Songmaster (39 page)

Riktors died three years afterward, in the spring, and in his will he asked the empire to accept Ansset as his heir. It seemed the natural thing to do, since Riktors had no children and their love for each other was legendary. So Ansset was crowned and reigned for sixty years, until he was eighty-two years old, always with the help of Kyaren and the Mayor; privately they regarded each other as equals, though it was Ansset’s head that wore the crown.

They became beloved, all of them, as Mikal and Riktors, who had made many enemies, could never have been loved. The stories gradually came out, about Ansset and Mikal and Riktors and Josif and Kyaren and the Mayor; they became myths that people could cling to, because they were true. The stories were told, not in public meetings, where it might be politic to praise the rulers of the empire, but in private, in homes where people marveled at the things the great ones suffered, while children dreamed of being Songbirds, loved by everyone, so that someday they could become emperors on the golden throne at Susquehanna.

The legends amused Ansset because they had grown so in the telling, and touched Kyaren because she knew it was a reflection of the people’s love. But it changed nothing. In the middle of the government, surrounded by work for a hundred thousand worlds, they managed to make a family of it. Every night they would come home together, Mayor and Kyaren as husband and wife, with Efrim the oldest of their children; and Ansset was the uncle who never took a wife, who acted more like the older brother to everyone, who played with the children and talked with the parents but then, in the end, went alone to his bedroom where the noise of the family penetrated softly, as if from a great distance.

You are mine, but you are not mine, Ansset said. I am yours, but you hardly know it.

He was not unhappy.

But he wasn’t happy, either.

“This is a hell of a thing to spring on us,” Kyaren said crossly.

“If you expect either of us to take the crown, you’re going to be disappointed,” the Mayor said.

“I wouldn’t give you the crown if you wanted it,” Ansset said smiling. “I’m getting old, and you’re even older. So to hell with you.” He turned and called across the room, where Efrim was talking to two of his brothers while he held his youngest grandson in his arms. “Efrim,” Ansset called. “Are you ready to be emperor?”

Efrim laughed, but then saw that Ansset was not laughing. He came to the table where his parents and his uncle sat. “You’re joking?” he asked.

“Are you ready? I’m leaving.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

“Don’t make it such a mystery,” Kyaren said, cutting in. “He has some crazy idea that the Songhouse is aching to have him come home.”

Ansset was still smiling, still watching Efrim’s face.

“You’re really abdicating?”

“Efrim,” Ansset said, letting himself sound impatient, “you knew damn well you’d be emperor someday. How many of
my
children do you see crowding around? Now I ask you, are you ready?”

“Yes,” Efrim answered seriously.

“When Mikal abdicated, it took him only a couple of weeks. I won’t dally so long. Tomorrow.”

“Why so quickly?” Kyaren asked.

“I’ve made up my mind. I want to do it. I’m wasting time waiting here.”

“If you just want to visit, Ansset, visit,” the Mayor said. “Stay on Tew for a few months. Then decide.”

“You don’t understand,” Ansset said. “I don’t want to go there as emperor. I want to go there as Ansset. Not even Ansset the former Songbird. Just Ansset who’s willing to sweep or clean stables or any damn thing they have for me to do, but don’t you understand? This is home for you, and for me too, in a way—”

“In every way—”

“No. Because you belong here. But this isn’t what I was born for. I’m not right here. I was raised among songs. I want to die among them.”

“Esste’s dead, Ansset. She died years ago. Will you even know anyone there? You’ll just be a stranger.” Kyaren looked worried, but Ansset reached out and playfully smoothed the wrinkles on her forehead. “Don’t bother,” she said, brushing his hand away. “They’ve been permanently engraved.”

“It’s not Esste I’m going back to see. It’s not anyone.”

And Efrim put his hand on his uncle’s shoulder. “It’s Ansset you want to find, isn’t it? Some little boy or girl with a voice that moves stones, isn’t it?”

Ansset clapped his hand over Efrim’s and laughed. “Another me? I’ll never find another Ansset, Efrim! If I go there looking for that, I’ll never find it. I may not have sung long, but no one will ever sing like that again.”

And Kyaren realized that out of all the achievements of his life, out of all that he had done, Ansset was still proudest of what he had done when he was ten years old.

The legends would have been good enough just with the stories that were current before Ansset abdicated. But there was one more story to add, and for this one Ansset left Earth, left his office, left the last of his money at the station, and arrived penniless at the Songhouse door.

They let him in.

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 snowflakes 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.