The Singers of Nevya (16 page)

Sira’s softwood tree began to quake, and she knew someone was coming up. It was easier for Wil, because he had his big mountain
hruss
to stand on. His boot found the bottommost branch with ease, nothing like the painful effort it had cost her.

She looked above her for a way to escape, but the boughs over her head were so thin, and already shaking with the impact of Wil’s approach, that she was sure they would never hold her. Her breathing slowed. She felt distant, separate from her fear. She became that trapped
caeru
, an animal at bay, with an animal’s instincts.

She found, to her surprise, that she had drawn Shen’s long knife out of her belt. The heft of it felt good in her hand. She turned the point downward, holding it behind her, away from her body, as the tree shivered and swayed under Wil’s weight.

Wil seemed unconcerned about his own safety. She was not surprised at that. She was a Singer, after all, and they were known to be a gentle breed, soft, even effete. She supposed Wil could not conceive of her as dangerous. He did not hesitate, but climbed higher and higher until their eyes met through the quaking branches of the softwood tree.

Sira’s eyes narrowed as she gazed at him, and her purpose crystallized to an icy focus.

Keeping the knife behind her, she worked her way around to the opposite side of the tree. Wil cursed as he struggled to follow. He weighed more than she did, and the branches began to bend and crack beneath him.

But at last he ascended to the same branches she had been standing on. His lean hand reached around the trunk.

She breathed steadily, silently, as Wil stretched one long leg out to a limb on Sira’s side of the swaying tree. He found his foothold, then pulled his body around with his hands.

Just as he came around the trunk, fully in her sight, Sira switched the knife in her hand so that it pointed outward. Wil pulled himself up beside her, his arm reaching for her, his fingers spread to seize her throat.

She gathered all her strength, and plunged the long blade into him, past the skin and muscle, as far into his body as she could thrust it.

Part of her mind knew that the memory of the act, of the resistance of flesh and tendon and muscle to the knife, would be too ghastly to bear. But at this moment, her mind was no part of the event. It was her body that acted, driven by the need for self-preservation. It was the culmination of three days of a struggle to survive.

Wil fell, crashing through the tree branches. The knife went with him. Sira stared down at her hand, shockingly empty now, the air suddenly cold against her palm.

As if from a great distance, Sira heard Trude scream, and scream again, not with her mind but with her throat as Wil, already dead, thudded to the packed snow under the softwood tree.

Sira heard, but felt no pity.
Shut up
, she sent, in a cold fury.

Trude ignored her, and the waves of shrill sound went on. Sira hissed aloud, “Shut up!” Still Trude screamed.

Sira had never used her psi for ill, not even taking part in the teasing dormitory games at Conservatory, which too often left younger students in tears. But she was more animal than Singer at this moment. She sent a tide of psi into Trude’s mind, anything to stop her screaming.

Shut up or I will kill you too!

Trude’s ululation broke off abruptly. There was a moment of silence before she screeched, “You great idiot! Do you know what you’ve done? I’ll see to it you never step foot in a Cantoris again, you whore, you—”

Sira did not stop to think. She was, in fact, not thinking at all. She cut through Trude’s mind with her psi as brutally as a carver cuts through a chunk of ironwood with his
obis
knife. It was a wordless, formless blow, with all the power of a great Gift behind it. Trude fell instantly, and permanently, silent.

Sira shuddered, coming to herself as if waking from a nightmare. She took a horrified breath, and reached out with her mind to see if Trude still lived.

The former Cantrix did still live and breathe. But there were no thoughts in her mind, no emotions to sense. Her mind was completely, and Sira feared irretrievably, broken.

But there was no time for sympathy. Sira pulled out her remaining knife, Rollie’s knife, and held herself poised to strike again. Her heart felt like a piece of chiseled stone, and her lips pressed together until they stung.

She waited. She had no sense of passing time. Her mind and her emotions were frozen as solid as the blue ice of the Great Glacier.

She had no way of knowing how many hours it took for Gram and Jane to reach her. When she heard their voices beneath her tree, it took her some minutes for her to relax her muscles enough to move.

“Cantrix Sira?” called Gram urgently. “Are you there? Sira? It’s Gram, and Jane . . . from Conservatory. Maestra Lu sent us when you–when she—”

Sira’s voice cracked when she spoke. “I am here. I will come down.”

“Are you hurt?” Jane’s voice sounded glorious to Sira, familiar and strong.

“I was wounded three—no, four—days ago, but it is almost healed. I am well.”

Sira gingerly descended a branch, and then another. Her muscles trembled with sudden weakness, and the aftermath of crisis. “I need a hand down. I have not eaten in some time.”

Gram and Jane together reached up to her, and she slipped down into their waiting arms. Trude was a huddle of yellow-white furs against the snow, crouched beside Wil’s inert body. Only when Gram had satisfied himself that his young charge was all right for the moment did he turn to look at her.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“It is Trude v’Bariken.” Sira spoke without inflection. “She is harmless now. Her mind is gone.”

“Are you sure?” Jane had let go of Sira the instant she was safely on the ground, but she stayed so close, Sira could feel the rider’s breath against her own face.

“Yes,” said Sira. She added indifferently, “She was a Singer once.”

“And this?” Gram prodded Wil’s body with his booted toe.

“That was the Housekeeper of Bariken.” Sira looked away. “His name was Wil. I have killed him. Is Maestra Lu all right?”

“She’s very worried about you,” Jane said.

There was no more talk. Sira brought out her
filla
. Gram busied himself bringing the
hruss
close, spreading out bedfurs, bringing food and cups. He rolled the Housekeeper’s body away from the makeshift campsite, but pushed Trude onto his own bedfurs. Her face was blank. From time to time she gave a wordless moan, but she seemed unaware of the activity around her.

Sira played, and the
quiru
blossomed. When it glowed warmly around them, they ate, especially Sira. Her young body craved nourishment. Gram and Jane fussed over her, coaxing her to eat and drink just a bit more.

“Sleep now, Cantrix Sira,” said Jane.

“We’ll be at Lamdon by midday tomorrow,” Gram added.

Sira lay down at once on her furs. Jane found Trude’s own bedfurs and rolled her into them without gentleness. She slipped into her own, while Gram stoked up the little fire of softwood from his pack, and prepared to stand night watch.

“I hope Theo’s all right,” Jane said.

“Yes,” said Gram, gazing out into the darkness. “He’s good, for an itinerant.”

“We’ll send him help from Lamdon. We owe him.”

“We’ll see he’s repaid.” There was a pause, and Gram added softly, “If he lives.”

There was no answer from Jane’s bedroll but a deep sigh as she eased into sleep. Trude seemed to be sleeping as well.

Sira lay with her eyes open, staring up at the stars twinkling faintly beyond the light of her
quiru
. Only when she realized Gram was watching her did she close them.

Chapter Fourteen

Theo admired the pale remnants of his
quiru
in the brilliant morning sun. Look at that, he thought. Still holding, and no one to admire it except three old
hruss
.

It had been a long night, full of nervous wakings and odd sounds exaggerated by solitude. The wound in his belly ached, and he felt weak as a newborn
caeru
pup. But he was alive, and he was warm.

He wondered about the young Cantrix, ten years younger than he, alone in the Mariks for at least three nights. Itinerants thought of Conservatory Singers as delicate, protected, their esoteric Gifts nurtured and pampered like nursery flowers. His own career had seasoned him early, but an eighteen-year-old Cantrix . . .

In truth, he didn’t expect to meet Sira v’Conservatory alive.

He tried sitting up, but feeling a fresh wash of blood into his bandages, gave it up after the first attempt. It seemed he would have to lie here, helpless as a babe, until someone came for him. His
filla
was close at hand, and a flask of water. He couldn’t have eaten even if he had food. There was nothing to do but lie still and wait.

From time to time through the day and then through the second night, Theo played his
filla
just enough to keep his
quiru
steady. Deep breaths sent blazing pain through his belly, so he kept his
quiru
just big enough for himself and the
hruss
, who crowded close to him. The legs of a corpse stretched inside the envelope of light, with the upper body abandoned to the darkness, made a surreal and chilling sight. As there was nothing Theo could do about it, he tried to remember not to look in that direction.

To pass the time, he tried listening with his mind, searching for the reflex that had responded to Cantrix Sira’s mental call. Something he thought suppressed since childhood had come alive in that moment of need. But now, he heard nothing but the wind stirring the branches of the ironwood trees. He remembered how strict his mother had been about shielding his mind, how many times she had scolded him for hearing her thoughts before she spoke them. She had been convinced–and had convinced him–that hearing others’ thoughts would only drive him mad. But now, dozing on and off, he wondered.

On the second morning, he drifted out of sleep to find
hruss
and riders emerging from the forest into his clearing. When he was sure he wasn’t dreaming, he grinned crookedly at the welcome sight of Gram, who leaped from his mount and hurried to bend over him.

“Hello, again,” Theo said. His voice was hoarse with disuse. “Back so soon?”

Gram gave a huge smile, gripping his shoulder. “Thank the Spirit! No more lives lost.”

Another man, slight and pale, knelt by Theo, and gently folded back his bedfurs. “I’m Cantor Rico v’Lamdon,” he said. “We were horrified to hear what happened.” He peeled back Gram’s hasty bandages, and scowled at the wound. “You’ve stopped bleeding,” he said. “Though I don’t know how you managed that. But you’ll have to ride in a
pukuru
.”

“Just so I don’t have to stay here another day,” Theo said. “I’m tired of the view.”

Cantor Rico pulled a square of cloth from his pocket, and began to rebandage Theo’s belly. “You did well, Singer,” he said. Theo knew it was anger that made the Cantor’s voice shake. “You will want to know that Cantrix Sira reached Lamdon safely. She and Jane will meet us on our way.”

“Good news,” said Theo. Then, wearied by the brief conversation, he let his eyes close. He was glad to know the young Cantrix was safe. And now perhaps he could rest for a time.

Rico finished with his bandage, wrapping strips of felt around Theo’s waist to hold it in place. He sat back on his heels then, and played a healing
Doryu
melody on his
filla
. Theo’s flesh responded to Rico’s psi with a warm, prickly sensation that left the injured area tingling when it was over. Theo had often healed such wounds in others; it was a strange feeling to be the recipient rather than the giver. Rico finished by playing another melody in the first mode, and Theo promptly fell into a sound sleep.

He woke as they lifted him, bedfurs and all, and laid him in the
pukuru
, then slept again. When he woke a second time they already were on their way, the
pukuru
lashed behind one of the
hruss
. The bone runners glided over the snow with hardly a bump. Rico saw he was awake, and gave him a draught of some herb-flavored drink. He drank, then slept again.

When the party stopped for the night, they unhitched his
pukuru
, and he woke. The mountain peaks were already disappearing in the folds of night. He was reaching for his
filla
to call up a
quiru
when he heard someone else begin to play. He remembered he was not the only Singer in the party. It was a beautiful sound, sweet and clear in the gathering dusk. He listened to the precise intonation, the liquid phrasing, and in his weakened state, tears formed behind his eyelids. He blinked them away as the light swelled around him, a
quiru
not of his making.

It flared up into the twilight with startling swiftness. He tried to twist his head to see who was playing. Gram saw this, and turned the
pukuru
, sliding it sideways on the snow so Theo could look into the circle of people around the crackling campfire, and find the Singer.

It was a girl, a tall, lean young woman with a bandage over one eye. She needed no introduction. When she lowered her
filla
, he regretted the end of her melody.

She felt his gaze, and looked across the fire at him. “I owe you thanks, Singer.” Her voice was deep, and it sounded tired, too old a sound to be coming from such a young person.

“No thanks are necessary, Cantrix Sira,” Theo said. His own voice sounded weak and thready. “I am glad to see you . . . well.” He had been going to say “alive,” but felt it was perhaps not tactful.

“Yes, I am quite well,” she said dryly. Theo understood she was aware of what he had almost said. He grinned at her, and though she did not smile, she nodded acknowledgment.

There was a flash of psi around the circle, drawing Theo’s attention to Cantor Rico’s grim face. Theo supposed he was sending something to Sira. He gritted his teeth in frustration at being unable to follow.

Sira gave no indication that she heard anything. Her lips were set firmly together. The yellow light of the
quiru
gleamed dully on her bandage, and her face looked sallow, with deep lines etched in the youthful skin.