a silken nightingale’s perch, and realized she must have been asked to perform The Song of Two.
In seconds, her raspy sweetness wrapped the Eye up in its silky strands. She mixed the ancient sounds up with a bluesy ache and sounded like a soprano Aretha Franklin. Even Kraken, the old egotist, surrendered himself, eyes closed, straining right into the music in Lantara. As she finished, the rest joined in. There was this climbing, aching, building crescendo, and one hundred perfect voices melted into a long, sonorous, vibrating note of joy and hope. It reached down into my toes, and began the slow climb back to my heart before it made it to my lips.
Y’know, I always thought those voices would do an amazing Guns’n’Roses medley, but I had to admit they sound pretty freakin’ superb singing anything at all.
I looked up at Mom, high on her swing, and I could see she was wiped out. The hydro-porting and the solo had taken their toll. I wanted to go to her, but I saw the High Triad making their way up. Swimming with the slow dignity of the truly important.
I tried to have a peek into her mind, just to check if she was okay, but she blocked me.
Politely, as is her way. Don’t worry, Rania. I can handle these old guys.
She sounded like she’d been expecting them, and the cop in me wanted very badly to know why. What do they want? Singing lessons?
Mom wouldn’t be drawn. We’ll talk later.
And I was shut out. Yeah, so I guess we’ll talk later, Ma.
The congregation scattered through the calm pool of water, settling into little clusters. As I floated, I caught snatches of mind-talk, and it was all of the rip in The Eye.
Two ancient turtles, hulking and superior, treaded water and hypothesized. What can it mean? Is it the beginning of the end? The prophecy?
It must be The Evil One, returned.
A haughty young Aegiran I recognized as one of the Queen’s scientists shook his head at his companion as he passed the turtles and caught the tail end of their conversation. Superstition. They always blame Manos. It’s sea warming, of course. The land-dwellers.
A much loved Gynomarl midwife floated amidst a group of young Aegiran women. Keep your children close, away from the rip.
The serving Gag-ai-lan were circulating, swimming through the groups with platters laden with all kinds of Aegiran delicacies. There was Abermonth, of course, but also wild ocean mushrooms, sea-corn and this crazy Aegiran cheese made from the milk of sea turtles.
I felt a tap on my shoulder, and swivelled quickly. I was looking at three young women. My age-ish, I guesssed. “Rania,” they trilled as one.
Then it struck me. Choirgirls. Specifically, the Throaty Three.
Aegira’s equivalent of The Pink Ladies.
They’d moved in a pack since we were teenagers, and looked like not much had changed now that they were all grown up. I’d schooled with them during the times we came home to Aegira, before That Time. No that I’d minded going to school on my summer vacation. There were no hall monitors, for a start. The teachers sought out your skills, showing you things and telling you stories in a way that seemed far too interesting to be real. And that’s even leaving aside the fact that everyone at school was hot. And half of them were naked, at least sometimes.
“Hello Zali, Nidan, Tricoste.” I smiled, pleased that too much Southern Comfort hadn’t completely destroyed my memory. “What did you think of the wedding? Kind of low on the romance, I thought.” I was remembering the chaste kisses and the big focus on community. Although, to be fair, I guess sometimes Dirtwater weddings aren’t exactly A Love Story either. I recalled Danny Docko had looked like a less than willing participant as he’d trudged down the aisle next to his eight-months-pregnant bride last year. Maybe the Aegirans are onto something.
Zali giggled into my mind. Oh Rania, you know it’s different here. Passions are for your calling, not your mate. She emphasized the last word like she was saying something banal, and laughed again as though the idea of getting hot under the collar over a sexual partner was absurd. I wondered why she had switched to speaking into my mind.
Tricoste weighed in. Yes, Rania. It’s the calling that matters. You know, science, architecture, teaching… whatever is chosen for you. Weddings are about children.
The three of them sighed in unison as Tricoste spoke the last word, like girls on the