Songmaster

RRUK

1

Ansset had been emperor for only thirty years when Esste's work came to an end. She felt the end coming in summer; felt the ennui of doing again and again work that she had mastered long before. There were no students who interested her. There were no teachers left who were her close friends, except Onn. She was more and more distant from all the life of the Songhouse, though from the High Room she still directed that life.

In the fall, Esste began to long for things she could not have. She longed for her childhood. She longed for a lover in a crystal house. She longed for Ansset, the beautiful boy whom she had held in her arms and loved as she had loved no one else.

But the longings could not be fulfilled; the crystal house was filled with other loves by now, surely; the girl Esste had died, shedding younger skins until now the hard-faced woman in dark robes was her only relic; and Ansset was emperor of mankind, not a child anymore, and she could not embrace him now.

Oh, she toyed with the idea of journeying to Susquehanna again. But before she had gone in answer to the empire's need. She could not justify such a journey merely to satisfy her own, especially when she knew that, in the end, her real need would be unsatisfied.

All songs must end, said the maxim, before we can know them. Without borders on a thing it cannot be comprehended as a whole. And so Esste decided to put the final border on her life, so that all her works and all her days could be viewed and understood and, perhaps, sung.

It was winter, and snow fell heavily outside the windows of the High Room. Esste had not decided beforehand that this day above all others would be the day. Perhaps it was the beauty of the snow; perhaps it was the knowledge that the cold would take her quickly, in a storm like this. But she sent on errands those likely to discover her too soon. Then she opened all the shutters and let the wind pour in, took off her clothing, and lay on stone in the center of the room.

As the wind swept over her, covering her with snow-flakes that melted more and more slowly, Esste hid behind her Control and wondered. She had sung many songs in her life, but which should she sing last? What song should the High Room hear as her own funerary?

She was indecisive too long, and sang nothing as she lay on the High Room floor. In the end her Control failed her, as in extremity it must always fail; but as she crawled feebly under her robes and blankets, a part of her noticed with satisfaction that the work was already done. Blankets alone would do nothing. The snow was two inches deep in the High Room. Tomorrow a new Songmaster would come here and the Songhouse would be taught new songs.

2

Onn was busy.

There was much to be done, and several key Deafs and Blinds had been sent out on errands at once, which sometimes happened but was damned inconvenient.

Sometimes, Onn had confided to a young master, I feel like I might as well be deaf, for all the time I get to spend with music.

But he didn't mind. He was a good singer, a good teacher, worthy of respect. Yet unlike many of the high masters and Songmasters who had the responsibility of seeing that the Songhouse ran smoothly, he was also a good administrator. He got jobs done. He remembered details. So that where most masters were willing to see almost all the work and decisions taken care of by the Blinds, Onn made it a point to know as much about all the operations of the Songhouse as he could, and help Esste as much as possible.

More important, he did it without being obnoxious. And so it was only reasonable for him and everyone else to assume that he would be the next Songmaster in the High Room, when Esste decided she was finished. And he would have been, too, if he hadn't been so busy.

When the Songmaster of the High Room did not wish to be disturbed, he or she simply did not answer a knock on the door. This was accepted practice. The only ones who could defy this were Deafs and Blinds going about their business, because, according to the etiquette of the place, they were generally regarded as nonexistent. A Deaf whose routine called for him to sweep out a room would simply sweep out the room, and the person who had sought privacy there would not mind-though if a student or a teacher were to enter without permission, it would be quite rude.

All this was simply taken for granted. But Onn had to consult the computer for an answer to a question, and that meant conferring with Esste. The problem seemed urgent at the time, though a few hours later he could not even remember what it was. He went to the High Room and knocked on the door.

There wasn't an answer.

If Onn had been ambitious instead of dedicated, he would have thought of the possibility that Esste did not answer because she had decided to quit her work, and he would have tiptoed away and been patient. Or if Onn had been less confident of himself, he would not have dared to open the door. But he was dedicated and confident, and he opened the door, and so it was he who found Esste's corpse cold under a thick layer of snow.

Esste's loss grieved him, and he sat in the cold (after having closed the shutters and turned on the heat) with her corpse for some time, mourning the loss of her friendship, for he had loved her very much.

But he also knew his responsibility. He had found the body. Therefore he had to inform the person who would be the next Songmaster in the High Room. Yet he himself was the only logical choice for the position. And custom forbade him to name himself. It could not be done.

It occurred to him-he was human, after all-to leave the room immediately with all as he had found it and go wait patiently for some Deaf or Blind to find the body, which was as it should be anyway.

But he was honest, and knew that the very fact that he had defied custom already and entered without permission was reason enough for him to be denied the office. If he could flout courtesy and enter when a person wanted privacy, he was too thoughtless to be Songmaster of the High Room.

But who else? It was not an accident that he was the most obvious choice for the High Room-it was not just because he was outstanding, but also because no one else was particularly suited for the work. There were many gifted singers and teachers among the Songmasters and high masters-after all, it was singing and teaching they were selected for. But a person of such strong will, such dedication, such wisdom that the Songhouse would be safe if guided by that will and that wisdom?

In all the years of the Songhouse's existence, there had always been someone, an easy choice, or at least an understandable one. Always one of the Songmasters had been ready, or if not one of them, then an outstanding young high master whose choice was clearly right.

This time there was no one. Oh, there were two or three who might have done passable work, but Onn could not have borne to work under them, for one was prone to make whimsical decisions, and another often got involved in petty quarrels, and the third was too absentminded to be depended on. Someone would always be cleaning up after their errors. That was not the way it ought to be.

By evening, Onn was getting desperate. He had barred the door-no sense in letting the rumor get out if a chance Deaf should enter-and with the snow now forming puddles on the ground, he was feeling quite damp and uncomfortable. He resolved not to leave the room until he had decided. But he could not decide.

And so, early in the morning, after a fitful sleep, he got up, keyed the door to open to his hand, locked it behind him, and began prowling the Stalls and Chambers, the Common Rooms and the toilets and the kitchens, hoping that some startling idea would occur to him, or that his indecision would be resolved, so that he could choose someone to replace Esste.

It was afternoon when, despondent, he stepped into a Common Room where a group of Breezes were being taught. He came just for solace; the young voices were unskilled enough that their singing did not force him to pay attention, yet they were good enough that their harmonies and countermelodies were a pleasure to hear.

As he sat at the back of the room, he began to watch the teacher, began to listen to her. He recognized her immediately, of course. She had enough ability that she ought to have been teaching in Stalls and Chambers-her own voice was refined and pure. But she was not young, and never likely to be advanced to be a high master or Songmaster, and so she had asked to remain in the Common Room, since she loved the children and would not be ashamed or disappointed to end her life teaching them. Esste had immediately given consent, since it was good for children to learn from the best possible voices, and this woman was the best singer of any of the teachers in the Common Room.

Her manner with the children was loving but direct, kind but accurate. It was plain that the children were devoted to her; the normal squabbles that were bound to break out in a class this age were easily handled, and they were touchingly eager to sing well for her approval. When a song was especially good, she would join in, not loudly, but in a soft and beautiful harmony that would excite the children and inspire them to sing better.

Onn had made up his mind before he realized it. Suddenly he found himself protesting a decision he had not known that he had made. She's too inexperienced, he told himself, though in fact there was no one but him who really had experience in doing some of the work of the High Room. She's too quiet, too shy to work her will in the Songhouse, he insisted, but knew that as she guided the children with love, not power, she would be able to guide the Songhouse as well.

And finally all his objections came down to the last one: pity. She loved teaching the little children, and in the High Room she would only have time for one or two children, and those, would have to be in Stalls and Chambers. She would not be happy to give up a work she so enjoyed doing to accept a task that she herself and most others would think was beyond her.

Onn was certain, however. Watching her he knew that she should take Esste's place. And if it was hard for her, and she had to give up something to do it-well, the Songhouse exacted high prices from its children, and she would do her duty willingly, as all the people of the Songhouse would.

He arose, and she ended the song to ask him what he wanted.

Rruk, he said, Esste has died.

He was pleased that it did not occur to her that she was being called to replace Esste. Instead her dismay was heartfelt, and nothing but mourning for her beloved Song-master Esste. She sang her grief, and the children tentatively joined in. Her song had begun with all the technique she had, but as the children tried to join her, she simplified almost by habit, put her music within their reach, and together they sang touchingly of love that had to end with death. It moved Onn greatly. She was a generous woman. He had chosen well.

When her song ended, he said the words that would cause her, he knew, much misery.

Rruk, I found her body, and I ask you to make the funeral arrangements.

She understood instantly, and her Control held, though she said softly, Songmaster Onn, the chance that led you to find her body was cruel, but the chance that brought you to me was madness.

Nevertheless, it is your task.

Then I will do it. But I think I will not be the only one to mourn the fact that for the first time, our custom has failed to choose the one best-suited for that duty.

They were singing to each other, their voices controlled but beautiful with emotions that the children were hardly experienced enough to comprehend.

Our custom has not failed, Onn said, and you will be sure of that in time.

She left her class then, and the students scurried away to tell everyone the news, and all over the Songhouse songs of mourning for Esste began, along with whispers of amazement that Onn was not the successor, that he in fact had for the first time in history chosen a Songmaster for the High Room who was not even a master, who was merely a teacher of Breezes.

Onn and Rruk carefully tended to Esste's body. Naked, the old woman looked incredibly frail, nothing like the image of power she had always presented. But then, she had lived among those to whom the body meant nothing and the voice was the key to what a person was, and by that standard no one more powerful had been known in the Songhouse in many lifetimes. Onn and Rruk sang and talked as they worked, Rruk asking many questions and Onn trying to teach her in a few hours what had taken him many years to learn.

Finally, in frustration, she said, I cannot learn it.

And he answered, I will be here and help you all you need.

She agreed, and so, instead of immediately trying to assert her authority as Songmaster, she began merely as a mouthpiece for Onn's decisions. Such a thing could not be kept hidden, and there were those who thought Onn might have done better to choose them, but that he had chosen Rruk because she was so weak he could rule the Songhouse through her.

Gradually, however, she began to perform her duties alone, and slowly the people of the Songhouse came to realize that she had made them all, somehow, happier; that while the music had not noticeably improved or got worse, the songs had all become somehow happier. She treated all the children with as much respect as due any adult; she treated all the adults with as much patience and love as due any child. And it worked. And when Onn died not too many years afterward, there was no doubt that he had chosen correctly-in fact, there were many who said that chance had been kind to the Songhouse, by making Rruk and not Onn Songmaster in the High Room. For the Songhouse had not lost his expertise, and had gained Rruk's understanding as well.

This is why Rruk was the Songmaster in the High Room when Ansset came home.

3

The doorkeeper did not recognize him, of course. It had been too many years, and though the doorkeeper had been a Groan when Ansset was in Stalls and Chambers, there was no way to connect that aging face and the shock of white hair with the beautiful blond child whose songs had been so pure and high.

But the Songhouse was not unkind, and it was obvious that the old man at the door was not overburdened with wealth-his clothing was simple and he carried no purse and wore no ornaments. He refused to state his business, only that he wanted to see the Songmaster in the High Room, which was out of the question, of course. But as long as he wanted to wait in the door-room, he was welcome to wait, and when the doorkeeper saw that he had brought no food, she led him to the kitchens and let him eat with a group of students from Stalls and Chambers.

He did not take any unfair advantage of the kindness, either. When the meal was over, the old man was led back to the door-room, and there he stayed until the next meal was served.

The old man did not speak to any of the children. He just ate slowly and carefully, and watched his own dish. The children began to feel at ease around him and talk and sing. He never joined in or showed any reaction.

Having the old man in their kitchen actually became a point of pride with them. After all, they had been in the Songhouse for at least five or six years, and they knew all the adults, particularly the old ones; the only new ones were usually singers and Songbirds coming home when they turned fifteen and seekers coming back with new ones for the Common Room. To have someone old be new was unheard of.

And he was a mystery among the children. Stories were told about him, how he had committed terrible crimes in some far-off world and was coming to the Songhouse to hide; how he was the father of a famous singer and he was coming to spy on his child; how he was a deaf mute who felt their songs through the vibrations on the table (which had several children putting cotton in their ears and feeling the tables during meals, trying to sense something); how he was a Songbird who had failed and was now trying to gain a place in the Songhouse. Some of the stories were rather close to the mark in detail. Some were so magic and fantastical that they could not be believed even by the most credulous of the children, though of course they were repeated all the same. Yet in all the telling and retelling of the stories of the old man in the Rainbow Kitchen, not one of the stories was ever told to an adult.

So it was only by chance that Rruk ever learned the old man was there. He had taken to helping clean up after the meal. The Rainbow cook was a Blind, helped by two young Deafs who circulated from kitchen to kitchen. The Deafs were late for cleanup one day, and so the old man got up and began to wash the dishes. The cook was an observant woman, and she realized that while the hands of the old man were strong, they had never done any kind of rough work at all-they were soft on the palms as a baby's hand. But the old man was careful and the dishes got clean, and pretty soon the two young Deafs discovered that if they were later and later for cleanup in the Rainbow Kitchen, they wouldn't have to clean up at all.

The cook mentioned this to the doorkeeper when she led the old man to the kitchen one day, and the doorkeeper shrugged. Why not? Let him feel that he's earning his keep. The cook still believed that someone higher than the doorkeeper had authorized the old man to stay.

It was when the old man carelessly touched a pot that had stayed in the fireplace instead of being put on the table that the cook realized something was wrong. The old man was obviously severely burned. But he made absolutely no sound, showed absolutely no pain. He merely went on about his work after supper, washing dishes, though the pain must have been very annoying. The cook got worried. Because he could think of only two reasons the old man might have touched the pot without even wincing.

Either he's a leper and doesn't feel it, which I doubt, since he has no trouble handling pots and pans, or he's got Control.

Control? asked the head cook. Who is he, anyway?

Someone the doorkeeper brings up. As a kindness, I suppose.

It should have been cleared with me. An extra mouth eating the food, and I'm not told so I can allow for it in my budget?

The Rainbow cook shrugged. We've never run out.

It's the principle of the thing. Either we're organized or we aren't.

So the head cook mentioned it to the purchaser, and the purchaser mentioned it to security, and security asked the doorkeeper what the hell was going on.

He's hungry and obviously very poor.

How long has this been going on?

Three months, more or less. More.

We don't run a hotel. The man should be asked, kindly, to leave. Why did he come?

To see the Songmaster in the High Room.

Get rid of him. No more meals. Be kind, but firm. That's what a doorkeeper's for.

So the doorkeeper very kindly told the old man that he would not be able to eat in the Songhouse anymore.

He said nothing. Just sat in the door-room.

Five days later, the doorkeeper came to the head of security. He plans to starve to death in the door-room.

The head of security came down to meet the old man.

What do you want, old man?

I've come to see the Songmaster in the High Room.

Who are you?

No answer.

We don't let just anybody go see her. She's busy.

She'd be glad if she saw me.

I doubt it. You have no idea of what goes on here.

Again no answer. Did he smile? The head of security was too irritated to know or care.

If the old man had been violent or obtrusive, they might have expelled him forcibly. But force was avoided if it was at all possible, arid finally, because he intended to stay until he died of starvation, the head of security went to the High Room and talked to Rruk.

If he's that determined to see me, and he looks harmless, then certainly he should see me.

And so Rruk went down the stairs and through the labyrinth and came to the door-room, where the old man waited.

To her eyes, the old man was beautiful. Wrinkled, of course, but his eyes were innocent and yet wise, as if he had seen everything and forgiven it all. His lips, which opened in a smile the moment he saw her, were childlike. And his skin, translucent with age and yet harsh by comparison with his white, white hair, was unblemished. The wrinkles had been made more by pain than by joy, but the old man's expression transcended all the history of his face, and he reached out his arms to Rruk.

Rruk, he said, and embraced her.

And in the embrace she startled the doorkeeper and the head of security by saying, Ansset. You've come home.

There was only one Ansset who could come home to the Songhouse. To the doorkeeper, Ansset was the child who had sung so beautifully at his leavetaking. To the head of security, who had never known him, Ansset was the emperor of the universe.

To Rruk, Ansset was a well-beloved friend that she had sorely missed and grieved for when he did not come home more than sixty years ago.

4

You've changed, Rruk said.

So have you.

Rruk compared herself now to the awkward child she had been. Not so much as you might think. Ansset, why didn't you tell them who you were?

Ansset leaned against a shuttered window in the High Room. I tell the doorkeeper who I am, and in ten minutes the entire Songhouse knows I'm here. You might let me visit, and then after a few days you would take me aside and say, 'You can't stay here.'

You can't.

But I have, Ansset said. For months. I'm not that old yet, but I feel like I'm living in my own childhood again. The children are beautiful. When I was their age and size, I didn't know it.

Neither did I.

And neither do they. They throw bread at each other when the cook isn't looking, you know. Terrible breach of Control.

Control can't be absolute in children. Or most children, anyway.

Rruk, I've been away so long. Let me stay.

She shook her head. I can't.

Why not? I can do what I've been doing. Have I caused any harm? Just think of me as another Blind. It's what I am, you know. A Songbird who came back and can't be used as a teacher.

Rruk listened to him and her outward calm masked more and more turbulence inside. He had done no harm in the months he had been in the Songhouse, and yet it was against custom,

I don't care much about custom, Ansset said, Nothing in my life has been particularly customary.

Esste decided--

Esste is dead, he said, and while his words were harsh, she wondered if she could not detect a note of tenderness In his voice. You're in the High Room now. Esste loved me, but compassion was not her style,

Esste heard you try to sing.

I can't sing. I don't sing.

But you do. Unwittingly, perhaps, but you do. Just speaking, the melodies of your voice are more eloquent than many of us can manage when we're trying to perform.

Ansset looked away.

You haven't heard your own songs, Ansset. You've been through too much in the last years. In your first years, for that matter. Your voice is full of the worlds outside. Full of too much remembered pain and heavy responsibility. Who could hear you and not be affected?

You're afraid I'd pollute the children?

And the teachers. And me.

Ansset thought for a moment, I've been silent so far. I can keep being silent. I'll be mute here in the Songhouse.

How long could you keep that up?

Aren't there retreats? Let me come and go as I like, let me wander around Tew when I feel the need to speak, and then come back home.

This isn't your home anymore.

And then Control slipped away from Ansset and his face and his voice pled with her. Rruk, this is my home. For sixty-five years this has been my home, though I was barred from ever returning. I tried to stay away. I ruled in that palace for too many years, I lived among people I loved, but Rruk, how long could you survive being cut off from this stone?

And Rruk remembered her own time as a singer, the years on Umusuwee where they loved her and treated her well, and she called her patrons Father and Mother; and yet when she turned fifteen she fairly flew all the way home because the jangle could be beautiful and sweet, but cold stone had formed everything inside her and she could not bear to be away from it longer than she must.

What do they put in these walls, Ansset, that makes them have such a hold on us?

Ansset looked at her questioningly.

Ansset, I can't decide fairly. I understand what you feel, I think I understand, but the Songmaster in the High Room can't act for pity.

Pity, he said, his Control again in force.

I have to act for the good of the Songhouse. And your presence here would introduce too many things that we couldn't control. The consequences might be felt for centuries.

Pity, Ansset said again. I misunderstood. I thought I was asking you to act for love.

It was Rruk's turn to be silent, watching him. Love. That's right, she thought, that's what we exist for here. Love and peace and beauty, that's what the Songhouse is for. And one of our best children, one of the finest-no, the finest Songbird the house has ever produced-asks for love and out of fear I can't give it to him.

It did not feel right to Rruk. Making Ansset leave did not sound right in her mind, no matter what logic might demand. And Rruk was not Esste; she was not governed by logic and good sense.

If it were right for the decision in this case to be a sensible one, there would be a sensible Songmaster in the High Room, she said to him. But I don't make my decisions that way. I don't feel good about letting you stay, but I feel much worse about making you go.

Thank you, he said softly.

Silence within these walls. No child is to hear your voice, not even a grunt; You serve here as a Deaf. And when you can't bear the silence anymore, you may leave and go where you like. Take what money you need-you could spend forever and not use up what the Songhouse was paid for your services when you went to Earth.

And I can come back?

As often as you still want to. Provided you keep your silence here. And you'll forgive me if I forbid the Blinds and Deafs to tell any of the singers who you are.

He cast aside Control and smiled at her, and embraced her, and then sang to her:

I wil never hurt you.

I will always help you,

If you are hungry

I'll give you my food.

If you are frightened

I am your friend.

I love you now

And love does not end,

The song broke Rruk's heart, just for a moment. Because it was terrible. The voice was not even as good as that of a child. It was the voice of an old man who had talked too much and sung not at all for too many years. It was not controlled, it was not shaped, the melody was not even perfectly true. What he has lost! she cried out inside herself. Is this all that's left?

And yet the power was still there. The power had not been given to Ansset by the Songhouse, it had been born in him and magnified in him by his own suffering, and so when he sang the love song to her, it touched her deeply. She remembered her own weak voice singing those words to him what seemed a million years before, and yesterday.

She remembered his loyalty to her when he had not needed to be loyal. And her last misgivings about letting him stay disappeared.

You may talk to me, she said. To none of the others, but you cannot be a mute to me.

I'll pollute your voice as surely as the others.

She shook her head. Nothing that comes from you can do any harm to me. When I hear your voice I'll remember Ansset's Farewell. There are still quite a few of us who remember, you know. It keeps us humble, because we know what a voice can do. And it will keep me clean.

Thank you, he said again, and then left her, going down the stairs into the parts of the Songhouse where he had just promised that his voice would never be heard again.

5

After a few days' hiatus, the old man returned again to Rainbow Kitchen. The children were excited. They had been afraid this man of mystery would be gone forever. They watched carefully for some clue as to the reason for his disappearance. But he behaved as if nothing unusual had happened. And helped the cook afterward just as he had before.

Now, however, the old man did not disappear after meals. He began to appear in the corridors, in the Stalls, in the Common Room. He was doing jobs usually performed by young Deafs-sweeping, cleaning, changing bedding, washing clothing. He would appear silently, without knocking, as Deafs were allowed to do, but unlike Deafs he was not ignored. No one spoke to him, of course, but eyes followed him around the rooms, surreptitiously watching him, though he did nothing particularly unusual. It was himself that was unusual-for either the Songhouse had broken a thousand-year rule and let someone work inside the Songhouse who had never sung there as a child, or the old man had once been a singer, and there was a story behind his late appearance and his degradation.

There were speculations among the teachers, too, of course. They were not immune, and they soon learned that the Deafs and Blinds would not, under any amount of persuasion and wheedling, discuss the old man. Rruk quickly made it clear that she would not tolerate inquiry. And so they speculated. Of course, the name of Ansset came up with all the other names they knew of singers who had failed to return or who had not found a place within the Songhouse, but none of the names was agreed on as even probable, and Ansset's was far from being the most common suggested. When a man had been emperor, they could not imagine him sweeping floors.

Only two people were sure, besides Rruk and the Deafs and Blinds.

One was a new songmaster named Ller, who had been away as a seeker for many years and returned to find the old man wandering through the Songhouse, ubiquitous and silent as a ghost He had recognized him instantly- years could not conceal from Ller the features of a face he had memorized in childhood. He toyed with the idea of finding Ansset alone sometime, approaching him, and greeting him with the love and honor he felt toward the man. But then he thought better of the idea. If Ansset was silent and unknown in the Songhouse, it was because of a good reason, and until Ller was given permission to violate that silence and anonymity, he would keep his peace. However, whenever he saw the old man he could not help feeling a rush of childhood sweeping over him, and a sadness to see the greatest of all the singers brought so low.

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.

He could not go to the one called Retreat, on the shores of the largest lake in the world, for that was where teachers and masters came from the Songhouse, when they needed ease from their labors. His vow of silence would still be in force there.

The other two were open to him, however.

Vigil, far in the south, was an island of sand and rock lapped by the water of a shallow sea. It was beautiful in a fierce way, and the stone city of Vigil that stood on its northernmost tip was a comforting place, an island of green in the wasteland. Once Vigil had been a fortress, in the days when the Songhouse had been a village and the world was wracked by war. Now it was where the failures went.

Hundreds of singers went out from the Songhouse every year, to do service until they were fifteen years old. Only a few in a decade were Songbirds, but singers were also highly prized, and all were welcomed home when they came.

Some singers became so well adapted to the world they served on that they did not want to come home. The seeker sent for them would try to persuade for several days, but if persuasion did not work, there was no force, and the Songhouse paid for their education until they were twenty-two, just as if they had been Deafs.

Some singers came home to the Songhouse and quickly found happiness in teaching, and were good at it, and remained in the Songhouse for the rest of their lives, except for retreats to Retreat. They could become Songmasters, in time, and if they had the ability. And they ruled the Songhouse.

But there were other variations. Not all who came back to Tew were fit to be teachers, and a place had to be found for them. And not all the singers finished their time. There were some who could not bear the outside worlds, who needed the comfort of stone walls and seclusion and rigorous living and routine. There were those who went mad. The price of the music, the leaders of the Songhouse called it, and took tender care of those who had paid most dearly, gaining their voices but losing their minds.

These were the ones who came to Vigil, and Ansset could talk to them, for they would never come back to the Songhouse.

The sea between the Desert of Squint and the Island of Vigil was shallow, rarefy more than two meters deep, with sandbars frequently shifting, so that the passage could almost be made on foot, if the sun were not so dangerously hot and the bottom so unpredictable. As it was, the passage was uncomfortable in a shallow-draft barge, though a canopy kept the voyager in the shade. Ansset was piloted by a young Deaf who spent three months a year here, running the ferry. The Deaf talked eagerly-visitors were few-and Ansset heard in his voice the peace of the place. For all that the land was dry and the water was not deep, there was life here. Fish moved lazily under the water. Birds dove for them and ate them on the wing. Large insects walked along the surface or lived just under it, sucking air from above.

This is where all the life is, the boy said. The fish couldn't live underwater without the insects that live on or just under the surface. The birds couldn't live without diving through to get the fish. And the insects eat the surface plants. All the life exists because there's just that thin layer of water that touches the air. The boy had studied. He had no voice, but he had a mind and a heart, and had found a place for himself out here. If he couldn't live in the water, he would live in the air.

He said as much. You know, the Songhouse couldn't live without sending singers to the outside world.

And Ansset told him, And the outside world, all the outside worlds, I wonder if they could really live without the Songhouse.

The boy laughed. Oh, I think the music's just a luxury, that's what I think. Lovely, but they don't need it.

Ansset kept his disagreement to himself. And wondered a little if maybe the boy was right.

There were only seven people living in Vigil, so there was no lack of room for Ansset. Three of them were Blinds, so that only four were mad.

One of the mads was a girl, not more than twenty, who walked every day from the cool of the towers to the sea, where she would lie naked, her body half in the water, half out. As the tides moved, so would she. And whenever a breeze would blow, she would sing, a plaintive, beautiful melody that was never twice the same, but that seemed never to vary, a song of loneliness and a mind as placid and seemingly empty as the sea. When the wind died, so did her song, so that most of the time she lay in silence.

She talked to no one, and seemed not to notice that anyone existed, except that she ate what was placed before her and never disobeyed the few orders she was given.

Another mad was an old man, who had spent almost all his life in Vigil. He took long excursions from the town, and in fact seemed not to be insane at all. I was cured long ago, he said, but I prefer it here. He was brown from the sun, and collected shellfish from the edge of the water, which formed an important part of the menus at Vigil. The man told the same stories over and over, and, if he was left uninterrupted, he would repeat them one after another to the same person all day and far into the night. Ansset did it once, letting him have his audience. The old man finally fell asleep. He had never varied the stories once. Ansset asked one of the Blinds. No, the Blind answered. None of his stories is true.

And the other two were kept safely in rooms where their madness was seen only by the Blinds who cared for them. Sometimes Ansset could hear them singing, but the songs were always too distant for him to hear well.

Ansset visited Vigil only the once; it was more than he could bear. There were those, he realized, who had paid a higher price than he for their songs, and who had been given less. Alone in the rocky hills behind the towers, he sang, and learned new echoes and new emotions for his song.

And he sang with the girl who lay partly in the sea, and his voice did not silence hers. Once she even looked at him, and smiled, and he felt that his voice might not be so hateful, after all. He sang her the love song, and the next day he left Vigil.

The other retreat was Promontory, and it was by far the largest. Here was where most of the Blinds lived, singers who returned and discovered that they did not really enjoy teaching, that they weren't really good at it. Promontory was a city of people who sang constantly, but spent their lives doing other things than music.

Promontory also coasted on a sea, the huge stone buildings (for the Songhouse children could never be long from stone) towering over a choppy, frigid sea. There were no children there, by age, but the games played in the woods, in the fields, and in the cold water of the bay were all children's games. As Rruk had explained to him before he came to Promontory, They gave up most of their childhood singing for other people's pleasure. Now they can be children all they like.

It was not all play, however. There were huge libraries, with teachers who had learned what the universe had to teach them and were passing their knowledge on down to ever younger Blinds until finally they died, usually happy. They never called themselves Blinds here, of course-here they were just people, as if everyone lived this way. Those who showed exceptional ability at government and administration were brought to the Songhouse to serve; the rest were content most of the time at Promontory.

Ansset wasn't, however. The setting was beautiful and the people were kind, but it was too crowded, and while there was no restriction on his speaking to them, he found that they looked at him oddly because he never sang. Soon enough they knew who he was-his identity was no secret among the Blinds-and while they treated him with deference, there was no hope of friendship. His strange life was unintelligible to most of them, and they left him alone.

Inevitably, then, though he visited Promontory several times, he came back to the Songhouse after only a week or so. Speech to the Blinds and solitary songs in the forest or desert were not enough to attract him away from the songs of the children.

And, after a while, there was another reason for him to return. He had never meant to break his vow of silence; he was ashamed when he realized that Rruk could not trust him after all, that his Control was not enough to stop him. But some promises cannot be kept, he knew. And some should not be kept. And so, in one quiet room in the Song-house, where Esste once had taught him to sing until he touched the edges of the walls, he sang.

7

If Ller had not been Fiimma's Songmaster, it might have gone undiscovered. And if Fiimma had been a worse singer, it might not have worried Ller enough to report it. But Fiimma was obviously going to be a Songbird. And the changes in her songs, which might have been mysterious to another Songmaster, were easily explained to Ller. For he knew that Ansset was in the Songhouse. And he recognized his music in Fiimma's strange new songs.

At first he thought it was just a momentary lapse-that Fiimma had overheard Ansset somehow and incorporated what she heard into her music. But the themes became persistent. Fiimma sang songs that required experiences she had never had. She had always sung of death, but now she sang of killing; she sang of passion she could not possibly have felt; her melodies bespoke the pain of suffering she could not have gone through, not in her few years.

Fiimma, Ller said. I know.

She had Control. She showed nothing of the surprise, the fear she must have felt.

Did he tell you he made an oath of silence?

She nodded.

Come with me.

Ller took her to the High Room, where Rruk let them in. Rruk had often heard Fiimma sing before-the child had showed promise from the start. I want you to hear Fiimma sing, Ller told Rruk.

But Fiimma would not sing.

Then I'll have to tell you, Ller said. I know that Ansset is here. I thought I was the only singer who knew. But Fiimma has heard him sing. It has distorted her voice.

It has made my voice more beautiful, Fiimma said.

She sings things she shouldn't know anything about.

Rruk looked at the girl, but spoke to Ller. Ller, my friend, Ansset used to sing things he didn't know. He would take it from the voices of the people who spoke to him, as no singer has ever been able to do.

But Fiimma has never shown that ability. There isn't any doubt, Rruk. He has not only been singing in the Songhouse, he has been teaching Fiimma. I don't know what conditions you imposed on Ansset, but I thought you should know this. Her voice has been polluted.

It was then that Fiimma sang to Rruk, removing all doubt of Ansset's influence. She must have been holding back on the things she learned from Ansset when she sang for Ller before. For now her voice came out full, and it was not at all the voice that Fiimma had had only months ago.

The song was more powerful than it had a right to be. She had learned emotions she had no reason ever to have felt. And she knew tricks, subtle and distorted things she did with her voice that were irresistibly surprising, that could not easily be coped with, that Rruk and Ller could hardly bear without breaking Control. The song was beautiful, yet it was also terrible, something that should not be coming out of the mouth of a child.

What has he done to you? Rruk asked, when the song was through.

He has taught me my most beautiful voice, Fiimma said. Didn't you hear it? Wasn't it beautiful?

Rruk did not answer. She only summoned the head of housekeeping, and had him call for Ansset.

8

I trusted you, Rruk said to Ansset...nsset did not answer.

You taught Fiimma. You sang to her. And you consciously taught her things she had no business learning.

I did, he said softly.

The damage is irreparable. Her own voice will never be restored to her, her purity is gone. She was our finest voice in years.

She still is.

She isn't herself. Ansset, how could you? Why did you? He was silent for a moment, then made a decision. She knew who I was, he said.

She couldn't have.

No one told her. She just knew. When I realized it, I kept away from her as much as I could. For two years, whenever I saw her I would leave. Because she knew.

Why couldn't you have kept it up?

She wouldn't let me. She followed me. She wanted me to teach her. She had heard of me ever since she came here, and she wanted to know my voice. So one day she followed me into a room that no one uses, where I sometimes went because-because of memories. And she begged me.

Rruk stood and walked away from him. Tell me the coercion she used. Tell me why you didn't just go out the door.

I wanted to. But Rruk, you don't understand. She wanted to hear my voice. She wanted to hear me sing,

I thought you couldn't sing.

I can't. And so I told her that. I broke the vow and said to her, 'I don't have any songs. I lost them all years ago.'

And as he said it, Rruk understood. For his speech was his song, and that was enough to have broken all the barriers.

She sang it back to me, you see, Ansset said. She took my words and my feelings and she sang them back. Her voice was beautiful. She took my wretched voice and turned it into a song. The song I would have sung, if I had been able. I couldn't help myself then, I didn't want to help myself.

Rruk turned to face him. She was Controlled, but he knew, or thought he knew, what she was thinking. Rruk, my friend, Ansset said, you hear a hundred children singing your songs every day. You've touched them all, you sing to them all in the great hall, you know that when these singers go out and come back, and in all the years to come, your voice will be preserved among their voices.

But not mine! Never mine! Oh, perhaps my childish songs before I left. But I hadn't lived then. I hadn't learned. Rruk, there are things I know that should not be forgotten. But I can't tell anyone, except by singing, and only someone who sings could understand my voice. Do you know what that means?

I can't have any children. I lived with a family that loved me in Susquehanna, but they were never my children. I couldn't give them anything that was very deep within me, because they couldn't hear the songs. And I come here, where I could speak to everyone and be understood, and I must be silent. That was fine, the silence was my price, I know about paying for happiness, and I was willing.

But Fiimma. Fiimma is my child.

Rruk shook her head and sang softly to him, that she regretted what she had to do, but he would have to leave. He had broken his word and damaged a child, and he would have to leave. What should be done with the child she would decide later.

For a moment it seemed he would accept it in silence. He got up and went to the door. But instead of leaving, he turned. And shouted at her. And the shout became a song. He told her of his joy at finding Fiimma, though he had never looked for her. He told her of the agony of knowing his songs were dead forever, that his voice, no matter how much it improved in his solitary singing in the forest and the desert, would be irrevocably lost, unable to express what was in him. It comes out ugly and weak, but she hears, Rruk. She understands. She translates it through her own childishness and it comes out beautiful.

And ugly. There are ugly things in you, Ansset.

There are! And there are ugly things in this place, too. Some of them are living and breathing and trying pitifully to sing in Vigil. Some of them are playing like lost children at Promontory, pretending that there's something important in the rest of their lives. But they know it's a lie! They know their lives ended when they turned fifteen and they came home and could not be teachers. They live all their lives in fifteen years and the rest, the next hundred years, they're nothing! That's beautiful?

You had more than fifteen years, Rruk answered.

Yes. I have felt everything. And I survived. I found the ways to survive, Rruk. How long do you think someone as frail and gifted as Fiimma would have lasted out there? Do you think she could survive what I came through?

No.

Now she could. Because now she knows all my ways. She knows how to keep hope alive when everything else is dead. She knows because I taught her, and that's what is coming out in her songs. It's raw and it's harsh but in her it will be beautiful. And do you think it will hurt her songs? They'll be different, but the audiences out there-I know what they want. They want her. As she is now. Far more than they would ever have wanted her before.

You learned to make speeches in Susquehanna, Rruk said. He laughed and turned back toward the door. Someone had to make them.

You're good at it.

Rruk, he said, his back still to her. If it had been anyone but Fiimma. If she had not been such a perfect singer. If she hadn't wanted my voice so much. I would never have broken my oath to you.

Rruk came to him where he stood by the door. She touched his shoulder, and ran her fingers down his back. He turned, and she took his face in her hands, and drew it close, and kissed him on the eyes and on the lips.

All my life, she said, I have loved you.

And she wept.

9

The word spread quickly through the Songhouse, carried by the Deafs. The children were to return to the Common Room and the Stalls, where the Blinds would watch them and take them to meals, if necessary. All 'the teachers and tutors and masters, all the high masters and Songmasters and every seeker who was at home-they were called to the great hall, for the Songmaster of the High Room had to speak to them.

Not sing. Speak.

So they came, worried, wondering silently and. aloud what was going to happen.

Rruk stood before them, controlled again so that none would know that she had lost Control. Behind her on the stone stage sat Ansset, the old man. Ller alone of all the teachers recognized him, and wondered-surely he should have been quietly expelled, not brought before them all lake this. And yet Ller felt a thrill of hope run through him. Perhaps Mikal's Songbird would sing again. It was absurd-he had heard the terrible changes his songs had wrought in Fiimma's voice. But still he hoped. Because he knew Ansset's voice and having heard it could not help but long for it again.

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.

At the end of the sixth day his voice fell silent, and his work was done.

It took time for the effects to be felt. At first all the songs in all the Common Rooms and Chambers were worse; all the children staggered under the weight of what had been given them. But after a few days some of the children began to incorporate Ansset's life into their songs. After a few weeks, to one degree or another, all the children had. And the teachers, too, were colored by the experience, so that a whole new depth sang through the halls of the Songhouse.

And that year even the singers who left the Songhouse sounded like Songbirds to the people they went to serve. And the Songbirds were so strong, so beautiful, that people all over the empire said, Something has happened to the Songhouse.

Those who had heard Ansset sing when he was still a child in the palace sometimes realized where they had heard such songs before. They sing like Mikal's Songbird, they said. I never thought to hear such things again, but they sing like Mikal's Songbird.

11

After Ansset sang his life to the children of the Songhouse, he felt a great weight leave him. He went with Rruk to the High Room, and tried to explain to her how it felt, I didn't know that was what I wanted to do. But that was why I came home.

I know, Rruk said.

He did not bother with Control now. She had seen all of him, all of his life, as he revealed it to the deepest places in her from the stage in the great hall. There were no secrets now. And so he wept out his relief for an hour, and then sat in silence with her for another hour, and then:

What do you want to do now? Rruk asked. There's no reason for silence now. You're free to live here as you choose. Do whatever you want to do.

Ansset thought, but not long.

No, he said. I did everything I came here to do.

Oh, she answered. But what else is there? Where will you go?

Nowhere, he said. And then, Have I done a Work?

Yes, she answered, knowing as she did that she was giving him permission to die.

Have I done a Work worthy of this room? he asked.

And again, though no one had ever been granted such a thing before, she said, Yes.

Now? he asked.

Yes, she said, and as she left the room, he was opening all the shutters, letting the cold air of late autumn pour in. Only Songmasters of the High Room had been allowed to choose the time when their work ended, until now. But it would be absurd, Rruk thought, to deny the greatest Songbird of them all the death granted to others far less worthy of the honor.

As she walked out the door, he spoke to her. Rruk," he said.

She turned to face him.

You were the first to love me, he said, and you're the last,

They all love you, she said, not bothering not to cry.

Perhaps, he said. I thought I would die and disappear from the universe, Rruk, But thanks to you, they're all my children now. He smiled, and she managed to smile back; she ran back into the room, embraced him one more tune as if they were still children instead of an old man and an old woman who had known each other too well, and yet hardly at all. Then she turned and left him, and closed the door after her, and three days later the cold and the hunger had done their job. He was so ready to go that he had never wavered, had never in the last extremity sought the comfort of the blankets. He died naked on the stone, and Rruk thought afterward that she had never seen anyone look so comfortable as he did, with rocks pressing into his back and the wind blowing mercilessly over his body.

They delayed the funeral until the emperor could come, with Efrim's parents, Kyaren and the Mayor, the first to arrive. Kyaren did not weep, though she nearly broke when she confided to Rruk privately, I knew he would die, but I never thought it would be so soon, or without my seeing him again. And, breaking precedent again, though broken taboos were becoming quite common in the Songhouse, Efrim, Kyaren, and the Mayor attended the funeral and heard the songs; and they were not resented when they wept uncontrollably at Fiimma's funeral song.

Only Rruk went to the burial, however, of all the people in the Songhouse, except for the Deafs who actually did the work. It's not a sight much conducive to song, she told Kyaren as they stood together by the grave, to watch death carry someone into the ground. The dirt closes over him so finally.

And the two women who were the only ones left who had loved him in his childhood stood each with an arm around the other's waist as the Deafs tossed dirt into the grave. He's not dead, you know, said Kyaren. He'll never be forgotten. They'll always remember him.

But Rruk knew that memories, however long they are, grow dim, and eventually Ansset would just be a name lost in the books, to be studied by pedants. Perhaps his stories would survive as folk tales, but again his name would be linked to a life that was scarcely his anymore- already the stories of Mikal's Songbird were far grander than the real events had been. Nobler, and so less painful.

Part of Ansset would live, however. Not that anyone would know it was Ansset. But as singers and Songbirds left Tew and went throughout the galaxy, they would take with them what they had learned from the voices of the singers in the Songhouse. And now a powerful undercurrent in all those voices would be Ansset's life, which he had given them irrevocably, forever theirs and forever powerful and forever full of beauty, pain, and hope.