The other who recognized him had never heard him sing, had never seen his face before, and yet was as certain in her heart as Ller. Her name was Fiimma, and she had heard the legends of Ansset and fixed on them as her ideal. Not in a competitive sense-she had no thought of surpassing this long-gone Songbird. But she longed to be able to touch people's hearts so irrevocably that she would be remembered as long and as happily as Ansset was remembered. She was very young to be longing for immortality, but she knew more of death than most children in the Songhouse. She had seen her parents killed when she was not yet two, and though she never spoke of it, the memory was clear to her. It did not give her nightmares; she handled the weight of memory with relative ease. But she did not forget, and often saw before her the moment of death and knew that it was only chance that had saved her from the thieves.
So she longed to live forever in legend as Ansset did, and took pains to remember everything she ever heard about him. She had asked teachers who had known him years before about his mannerisms, his expressions. They had been little help. So she had imagined the rest. What would a man feel like, act like, look like, having done what Ansset had done? Why hadn't he returned to the Songhouse? What would he desire in his heart?
And gradually, seeing the old man in Rainbow Kitchen and hearing all the speculation about him, she began to wonder if he might be Ansset. At first the idea was only appealingly mysterious-she did not believe it. But as days and weeks went by, she became more certain, Ansset, who had become emperor, might come home just this way, silently and unknown. Who knows what barriers there might be to his return? Then he disappeared for a few days and then returned as a Deaf, fully able to wander the corridors of the Songhouse. A decision had been reached, she realized, but it had not been an easy one, and the old man's silence had not been lifted even though he had been allowed to stay. Would Ansset accept such silence as a condition for remaining?
Fiimma thought he would.
And finally she was so certain of him that at supper in Rainbow Kitchen she deliberately sat next to him. Usually he sat alone, but if he was surprised to see her beside him, he gave no sign, merely continued to break bread into his stew.
I know you, she whispered.
He did not respond, and he did not stop breaking bread.
You are Ansset, aren't you?
Again, no sign that he had heard her.
If you are Ansset, she said, then keep on breaking bread. If you are not Ansset, take a bite directly from the loaf. She had thought she was clever, but the old man merely responded by setting the rest of the bread into the stew all at once.
And he ate, ignoring her as if she did not exist. Several other children had noticed her there, were commenting among themselves. She was afraid that she was breaking some rule by being with the old man; certainly she had accomplished nothing by trying to get him to talk to her.
But she couldn't let the moment pass so ineffectively. She pleaded with him. Ansset, if it is you, I want you to teach me. I want to learn all your songs.
Did he falter in the rhythm of his eating? Did he pause for a moment to think? She was not sure, but still felt hope.
Ansset, I will learn your songs! You must teach me!
And then, her daring entirely exhausted, she left him and sat with the other children, who begged her to tell them what she had said and if the old man had answered. She told them nothing. She sensed that the old man might be angry with her if she told anyone of her certainty that he was Ansset. Was he Ansset? She refused to let herself have any doubts.
The next day the old man did not come to Rainbow Kitchen, and never came there again as long as Fiimma ate there.
6
The silence became unbearable far sooner than Ansset had expected. Perhaps it was lingering memories of the silent days of imprisonment in Mikal's rooms when he was fifteen. Perhaps it was just that like so many old men he had grown garrulous, and the confinement of his promise of silence weighed more heavily than it would have in his youth. Whatever the reason, he found himself longing to give voice, and so he quietly went to Rruk, got her consent, and traveled for the first of his liberties, as he called them in his mind.
The first few liberties, he did not leave the Songhouse lands. There was no need, since the Songhouse owned more than a third of the planet's single continent. He spent weeks wandering the forests of the Valley of Songs, dodging the few expeditions bringing children from the Songhouse. He walked to the lake ringed by mountains, where Esste had first told him that she loved him, had first taught him the true power of Control.
And he was surprised to find the path was gone. Were none of the children taken to this spot anymore? He was sure they were-there were still flesket roads cut through the woods, and the grasses still grew low, a sure sign that visitors still came from time to time. But from the base of the waterfall there was no path coming easily to the top. He remembered as best he could, and finally, very tired, he reached the top and looked out over the lake.
Time had not touched it. If the trees were older, he saw no sign of it. If the water had changed, he could not remember how it was before. The birds still came to the water to dive for fish; the wind still sifted through the leaves and needles with inexpressible music.
I am old, Ansset thought, lying beside the water. I remember the distant past far more easily than I remember yesterday. For if he closed his eyes, he could imagine Esste near him, could hear her voice. Relaxing all Control because he was alone, he let the tears of memory come; the hot sun warmed the tears as they seeped out of the corners of his eyes. But weeping, however gently it was done, could not soothe what was in him.
And so he sang.
After so long silent, his voice was pathetic. The humblest Groan could do better. Age was playing tricks with pitch, and as for tone, there was none. Just the rough timbre of an old voice overused when young.
Once he had been able to sing with birds and improve on their work. Now the birds fell silent when he sang, and his voice was an interloper in this place.
He wept in earnest then, and vowed never to humiliate himself again.
But he had gone too long without songs in the palace and the Songhouse. There had been too many years when he did not sing because others would have heard his emptiness and his failure. Here, alone in the forest, there were no others, and if he sang badly no one heard but him. So the same day he made that vow, he broke it, and sang again. It was no better, but he did not feel so bad this time.
If this is all the voice I have, he thought, it is still a voice.
No other person would ever hear him sing, of that he was certain. But he would hear himself, and sing out what had been held inside for far, far too long. It was ugly, it was never quite what he wanted it to be, but it served its purpose. It emptied him when he was too full, and in his raucous songs he found some comfort.
On his first liberty he learned the Valley of Songs as few knew it, for no one came here for pleasure, without supervision. But too many memories came with it, and it was too solitary-solitude was good, but he could not bear it for too long.
His second liberty took him to one of the Songhouse's three retreats.