Rruk spoke clearly, but it was speech. She was not trusting this to song.
It was the way of things that made me Songmaster of the High Room, she reminded them. No one thought of me except Onn, who should have held the place. But chance shapes the Songhouse. Years ago the custom was established that in ruling the Songhouse we must trust to chance, to who was and was not fit when the Songmaster of the High Room died. And that chance has put me in this place, where it is my duty to safeguard the Songhouse.
But I am not just meant to safeguard it. The Songhouse walls are not made of rock to make us soft within them. They are made of rock to teach us how to be strong. And sometimes things must change. Sometimes something must happen, even though it can be prevented. Sometimes we must have something new in the Songhouse.
It was then that Ller noticed Fiimma, sitting in a far corner of the great hall, the only student there.
Something new has happened, Rruk said, and she beckoned to the girl who waited, looking terribly afraid, not because she showed fear, but because she showed nothing as she slowly got up and walked to the stage.
Sing, Rruk said.
And Fiimma sang.
And when the song was over, the teachers were overcome. They could not contain themselves. They sang back to her. For instead of a child's song of innocence and simplicity, instead of mere virtuosity, Fiimma sang with depth beyond what most of them had ever felt. She tore from them feelings that they had not known they had. She sang to them as if she were as ancient as the Earth, as if all the pain of millennia of humanity had passed through her, leaving her scarred but whole, leaving her wise but hopeful.
And so they sang back to her what they could not keep within themselves; they sang their exultation, their admiration, their gratitude; most of all, they sang their own hope, rekindled by her song, though they had not known they needed hope; had not known that they had ever despaired.
Finally their own songs ended, and silence fell again. Rruk sent Fiimma back to sit in the corner. The girl stumbled once on her way-she was weak. Ller knew what the song had cost her. Fiimma had obviously figured out that Ansset's fate was somehow in her hands, and she had sung better than she had thought she could, out of her own need for Ansset, out of her own love for the old, old man.
Singers, Rruk said, speaking again, her unsung voice sounding harsh in the silence. It should be clear to you that something has happened to this child. She has experienced something that children in the Songhouse were never meant to experience. But I don't know. If it has hurt her. Or if it has helped her. What was her song? And the thing that changed her, should it be given to us all, and to all the children?
Ller did not speak. He knew the importance of a child finding his own voice. But Fiimma's voice, as she sang, had still been her own. Not the child's voice of a few months before. But not Ansset's voice, either. Still her own; but richer, darker. Not black, however. For as the darkness of her voice had increased with Ansset's teaching, the brightness had also grown brighter.
No one spoke. They were not prepared-either for Fiimma's song or for the dilemma Rruk had given them. They did not know enough. The strangeness of Fiimma's song had obviously come from suffering, but Rruk's voice did not hint of any suffering she planned to cause them. It was plain enough, even though she spoke instead of singing, that she herself favored yet feared the course that she proposed. So they held their silence.
You are not kind, Rruk told them. You are leaving the decision up to me. So that if I decide wrong, it will be entirely my own fault to bear.
It was then that Ller stood and spoke, because he could not leave her alone.
I am Fiimma's teacher, he explained, though everyone knew that already. I should be envious that her song has been changed by someone else. I should be angry that my work with her has been undone. But I am not. Nor would any of you have been. If I came to you and told you that I had a way to double the range of all your children, would you not accept it? If I came to you and told you that I had a way to help your children sing twice as loudly and even softer than they do now, would you not seize the opportunity? You all know that the emotion behind the song is the most important thing. What happened to Fiimma was the increase of the range of her emotions, not just double, but a thousandfold. It changed her songs. I know better than any of you how much it changed them, and not all the changes are happy ones. But is there anything this child is not prepared to sing? Is there anything this child is not prepared to suffer, and endure? I'm aware of the dangers of what Rruk proposes, but those dangers are the price. And the price may bring us power that we have never had before.
By the end of his speech, Ller was singing, and when his song was done there were many low murmurs of approval, though all of them were tinged with fear. It was enough, though. Rruk spread her arms and cried. Thank you for sharing this with me!
Then she sent them to get their children and bring them to the great hall.
10
Ansset sang to them.
At first they could not understand why they had been brought to hear this old man. They had not coveted the sound of his voice as Fiimma had. It was harsh to them. His pitch was untrue. His voice was not strong. His songs were crude and unpolished.
But after a while, after an hour, they began to understand. And, understanding, they began to feel. His crude melodies were just intentions-they began to glimpse the music he meant to sing them. They began to understand the stories his voice told them, and feel with him exactly what he felt.
He sang them his life. He sang them from the beginning, his kidnapping, his life in the Songhouse, his silence and the agony that finally was broken and healed by Esste In their ordeal in the High Room. He sang them of Mikal. He sang them songs of his captivity, of his killings, and of the grief at Mikal's death. He sang to them of Riktors Ashen and he sang to them of his despair when the Song-house would not take him back. He sang to them of Kyaren, who was his friend when he most needed one; he sang to them of governing the Earth. As he relived each event, his emotions were nearly those that he had felt at the time. And because he felt that strongly, his audience felt that strongly, for if Ansset had lost his voice, he had only gained in power, and he could touch hearts as no other singer could, despite his weaknesses.
And when he sang of his love for Josif and Josif's death, when he sang of the terrible song that destroyed Riktors's mind and killed Ferret, it was more than anyone could bear. Control broke all over the hall.
They had been worn down not just by his voice, but also by exhaustion. Ansset did not sing quickly, for some songs cannot be sung without time. It was on his fourth day of singing, with his voice often breaking from weariness and sometimes whispering because he could not make a tone at all, that he brought them to the edge of madness, where he himself had been.
For a frightening hour Ller and Rruk both feared that it had been a mistake, that what Ansset was doing could not be endured, that it would be a blow from which the Songhouse would never recover.
But he went on. He sang the healing of Esste's songs; he sang the gentle love of Kyaren and the Mayor, and their family; he sang of reconciliation with Riktors; he Sang of years of serving the empire and loving, finally, everyone he met.
And he sang of coming home again.