Brek accepts my formal words of
acceptance, but sees that I am troubled, and is concerned. Without
further speech, I turn and walk back to the streets. Brek will ask,
next time we meet, but for now will leave me with my thoughts.
I wander, some, and find myself where I
knew I would, at the Tower of Winds. It is the tallest in the city,
from which the winds which we breathe and which allow us to Sing are
generated. I climb the stairs, eight long flights that I take
slowly.
To be asked to sing the Song of Another
is an honor, a sign of respect. Twice before have I sung it. Two
Singers walk through our city because of my notes, my voice, my pain.
To sing the Song of Another is to wrench part of oneself free, part
of one's Song, and fling it to the Winds, that it might reappear
elsewhere as a new Singer.
None of us knows who Sung us forth, and
none knows who they sung, not anymore. When there were few of us,
long before I was Sung, it was impossible not to know these things.
Now, with so many of us, there is no way we can know who we were made
by, nor who we have made. It seems to me that something was lost
when this became true, perhaps something that should not have been
allowed to disappear.
The top floor of the Tower of Winds is
open to the world. Four pillars support the cupola, and only open
air stands elsewhere here. I look out on the eight sections of the
city, the line of Singers around it marking where we sing the Great
Song of Light. The Song that keeps at bay the darkness that
surrounds us.
I like this view. From here,
individual Singers are just motes against the background formed by
the flagstones of the city. From here, we are not beings of flesh
and bone, we are light, champions of the Singing against the
Darkness.
Some have thought of mixing the words
of speech into our Songs, but none have done this, yet, I think.
Only the voice, the note, the song matter. To add words seems...
superfluous. It is interesting, though, to imagine what the addition
of conscious meaning to the fluid content of Songs would do. I
cannot imagine that anything would happen, as the requirements of the
words would eliminate the intentions of the song. But who knows?
Perhaps it is something I will try at some point.
The Song of Another begins to pull at
me, deep behind my eyes. I can feel the first notes coming together,
long and slow, deep like the bass notes of Singer Foun's Song of the
Forge. None of us makes bronze quite so well as Foun, although not
so much the iron and steel that are mostly used now.
With a deeper breath, and with
reluctant anticipation tightening my throat, I begin the first note.
503
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