The Singers of Nevya (2 page)

“I feel the same,” said the rider. “But it shows up in the sky every five years anyway, thank the Spirit. Otherwise we’d all be under a hundred feet of ice by now.”

“Is summer almost here, then?”

“So it is, Cantrix. This makes the fifth deep cold since last summer. The days are getting longer. It’s time, sure enough.”

A little silence fell around the fire as the riders contemplated their constant and unrelenting enemy, the cold. One or two of them looked up at the
quiru
above them, appreciating its protection, perhaps thinking of their homes. Sira felt a wave of nostalgia for Conservatory, and she thought of the ironwood plaque that hung over its great double doors:

S
ING THE LIGHT,

S
ING THE WARMTH,

R
ECEIVE AND BECOME THE GIFT,
O
S
INGERS,

T
HE LIGHT AND THE WARMTH ARE IN YOU.

She remembered stumbling past that carved creed on her first day at Conservatory, in the company of all the other Gifted ones newly arrived. She had not wept, though many of the others had. It was a day of parting from everything and everyone they knew. No Singer ever forgot it.

Lost in memory, Sira reached inside her tunic for her
filla
. She looked above her
quiru
, where the mysterious stars wheeled in their mighty dance, and a melody came to her mind. She put the
filla
to her lips. She played in the fourth mode,
Lidya
, raising the third degree. After a few bars she shifted into the fifth mode,
Mu-Lidya
, dropping the third degree down in a subtle cadence. The stars seemed to shine brighter as she played, as if her Gift could reach into the very heavens, and the darkness beyond the
quiru
receded a bit more.

Sira lost herself in the music, assuaging her loneliness, recalling her true home. When she finished, and lowered her
filla
, she realized with a rush of self-consciousness that the riders had ceased speaking and were watching her.

Her cheeks flamed. “I am sorry if I disturbed you—I—I forgot where I was.” She looked down at her
filla
, cradled in her long, thin fingers.

“It was beautiful, Cantrix,” Rollie said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Does it have a name?”

“I was improvising,” Sira said shyly. “I am glad if you liked it.”

“It should have a name so we can hear it again.”

“I will name it, then,” Sira said. A new melody was an important thing, something tangible, with its own meaning. “It is ‘Rollie’s Tune.’”

Rollie grinned around the circle. “Now, isn’t that a nice thing to happen to an old mountain rider?” Her chuckle was comfortable, and one or two of the others ventured to nod to Sira. It was a moment like those Sira had dreamed of during the long years of her training. She tucked her
filla
back into her tunic, enjoying the sudden sense of belonging. If this was being a Cantrix, she thought, she would like it. She would like it very much.

Chapter Two

servatory. They were as different as they could be, Isbel plump and pretty, with auburn hair and flashing dimples, and Sira tall, thin, and solemn.

Isbel sought out Maestra Lu after Sira had been gone from Conservatory for three days. She found her in the great room, in a rare moment of idleness, seeking the warmth of the sun as it filtered through the thick green windows.

“Excuse me, Maestra?” Isbel asked aloud. A student never sent thoughts to a teacher without invitation.

Maestra Lu did not turn, but she smiled up into the weak sunshine.
Good morning, Isbel
.

Isbel bowed.
Good morning
. Lu indicated a place on the bench next to her, only turning when Isbel sat down.

The Maestra looked more frail than ever, her pale, papery skin nearly translucent over the sharp bones of her face. Isbel thought her own ruddy, freckled skin seemed extravagantly healthy next to Lu’s. But she kept these thoughts low in her mind, not wishing to offend her teacher.

Maestra, I was wondering if you are following Sira.

Lu looked at her sharply.
And how could I be following Sira?

Isbel dimpled, and the Maestra’s lips twitched gently.
Maestra, we all know you have the longest reach of anyone. Maybe the longest ever.

Maestra Lu sighed a little.
And how do you all know that?

We have heard the stories!

Maestra Lu turned to gaze out the window. For a moment Isbel thought she had forgotten her presence. The look of memory was on the old Singer’s face. Surely Maestra Lu, who had twelve summers, must have many memories. Isbel waited until she turned back to her.

Sira is fine
, Lu sent.
That is all I can sense, but it is enough, is it not?

Isbel nodded, content.
She will be a wonderful Cantrix.

Indeed, I hope so.

Do you remember her first
quirunha?

Very well.

Isbel leaned against the cool glass of the great window.
The others were jealous.

Lu raised her eyebrows, though this was hardly a revelation.

Yes,
Isbel went on.
It was two years earlier than any of the rest of us could perform the
quirunha.
They teased her that day at breakfast.

Tell me about it, Isbel.

Isbel loved stories, her own or anyone else’s. No one knew more of them, or invented more, than Isbel. Sira had loved to listen to her tales, especially when the two girls lounged together in the
ubanyix
, floating lazily in the scented warm water. Now Isbel straightened, ready to make a story of Sira’s first
quirunha
.

She was only fourteen.

Maestra Lu nodded. Individual birthdays were put aside when the Gifted children entered Conservatory. Each summer, a class came from the Houses across the Continent, Gifted children of six and seven, sometimes eight, delivered by their families. From then on, they shared the same birthday, the anniversary of their first day.

In the great room, the students tormented her. One in particular
— Isbel looked sideways at her teacher, not wishing to cause trouble for one of her classmates. Lu seemed not to notice.

One was asking her if she was nervous, going on and on about how the whole House would be there, and listing all the things could go wrong. Sira was trying to eat
—
you always tell us to eat before we work
—Lu’s lips twitched again. Isbel saw, and her dimples flashed.

Finally, I am afraid I lost my temper. I told them all to stop it. All around us the House members were calmly having breakfast, not noticing our argument. Sira could not eat her
keftet,
and she stood up.

She sent to me, so that everyone could hear, that I was not to worry. That she was not nervous. Then she turned to
—
to the one who was teasing her, and she told her she had better not miss the
quirunha.
She might learn something!

Lu began to smile.

Sira went striding out of the room. You know how she walks, with her back so straight.
Lu nodded, sharing the memory of Sira’s tall, narrow form pacing the halls.
And of course you remember the
quirunha
, because you were her senior that day. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

Lu took Isbel’s hand. Only a Gifted one could touch another one of the Gifted, and the contact soothed and connected them, one to the other.
So it was, Isbel. And you need not have worried about your friend.

I was still angry.

I know. But Sira would not have worried about what her classmates thought. She is always most critical of herself. Had she been disappointed in herself, that would have been something to worry about.

Isbel grew thoughtful.
I am sure she will be a great success at Bariken.

A shadow passed between their two minds, and the Maestra withdrew her hand. Isbel looked searchingly at her, sensing something amiss.

She will be a fine Cantrix
, Lu sent.
And so will you, my dear. Perhaps you should be practicing now?

Isbel giggled.
Yes, Maestra.
She jumped up from the bench beneath the window and bowed.
Thank you.

Lu watched her leave the great room. She was such a pleasant student, neither complicated nor difficult, reasonably hard-working, and with a pretty, warm voice. Sira had been her most challenging student, intense, talented, driven. Her only weakness was in healing, but both Mkel and Lu had thought her new senior Cantrix could continue training her. In the end, Lu felt certain, Sira would be a better Cantrix than she herself had been. She had not been a great healer either, but had been renowned for her singing. And, of course, as Isbel and the other students knew, for the strength and reach of her psi.

She hoped Sira’s great Gift was not wasted on Bariken. She had protested the assignment, but the shortage of Conservatory-trained Singers had reached a critical point. Lu rose from the window seat, grimacing with the effort. There was something not right at Bariken, something hard for Conservatory and Lamdon to identify. And now Sira, young and inexperienced, was their Cantrix. It was out of Lu’s hands.

The journey from Conservatory to Bariken took five full days. Traveling had a rhythm of its own, Sira discovered: riding, resting, meals. There was little talk during the day. Sira often did not speak at all, and the odd silence of being with unGifted people added to the strangeness. As her saddle-soreness began to ease, Sira studied the riders to see how they sat their
hruss,
how they handled their reins, how they used their feet. In the evening, around the fire, the riders told stories and jokes, but never spoke directly to Sira. She was the reason for their journey, and she was their protection. But it was not for them to hold unnecessary conversations with a Gifted one. Only Rollie, assigned to Sira for the trip, spoke to her. Sira was grateful for Rollie’s warmth and humor, Gifted or not.

On their last day in the mountains they made their camp rather late, in purple twilight. Blane found a spot ringed by huge ironwood suckers. Sometimes the long thick shoots that connected the great trees lay hidden under the snow to trip
hruss
, but tonight they were welcome, as the riders leaned against them for support.

Sira made the
quiru
rise swiftly, and Rollie sat next to her, grinning in appreciation. “I’ll be sorry not to hear you do that anymore.”

Sira frowned. “I do not understand.”

“We’ll be at the House tomorrow, just after midday,” Rollie said. “If the Spirit allows.”

“I see.” Sira tucked her
filla
into her tunic and smoothed her bedfurs. But you can attend the
quirunha
, can you not?”

Rollie’s tanned face changed subtly. “It’s not my custom.”

“But at Conservatory, even the Housemen and women hear the
quirunha
.”

“Things will no doubt be different at Bariken from what you’re used to, Cantrix,” Rollie said gently.

“But I would like you to attend,” Sira said. “I know no one else there.”

Rollie looked out beyond the
quiru
into the deepening dusk. “I’ll be around,” she said. “If you want me, just tell that Housekeeper. He’ll send for me. But he won’t like it.”

Sira wanted to know more, but with Conservatory courtesy, she did not press. Rollie went to the fire for Sira’s tea and
keftet
. As the riders began the meal, the silence was broken only by the gentle crackling of the little fire.

In the quiet, Sira’s sensitive ears picked up a sound. “Rollie!” she called softly. “There is someone approaching.”

“Not likely, Cantrix.” Rollie stared out past the
quiru
, listening, then shook her head. “Why do you think so?”

“I hear it!” Sira turned toward the direction of the sound. “Out there, up the hill.
Hruss
.”

“Blane!” Rollie called. “I don’t hear it, but the Cantrix says there are
hruss
up on the hill.” She pointed.

Blane stood up.
Hruss
could survive in the deep cold, but if there was a person there, leaving him or her in the lethal darkness was unthinkable. “We’ll go see,” he said. “I’ll take Chan.” The other man was already beside him. They pulled on their heavy furs, and plunged out of the
quiru
into the blackness beyond.

Sira stood with her head bowed, listening to their progress up the hill. To send people out of the safety of the
quiru
was a serious thing. Following them with her ears, she opened her mind as well. She sensed fear, and sadness, a man lost out there in the freezing dark.

Those in the
quiru
did not have to wait long. The sounds from the hillside grew until everyone could hear them. As they watched, Blane and Chan led two
hruss
into the warmth and light of the campsite. A man clung to the stirrup of one saddle, stumbling as he came into the
quiru
, falling clumsily to his knees as his strength suddenly failed him.

Blane crouched beside him and dropped an extra fur over his shoulders. “Take your time,” he said quietly. Everyone in the
quiru
was silent, stunned by awareness that the stranger had been within heartbeats of freezing to death.

The man’s
hruss
were still outside the circle of
quiru
light. Ice hung from the long hair under their chins, and clogged their forelocks. Sira pulled her
filla
out of her tunic and played briefly until the
quiru
swelled, its warmth and light expanding to include the half-frozen animals.

The stranger turned, stiffly, to see who was playing.

Blane said, “This is a party from Bariken. I’m the guide.”

There was a long silence, and Sira could see the man’s lips and face were too cold to move. At length he mumbled, “Devid,” through still-rigid lips. He managed his House name, “Perl”, then fell silent again. They all waited for his circulation to return. Every Nevyan knew it was a slow and painful process.