Voice Lessons
Chapter Two
The air felt oddly heavy. It pressed against his head and body, to the tips of his fingers and toes. Zahir fought to open his eyes, but it require energy, too much, and at the sound of raised, angry voices, he ceased his futile efforts and reserved his limited resources to listening.
"What do you mean, you told him to jump?" That was Lord Wyldon; he'd recognize that voice anywhere, but Zahir had never heard him sound this angry. When the man was livid, his voice dropped dangerously low.
"I didn't expect the little bastard to actually do it!" That was the king, sounding equally flustered, angry, and upset.
"You endangered the life of one of our finest pages." Zahir felt a rush of warmth at those rare words of commendation from the strict training master. "You appointed me as training master to produce loyal knights." Wyldon's soft voice was steel. "Loyal to you. Are you now complaining that I've done so?"
"Not at all, you've done a magnificent job at a thankless task, Wyldon," the king said placatingly.
"Then I shall not tender my resignation over such a gross miscarriage of honor. Provided, of course, that Page Zahir is properly compensated."
Pause. "Your majesty, what did he want?" That was the healer, Duke Baird, and the voice came from right above his head.
Another lengthy pause, then a disgruntled, "He asked to be my squire"
Another voice spoke up. Zahir thought it might be the prime minister, Gareth of Naxen, one of the king's cronies since their years as pages. "I don't understand the problem, Jon. Your last squire just underwent his Ordeal, and I know you had no intention of taking on Roald."
"He wants to be the next Voice."
"That's an interesting thought. It does remove the power from the throne, but places it in the hands of a loyal knight. A Bazhir, no less."
"You can't just decideto be the Voice," replied the king irritably. "Either you have the potential or you don't."
"I suggest," added Wyldon, "that it would be appropriate for you to test him by taking him as your squire. If he still wants to, after this."
A disgusted sigh. "I'm sure he does."
"I do." Zahir forced the words past numb lips, a burst of adrenaline at his revived chances giving him energy to open his eyes. He saw everyone he expected, but his eyes fixated on the king.
Duke Baird's old kindly face filled his vision. "Sleep now, page. You shouldn't even be awake yet after your healing."
As emerald-wreathed fingers reached for his face, Zahir got out the final word before the Dream God claimed him and filled the darkness of his mind with fantastical images.
"I will be the Voice."
Even though Zahir knew he was technically the king's squire, he hadn't seen the man for days, not even at his high haunts on the curtain wall and the palace roof. The Bazhir didn't exactly give up, but he was content to wait until his new knight-master calmed down and accepted that he was his squire.
So it was surprising when Zahir happened to be walking down the corridor that housed the royal family and other important personages that he found the king on his knees in front of his door. From the sight of the thin pieces of metal in his hands, it seemed that he was picking the lock on the door.
"Did you lose your key, sire?" he asked politely.
The Voice sent him a scornful look but otherwise ignored him, then let out a soft laugh as the door popped open. He rose and was half-way inside before he replied, "If you're coming in, do so already. Close the door, too."
Zahir blinked in surprise, but followed the instructions to find the king standing in front of the fireplace, frowning.
"Do you have flint on you, squire?" he demanded.
"Ah, no, sire." When he rose that morning, Zahir had not been aware that he'd be going on a trip into the Royal Forest, or lighting fires inside the palace, so he hadn't grabbed his fire-making materials.
"No matter. Use this and light the fire."
Startled, the boy caught the negligently tossed flint, but went ahead and lit the fire with a few practiced motions, though he wondered why the Gifted king didn't start his own fire. Still, it was best not to question, he decided, not when the king had only just accepted him.
When the fire was apparently sufficiently large, the king strode towards the nearest armoire,. He took out an armful of tunics, which were then fed one by one into the growing flames.
"Sire, why are you burning your clothes?" Zahir asked slowly.
"If you want to be the Voice, you must learn to ask the right questions," said the king as he investigated a drawer and pulled out a red silk shirt. "This is from years ago," he muttered. "Does it even still fit?" That went into the fire as well, and Zahir winced.
When his knight-master picked up a small comb and tossed it into the merry blaze, Zahir had a terrible thought. "Whose room is this?"
"About time," he replied cheerfully. "Thatis the right question. This is Gary's room."
"Wait, the Prime Minister? Why are you burning his stuff?" Zahir was incredibly confused, and the growing smoke the drifted from the crackling inferno didn't help the thinking process.
"Because I can't burn Wyldon's." He looked around, found a bottle of hair lotion, and shoved it in. "I need the man, and he'd never tolerate this. But Gary has no choice." He surveyed his handiwork with great satisfaction. "Wipe that distraught look off your face, squire, there are enough fire charms on the room to smother blazebalm, let alone a piddly flame or two."
With that, he strode towards a window and shoved it open, and in less than a second, stood outside looking in. "Now, either stay there or leave. I suggest you go, and not by the door. Servants should be coming at any second now." Then he was gone.
Standing in the increasingly smoky room, Zahir suddenly realized what it would look like if someone were to enter that moment. He swore, coughing on the smoke, and at the sound of running footsteps, he dove towards the window. Zahir just barely escaped in time, for he heard panicked voices as soon as he was out and over the window.
At the top of the roof perched the king. He saw his new squire, gave a cheery wave, and disappeared over the other side.
As Zahir carefully traversed the roof, he wondered if the king was really crazy, if he was that vindictive, or if he was trying to get him to quit. So far, his money was on the first option.
When Zahir realized that the king was not going to start his Voice training without being prompted, he decided to take the initiative and simply ask.
Surprisingly, his knight-master was not on the roof, which had been the first place Zahir checked. Nor was he on the curtain wall or in the throne room or the meeting rooms. Zahir finally broke down and asked the harried-looking Prime Minister, whose ill-fitting tunic looked hastily completed.
Zahir rolled his eyes when he set off for the king's chambers - it just seemed too normal- but sure enough, when he knocked briskly, a few minutes later, his new knight-master opened the door with bleary eyes.
"Yes, squire?" he grunted.
"Am I, your majesty?"
The king looked at him for a minute and sighed. "I can see this will take longer than I'd like, and you won't be put off. Come in, if you must."
Zahir followed, attempting not to lose his newfound pseudo-confidence, and sat in a chair by the fireplace - not lit, thankfully - after the king sat in the accompanying chair.
"You have something on your chest. Might as well speak and get it out." The king nursed a hot cup of tea as he spoke.
"You say I'm your squire, but I haven't done anything," Zahir burst out. "You said I could train to be Voice, but so far all I've done is fall off the roof and help you burn the Prime Minister's wardrobe."
"That's not entirely true. You didn't fall, you stepped off the roof. Into thin air. What did you expect would happen?"
Zahir scowled. "I thought you wouldn't let me do it. I thought you were testing me, my trust in you, my resolve, not trying to kill me."
"Again with the dramatics." He rolled his eyes, but set down his cup. "You want Voice training? Here." The Voice grabbed a loose scrap of paper, a pen, and jotted down a list of titles. "Read one or all of these. I won't test you on them, and I don't expect you to find them all. Mithros," he added, peering quizzically at the last title, "I'm not sure this one even exists. And thatone is certainly not in Corus. Perhaps in the City of the Gods?"
Zahir looked doubtfully at the growing list. "Which is the most important?"
The king shrugged. "Why ask me? I haven't read them." With a last few jots, he yawned and stood up in with leisurely stretch. "I must go to fulfill my kingly duties. Since you are officially my squire, I suppose you may call me Jonathan. None of this 'Voice' or 'majesty' business. It gets quite old."
Zahir watched the king's - no, Jonathan's - retreating back, then grabbed the paper.
His heart sank as he read the list.
Zahir had never heard of the titles, and three of them were underlined, two were starred, one had a question mark, another an exclamation point, and the last a sad face.
"Squire."
Zahir jumped, his attention fully engrossed by the odd book in front of him. "Your majesty!" He quickly got to his feet. When the king coughed, he amended hastily, "Jonathan."
Jonathan grinned and gestured at the stacks of books. "Working hard?"
Zahir looked at the myriad of titles with a rueful and exasperated glance. Of the nineteen titles his knight-master had given him, there was not one with a common topic, or even one pertinent to the Bazhir, or even kings. They included: a Yamani dissertation on Scanran poetry, a diary of a clay-pot maker, a travelogue based in old Tyra, a ornithologist's listing of exotic Carthaki birds, and a theoretical treatise on the improper usage of a hairbrush by Justin of Beiber in Tusaine.
"Ah." Jonathan nodded sagely. "Hardly working. That's more like it. Anyway, squire, I've decided that I've neglected your physical training long enough. Even if you never become Voice," and the significant glance he give Zahir made his opinion quite clear, "you still need to be a good knight. Therefore, arms training!"
Zahir couldn't complain; he'd been itching to go into the practice courts all day, and at least he'd know where to find the useless materials next time.