufficed. Despite Brandon Arkad’s ambiguous status, and the cloud of suspicion that hung over him after his solo escape from the annihilation of his Enkainion, this evidence of persuasion was a statement of a power no one else on Ares could match, and yet—like the music—it was not easy to define.

  After another brief intermission, the third part of the program commenced, and hearing it, Eloatri bowed her head and gave thanks. Danger there was still, and even the possibility of failure, but she now had no doubt, that whatever the nature of the grace that Telos had bestowed upon the Arkads, it inhered as strongly in the forty-eighth of that lineage as in the blood and bones of Jaspar Arkad himself.

  For three others in the audience, the concert’s final selections forced the doors of memory.

  Montrose had slipped into a seat near Sebastian Omilov, high in the back. Montrose closed his eyes, his face relaxed in enjoyment. Omilov sat with his fingers steepled, his brow thoughtful, his gaze on the performers.

  From his position at the back of the royal box, Jaim observed Brandon, who sat motionless, his head bowed as if in contemplation, his expression pensive. Did he not know that the concert was a success, that the musicians were superlative, and the choice of music—his own—inspired general approbation?

  A new melody pealed, a concerto for brass, evoking images Jaim had thought he’d buried. He surrendered to them.

  Light, dark, dancing brightness like sunbeams on water, deep and slow as molten rock beneath a planet’s crust; all the music was from the years he crewed Telvarna, and it freed, as no drug or mantra ever could, all the emotions of the past, painful and yet sustaining. Jaim saluted his surrender as a lesson to be learned.

  Symphony, melody, rastanda, twelve-tone, eight-tone, and syncopated, polyphonic: the pieces ranged all over the known universe, but a single theme bound them, stitched by the genius of a musician named KetzenLach. His greatness had lain in taking ancient art forms, forgotten arias and melodic lines, and weaving them anew for modern audiences, infusing them somehow with modern experience. As a child a brilliant mimic of great artists, KetzenLach had written only one original melody, his last
—his gift was in reforming the old.

  And KetzenLach had been Markham’s favorite composer.

  Every piece of music chosen evoked Markham vlith-L’Ranja; all had been his favorites, heard time and again aboard the Telvarna, and on Dis, and even in concert halls on distant planets, when—Telos knew how—Markham found out that this or that famous artist was to perform, and he took his primary crew light-years beyond their immediate goal, just to hear music.

  Some of the music Jaim did not know, but he guessed it was from the boyhood that Brandon and Markham had shared; for this was a memorial, a tribute, though out of the audience of glittering aristocrats from many planets, probably fewer than half a dozen people knew it. And the fact that it was the Navy Band playing it gave the tribute a razor’s edge, for Markham had been a brilliant cadet before he was cashiered.

  Jaim turned his head: there was Vi’ya in the front row, with the Eya’a, whose eerie stillness was impossible to interpret. Vi’ya’s face was like carved rock, her eyes in shadow. Dol’jharians were never very expressive even at their most relaxed, but Jaim had learned to read her: she was not, even remotely, enjoying the music.

  Music feeds the soul, Reth Silverknife said once. For those who deny the soul it is a weapon without defense. Jaim turned his head toward his former captain, thinking, For those who deny the emotions?

  Unaware of Jaim’s gaze, Vi’ya focused on the musicians. She examined the forms of the instruments, analyzed the motions made by the players, calculated the modification of sound. Anything to fend off the onslaught of the familiar grief—and of something deeper, more dangerous than grief.

  She glanced down at the Eya’a, fighting hard to maintain her shield. It was a new lesson, and one that taxed her to the utmost: to guard her thoughts—to protect her privacy.