she held two types of power—the power over people as the ruler of the Abbey, and magic. Neither of which Jikata had.
Her stomach clenched at the realization that she was entirely in this old woman’s hands. Jikata could barely swallow. She could disappear, totally and completely, and no one…wait, there was that attractive man in white leather. She hadn’t heard his personal Song this past hour, had she? She sent her thought questing, shooting around the Abbey, weighing each person. Her throat closed with nausea at the effort. She thought she sweated but her dress absorbed it.
She didn’t feel the man. So he wasn’t at the Abbey, but he knew she was here, had arrived last night. The Singer might have to explain to someone if Jikata vanished. Relief trickled through her and she found that she’d shut her eyes again. When she opened them she saw the Singer watching her, as if the old woman knew she used Power but not how.
The Singer shuttered her gaze, curved her lips and relaxed back in her throne. “Your talent is raw, but I can train it and shape it and free your Power. Power like you’ve never experienced.” Again she raised her little finger, touched her shaped fingernail. “The Power you used today is like this to what I can give you.”
What Jikata already had, she knew. Like her voice, the Power was hers. But like her voice, it could be trained. That the Singer could do, she could train, but what was inside Jikata was her own. She’d had plenty try to suck it from her.
She studied the old woman. Yes, power and Power cloaked her like a queen’s huge and enveloping state robe. Innate and developed, as well as given to her by the people of this land.
Jikata sensed the Singer had sent her own mind to the city with the merest effort. Everything Jikata had done this morning had left her exhausted, using unaccustomed mental skills. The Singer looked as if she’d had no exercise at all. She placed her hand on her cup of tea and hummed a note. Steam rose and Jikata was sure it was the exact temperature the Singer preferred.
Jikata’s own tea was cold, and the woman had not warmed the teapot that they both used, only her own cup. The lesson smacked Jikata in her gut. She, herself, had begun to get used to stardom, to flatterers, to people around her wanting to please her. That was heady and lovely. But to be so very Powerful that her own wishes were preeminent—that notion caused Jikata deep unease.
She didn’t want to be like that. She’d have to beware of becoming so selfish, so arrogant. This woman might remind her in some ways of her great-grandmother, but Ishi would have been shocked at the Singer’s hubris.
So not only was Jikata at the Singer’s mercy, but all the lovely things the Singer tempted Jikata with were also part of a sharp, double-edged sword. Talent was like that. To follow her heart, her destiny, she’d had to be more public than her great-grandmother had wanted, had to forsake tradition. Had broken with her great-grandmother. Her child-self still hurt from that, from disappointing her great-grandmother, and perhaps always would.
“You might have questions,” the Singer said, and Jikata wondered how long she’d been musing. She thought she caught a flash of satisfaction in those long, dark eyes, that Jikata was not and never could be the Singer’s match.
Thin eyebrows raised, the Singer repeated, “Questions?”
Jikata did, but with the Singer’s complacent half smile, Jikata decided she should surprise the woman. Since that lady hadn’t hesitated to make rude comments, a personal question wasn’t out of order. “Why are you so small?” Everyone else she’d seen was larger than Jikata herself.
The Singer looked startled, then her face became expressionless. Her brown eyes darkened and burned coal-black. When she audibly inhaled, the quaver was back. “There is a price for everything. You understand?” Her accent was so strong that Jikata was finally able to place it—Bostonian.
“Ayes.” Jikata didn’t like being treated like a rude pupil.
“My Power was understood from when I was a child. I was brought here to the Abbey.” She lifted a hand and her fingers showed a fine trembling, then she put them back on her lap. “The old Singer had had prophecies, of course. I would be one to Summon an Exotique.” She breathed through her nose. “Not once, but twice. I would be an extraordinary Singer, at the cusp of a great age. Whether I did my duty would ensure whether many people would live or die, would—” She stopped, shrugged. “I was told, and given to experience Songs and visions of my own. I could grow large, as large as my people and have less Power. Or stay small and have greater Power. I chose to say small.” Her lips curved in a travesty of a smile. “The decision was made when I was passing from child to woman. Not many Singers have a consort. Few men or women can match the Power of a Singer, and most of us want a partner, bondmate. More visions came and I knew if I stayed small, I would have a chance for a consort, a man from Exotique Terre. He would find me more attractive if I were small. At the threshold of womanhood, I longed for the love of a man, dreamed fantasy dreams of a mate.” She shrugged again. “I Summoned him, my Thomas. He came, taught me English. Left with the Snap. He did not love me enough to stay.” Her gaze shifted from the distance to bore into Jikata with a penetrating spear of disapproval that she actually felt.
Jikata’s mind whirled at the strange words: Exotique, bondmate, Snap. “What are—”
“We will discuss other concepts later.” The Singer leaned back and closed her eyes. “I am tired.” She snapped her fingers and an attendant sidled into the room. Obviously snapping the fingers was an indication of a bad mood. “Send the medica to me. I promised that the Exotique would be examined.”
Oh. Fun.
A tall, strong woman wearing a red tunic with a white cross over a long red robe entered and went to the Singer, gently took her hands. The old woman didn’t open her eyes. The medica began to hum in an excellent voice, head cocked as if listening to responses only she could hear. Then she placed the Singer’s hands back on the arms of the chair. “You are doing well, Lady Singer. As we anticipated, the new Exotique has help—”
“Examine her for Bri,” the Singer said.
Jikata wondered what bri was.
The medica dipped a deep curtsy, turned to Jikata. She’d stretched out her legs and crossed her ankles in a casual pose. She would not act like a scolded puppy. She’d asked a simple question. But she was sure, now, that all of her simple questions would have complex answers, and her blood thrummed in her veins at the thought of duty and prices to be paid.
But the medica made a curtsy almost as deep to Jikata as she did to the Singer, and her eyes were curious and kind, not condemnatory. “You will please sit up straight, feet on the floor.” Her language was simple and accompanied by gestures. Jikata sat, realized that with her feet flat on the floor, the chair was too deep to support her back, and stood.
The medica nodded and moved in front of Jikata, smiling. “I at Marshalls’ Castle last year. Know Exotiques.” Was what Jikata heard.
The Singer sniffed.
The medica let out a little breath and held out her palms, obviously for Jikata to take them.
Reluctantly, recalling the nastiness of the ordeal the night before when chords were painfully plucked inside her, Jikata put her fingers in the other woman’s larger hands. They were unusually warm. The woman Sang and it was as if pulses within Jikata warmed and glowed and vibrated almost pleasurably. “You healthy, more rest and good food,” the woman said. “Potatoes—”
“Potatoes?”
The
