I can't, Ansset said.
You can.
Can you?
Esste sang, and the song filled the room, but there was no echo.
And so Ansset sang. For an hour, for another hour, trying to find the exact voice for that room. Finally, at the end of the second hour, he did it.
Do it again.
He did it again. And then asked, Why?
You do not sing only into silence. You also sing into space. You must sing exactly for the space you have been given. You must fill it so that no one can fail to hear you, and yet keep your tone so clear and free of echo that all they can hear is exactly what your body produces,
I have to do this every time?
In a while, Ansset, it becomes reflex.
They sat in silence for a moment. And then, softly, Ansset asked, I would like to try to fill the Chamber this way.
Esste knew what he was asking, and refused to answer his real question. I believe the Chamber's empty right now. We could go there.
Ansset struggled with himself for a moment-Esste assumed, anyway, for though he was silent for a time, his face showed nothing. Mother Esste, he finally said, I don't know why I've been banned.
Have you been?
Mildly: You know I have.
It was a minor victory. She had actually forced him to ask. Yet the victory was an empty one. He had not lost Control; he simply had found it unproductive to remain silent about it. Esste leaned back on the stone wall, not realizing that she herself was bending to his rigidity by relaxing her own.
Ansset, what is your song?
He looked at her blankly. Waited. Apparently he did not understand.
Ansset, you keep singing our songs back to us. You keep taking what people feel and intensifying it and shattering us with it, but child, what song is yours?
All.
None. So far I have never heard you sing a song that I knew was only Ansset.
He did not lose Control. Surely he should be angry. But he only looked at her with empty eyes and said, You are mistaken. The child was six, and said you are mistaken.
You will not sing before an audience again until you have sung for me a song that is yours.
How will you know?
I don't know, Ansset. But I'll know.
He continued to regard her steadily, and she, because of her own Control, did not break her gaze. Some children had taken to Control very badly before, and usually they ended up as Deafs. Control was not easy for anyone, but essential for the songs. Yet here was a child who, like most really good singers and Songbirds, had learned Control quickly, lived with it naturally. Too naturally. The object of Control was not to remove the singer from all human contact, but to keep that contact clear and clean. Instead of a channel, Ansset was using Control as an impenetrable, insurmountable wall.
I will get over your walls, Ansset, she promised him silently. You will sing a song of yourself to me.
But his blank, meaningless face said only, You will fail.
10
Riktors Ashen was angry when he got to the High Room. Listen, lady, do you know what this is?
No, Esste answered, and her voice was calculated to soothe him.
It's a warrant of entry. From the emperor. And you've entered. Why are you upset?
I've entered after four days! I'm the emperor's personal envoy, on a very important errand--
Riktors Ashen, Esste interrupted (but quietly, calmly), you are on an important errand, but this is not it. This is just a stop along the way--
Damn right, Riktors said, and this petty errand has put me four days behind schedule.
Perhaps, Riktors Ashen, you ought to have asked to see me.
I don't have to ask. I have the emperor's warrant of entry.
Even the emperor asks before he enters here.
I doubt that.
It's history, my friend. I myself brought him to this room.
Riktors was less agitated now. Was, in fact, embarrassed at his outburst. Not that he hadn't the right-this was a man, Esste knew, who could use rage to good effect. He hadn't risen to high rank in the fleet without reason. He was embarrassed because the rage had been real, and over a matter of pride. This was a young man who was learning. Esste liked him. Even though he was also a young man who would kill anyone to get what he wanted. Death waited in his calm hands, behind his boyish face.
History is shit, Riktors said mildly. I'm here to find out about Mikal's Songbird.
The emperor has no Songbird.
That, said Riktors, not without amusement, is precisely the problem. Do you realize how many years have passed since you promised him a Songbird? Mikal is a hundred eighteen years old this year. Naturally it's polite to suppose the emperor will live forever, but Mikal himself told me to tell you that he is aware of his mortality, and he hopes he will not die without having heard his Songbird sing.
You understand that Songbirds are matched very, carefully to their hosts. Usually we have the Songbird and work to place him or her properly. This was an unusual case, and until now we haven't had the right Songbird.
Until now?
I believe we have the Songbird who will be Mikal's.
I will see him now.
Esste chose to smile. Riktors Ashen smiled back. With your permission, of course, he added.
The child is only six years old, Esste answered. His training is far from complete.
I want to see him, to know that he exists.
I'll take you to him.
They wound their way down the stairs, through passages and corridors. There are so many corridors, Riktors said, that I don't see how you have any space left for rooms. Esste said nothing until they reached the corridors of Stalls, where she paused for a moment and sang a long high note. Doors closed in the distance. Then she led the emperor's personal envoy to Ansset's door, and sang a few wordless notes outside.
The door opened, and Riktors Ashen gasped. Ansset was thin, but his light complexion and blond hair were given a feeling of translucence by the sun coming in his window. And the boy's features were beautiful, not just regular; the kind of face that melted men's hearts as readily as women's. More readily.
Was he chosen for his voice, or his face? Riktors Ashen asked.,
When a child is three, answered Esste, his future face is still a mystery. His voice unfolds more easily. Ansset, I have brought this man to hear you sing.
Ansset looked blankly at Esste, as if he did not understand but refused to ask for explanation. Esste knew immediately what Ansset planned. Riktors did not. She means for you to sing for me, he said helpfully.
The child needs no repetition. He heard my request, and chooses not to sing.
Ansset's face showed nothing.
Is he deaf? asked Riktors.
We will go now, answered Esste. They went. But Riktors lingered until the last possible moment, looking at Ansset's face.
Beautiful, Riktors said, again and again, as they walked through more passageways toward the gatehouse.
He is to be the emperor's Songbird, Riktors Ashen, not the emperor's catamite.
Mikal has a large number of offspring. His tastes are not so eclectic as to include little boys. Why wouldn't the boy sing?
Because he chose not to.
Is he always so stubborn?
Often.
Hypnotherapy would take care of that. A good practitioner could lay a mental block that would forbid resistance--
Esste sang a melody that stopped Riktors cold. He looked at her, not understanding why suddenly he was afraid of this woman.
Riktors Ashen, I do not tell you how to move your fleets of starships between planets.
Of course. Just a suggestion--
You live in a world where all you expect of people is compliance, and so your hypnotherapists and your mental blocks accomplish all your ends. But here in the Song-house, we create beauty. You cannot force a child to find his voice.
Riktors Ashen had regained his composure. You're good at that. I have to work a little harder to force people to listen to me.