There was a rustling murmur from the assembly, then a voice sang into the quiet, ‘Sur-aaaaaa,’ the sound fading and hanging in the air to be joined by another voice, and another, until the cavern hummed with the long-drawn harmony of voice on voice.
Medlo sat up, his face suddenly awakened into full attention as though someone had spoken his name. Sybil grunted harshly and made a gesture of appeal, but the voices continued, building, notes added at the top and the bottom of the scale until the chord stretched from a low, almost baritone sound to a single, high birdlike fluting. Terascouros came slowly to her feet, beckoning Medlo and Leona to follow. They went from the chamber, Sybil’s rigid figure striding before them.
‘That old woman is my aunt,’ said Terascouros. ‘My mother’s sister. I had thought her dead long since, but here she is, still creaking about and still able to cry peace in the chamber even in the face of Sybil’s wrath. Would she had been here sixteen years past.’
Leona gestured impatience. ‘What will they do now?’
‘Now they will do as I did in the northern forest when Leona cried that I should see her and I could not. They will take time to set aside all they have believed about me, about Mawen if they knew of her, about Sybil. They will set aside what they have believed about the world, divesting themselves of all preconceptions, all judgments. It is a difficult exercise, one we learn when we join the Order. They will do it, then they will send their minds out to seek the truth.’
‘Send their minds out?’ asked Medlo curiously.
‘A thing most of them can do. A thing that the Sisterhoods do. Not often, Medlo. It is hard, and it troubles the world. You may read of it in the libraries.’
Leona mocked gently. ‘And will they find the truth?’
‘Some may.’ She led them toward Jaer’s resting place. ‘Some among the Sisters will, and they will lead the others. Finally they will tell us.’
‘About?’ Medlo demanded. As a musician of sorts, he had been shocked and entranced at the ‘call of peace.’ There had been a power in the chanber which he had recognized without being able to identify or duplicate it. At that instant, and for the first time, he had felt there was something more to the Sisterhood than a mere sequestered order of females. ‘What will they tell us about, Terascouros?’
‘About the truth of what we have told them. They will see whether their vision of it is the same as ours. They will see whether we did what we thought we did.’
‘Of course we did. We were there!’
‘Perhaps not. It is always terrible to learn that what has seemed real is false, what has seemed shadow is real. Still, it is more terrible not to know.’
‘When will they…’
‘Days. It is not easy, Medlo. It is not done lightly. We must be patient.’
They were not patient. Still, there was time to rest, to think, and talk.
Jaer slept as though Jaer would never wake. Terascouros asked some of the Sisters and the men to take their turns as story makers for the Jaer who changed again and again before their wondering eyes. None of the travellers had any stories left to tell, and from that time on the illusions in which Jaer dreamed had to come from others. Thus freed, Jaer’s fellows turned to other things.
Medlo spent his time in the music libraries, talking with the choral leaders, trying strange instruments, reading ancient manuscripts with exotic names: the Plainsong of the Alamathan Rite, the Descant of Urthrees, the Thienese Oratorios – as well as volumes with simple, chilling titles: the Chant of Forbidding; the Calling Chant; the Song of Closing; the Melody of Quest. He immersed himself in song, coming up now and again for food, smiling mildly, lost to reality. Around him the Sisters shook their heads. Had he been one of them, he would have been set to certain duties, given certain exercises to bring the learning into perspective. As it was, what did one do with a guest who at once understood so much and so little? At last they went to the ancient woman, the aunt of Terascouros, and begged her advice between sessions of the Council. She sent for Medlo.
‘In return for our music, traveller, would you keep an old woman company for a time? Sit here in the sun. See how the light reflects through that crystal hanging in the window cleft? It throws little rainbows of light into the caverns. The children love to chase the little lights, moving up and down, across, up and down. You are very tired, aren’t you? So late awake, studying our music. Very tired. The lights are very pretty. See the way they move? Across and back and your eyes are very heavy, are they not? So heavy. Sleep. I will wake you later, when you have rested. Your eyes are so very heavy. Sleep.’
Then she did what only a very old and experienced (and near to die) Sister would have dared to do. She taught him the things the Sisters had learned about the music they made. She taught him that the Song of Opening is only a musical statement of the
