The Singers of Nevya (27 page)

Sira looked at her in surprise. No title, no recognition. It was a strange feeling, and not a pleasant one. “I—I wanted to see—” She faltered. She had no business here. She had neither child nor friend to weep for.

Theo was right. She did not know these people, not their names, not their cares.

“I am sorry,” she said at last. She bowed to the Housewoman, who stood stiff and unmoving before her. “Perhaps another time.” Sira stepped backward through the doorway, away from the sight of routine, hopeless grief.

Sira did not tell Theo what she had seen. She tried to focus on his lesson. Theo was working in
Aiodu
, the second mode, striving to master the fingering. Sometimes Sira was impatient, seizing the
filhata
to demonstrate, her long fingers secure and precise on the strings. Today, though, she was methodical and tolerant.

You must release the wrist. Tight muscles inhibit other muscles.

Theo nodded. He put the
filhata
in his lap for a moment, and rubbed the back of his right hand.
Tired
.

Sira took his hand in hers and massaged the wrist.
You must stop when you feel this tension, here.
She pointed to the tendon in the back of his hand.
Begin again with your wrist in a better position.

Theo turned his hand over and captured Sira’s.
There is something bothering you.

It was automatic for Sira to pull her hand away, but his felt comforting. She let the contact go on.
Did you know the young woman died? The one you treated last week?

His eyes darkened to midnight blue.
I did. She and her baby were very ill.

Do you think I could have saved them? If I had warmed the House?

Theo lifted one shoulder, expressively. Sira sighed and took her hand away, wrapping her arms around herself. So many deaths, she thought, to weigh on my conscience. She felt so old, so tired.
If I begin to sing here
, she sent to Theo,
I fear I will be trapped forever.

Theo watched her, but kept his own counsel. When she looked into his face, she saw only patience and acceptance.
Do you not resent me?
she asked.

His crooked grin flashed at her.
Only because you can already play in
Aiodu
and I cannot. Now help me!

Sira smiled a little, too, as he picked up the
filhata
and began again. But the feeling of ancient weariness did not leave her. How long could she go on like this? How many more deaths could she bear before she broke?

Chapter Twenty-five

“Theo has been a great help to us,” said Pol, standing above Sira in the great room.

She stood so she could look down at him. For weeks she had sat here, idle, until he left the room. In all this time he had never before stopped to speak to her.

“Theo has more sympathy for fanatics than I,” she answered.

Pol chuckled. “You’re a stubborn woman. Do they teach you that at Conservatory?”

“At Conservatory, Gifted people are taught to serve the people of Nevya,” Sira said. A flicker of doubt surprised her even as she said the words.

“You don’t think Observatory is part of Nevya?”

Sira folded her arms, knowing as she did so that it was to bolster her courage in the face of strange emotions, not because Pol himself had disturbed her. “Observatory chooses to be separate. You attack innocent Nevyans and kidnap Singers. How are you part of Nevya?”

“We have a great duty,” Pol said somberly. “We Watch. There is no one else to do it.”

Sira felt the heat of indignant anger in her cheeks, and the air about her sparkled with energy as her breath came faster. “And so you add to your many offenses the sacrifice of your people to a foolish belief of many ages ago.”

Pol’s small eyes glittered in the light created by Sira’s temper. He smiled thinly. “Will you come with me, Cantrix? I have something to show you.” Sira pressed her lips together, about to refuse, but Pol held up a propitiating hand. “Indulge me this one time, please. There is reason why we believe. Proof.”

“I will come,” Sira said. “But you must not call me by a false title.”

“As you wish.” Pol led the way out of the great room with a purposeful step.

Sira had not been to the wing of apartments where most of the House members lived. She followed Pol down a long, dim corridor and up a staircase dimly illuminated by a grimy window. The unkempt state of the House made her shake her head. She heard voices, children crying, the sounds of family, but muted as if the very life of the House were ebbing away. At the very back of the House, Pol opened the door of a large apartment.

They walked through what were evidently Pol’s own rooms. If he had a mate, or children, Sira was not aware of them. The apartment was filled with oddments, stacks of ledgers, what looked like a grain barrel, a stack of bows and fur-flighted arrows, even a saddle complete with saddlepack. Mold stained the walls, and the floors were frigid. At the far end of the room, Pol opened a door and stood aside for Sira to precede him.

This room was different. A long polished table stretched its length. The window was clean, so the clear mountain sunshine made the room light enough to read by. Pol held a chair for Sira and she sat, anger replaced by curiosity.

From a long cupboard that lined one wall, Pol slowly and carefully withdrew a fur-wrapped object and laid it gently on the table.

“This,” he said with reverence, “is why we Watch.”

He looked at her intently for a moment, making sure he had her full attention. Then, without taking his eyes from hers, he untied the thongs that held the wrapping in place. When they were loose, he laid them aside. Methodically, dramatically, he slid the fur covering from the object that lay on the table between them.

Sira gazed at it without understanding. At first she thought it might be a slab of stone, though knife-thin and polished, with marks carved into it. It was about the size of a
filhata
, and almost as dark as an
obis
knife. She realized after a moment that it reflected light exactly as bits of metal did, flashing and glinting as they were passed from hand to hand. Still, it took some time to sort out her visual impressions. When at last she understood, she put a hand to her throat.

“Is that . . . can that be metal? All of it?”

“It is,” Pol said. He ran his thick hand reverently across its face. Sira followed his gesture, and saw that the marks were not carved into its surface but somehow set below, covered and yet not hidden by the surface, carved by some mysterious technique she could not guess at. It was a beautiful, a mystifying thing, and for a moment she was speechless.

“So much metal,” she whispered at last. “More than I have seen in my whole life put together. What is it?”

“It’s a picture of the stars from which we all come.” Pol lifted the object so she could see the whorls and streams of light-points spilling across the darkly shining surface. His voice dropped low as he said, “This—this is from the Ship.”

Sira stared at him in amazement. “But those are fables!”

“No, Cantrix. They are not. Look here, these six stars. They will come from there.”

“Who? Who will come?”

“If we knew once who they were, we no longer remember. But they will come for us. To take us to a better, an easier world. To take us home.”

Sira rested her arms on the table across from Pol, and gazed at him with sadness. “You believe this? This is why you all live here in isolation and suffering?” Sympathy softened her voice. “It is an illusion, Pol.”

He pulled the artifact back to him and covered its shining surface. His face settled back into its customary remote expression. “It’s no illusion. Even the Magistral Committee knows it, though they pretend they don’t.”

“Pol, I do not think the Magistral Committee indulges in pretense. It is more likely they understand what this great piece of metal is, and know better than to be slaves to a myth.” Sira stood, and pushed her chair back from the table. “Allow us to leave Observatory,” she said through a tight throat. “Nothing you have shown me justifies our being held prisoner.”

Pol’s voice was more hoarse than ever. “Leave, then. Try it.”

“You know it would be impossible without a guide. We would starve before we found our way out of these mountains. We are as much in your control as if we were locked away.”

He glared up at her. “We do what we have to do in this world. We need to Watch, and we need Singers. Watching is our destiny. Yours is to sing.”

Sira was silent. The harsh truth of his words squeezed her soul. He was right. No matter where she went, her destiny pursued her. Perhaps freedom was an illusion for more than just Singers. But this—this sacrifice of generation after generation—this was madness.

Pol tied the wrappings over the artifact and stowed it with great care in its cupboard. As he closed the cupboard again, his thick hand rested on the wooden door for a moment. It is a devotion with him, Sira thought. He is sincere. He truly awaits this mythical Ship.

Her steps were heavy as she followed Pol out through his cluttered apartment. She saw no hope for her and Theo. And no hope at all for the people of Observatory.

Chapter Twenty-six

Jon v’Arren took a mate from Observatory a few months after Theo’s
filhata
studies began. She was a thin, tired-looking woman with two children whose father had gone too far from the House on a hunting trip and been caught by the cold. Sira and Theo attended their brief ceremony in the great room, and Sira watched from a distance as Theo helped Jon move his few possessions to the family’s apartment. At Theo’s next
filhata
lesson, Sira was particularly silent, her lips pressed together in the way she had when she was unhappy.

I am better in
Aiodu
, am I not?
Theo sent, trying to stir her from her dark mood.

She nodded absently.
And in
Doryu,
too.
She reached out automatically to adjust the position of his middle finger, so that it rested more securely on the C string. He played the scale in
Aiodu
again, then modulated to
Doryu
almost as smoothly as Sira herself. It was a passage he had practiced in private, to surprise her, but she only nodded again, and was silent.

Finally Theo put the instrument aside.
What is wrong?

He felt her shield her mind at once. He sat still, waiting, watching her. Her face was thinner than ever, the white slash of her eyebrow like a flash of lightning above the thundercloud of her expression. Finally she turned her dark and troubled eyes to him.

She opened her mind again.
Theo. We should talk about your future.

He grinned at her. She was as formal in their relationship as if they sat in a Conservatory practice room and not in a cramped room at Observatory as far from mannered society as they could be.
I am listening, Maestra.

You must not call me that. I have told you.
No smile brightened her features.

Theo touched her hand. Bit by bit she allowed more contact, but he tried not to hurry her. She seemed vulnerable to him, young and old at the same time, straining beneath her great Gift.

She let his hand rest on hers, but she dropped her eyes.
Since Jon has seen fit to take a mate
, she began—and Theo sensed clearly her underlying distaste—
I fear you will also wish to . . .
She shuddered a little, and Theo held her hand more tightly.

Sira, I will not do so
, he assured her, and as he sent the thought, he knew it was no less than the truth. In his turn, he swiftly shielded his mind, realizing in a blinding flash why he would never take a mate from Observatory, or from any other House. He had not allowed himself to understand his feelings until this very moment.

Sira’s eyes came up to his.
What is it?

He released her hand. Keeping the private thought low, hidden as she had taught him, he sent,
It is nothing, Sira. Do not worry.

He rose from her cot, and wrapped the old
filhata
to place it on the shelf over the bed.
Thank you for the lesson
, he sent formally, and bowed as he always did. Sira rose, too, standing only a few inches, but so very far, away from him. The sharp angles of her face glowed in the light their practice had created, and Theo’s pulse quickened.

Suddenly he needed to be away from her, and quickly. He bowed again, and left her staring after him as he hurried out. He would bathe, he thought. The
ubanyor
was hardly his favorite place, but today it seemed just what he needed.

Theo warmed the
ubanyor
with a swift
Doryu
melody on his
filla
, glad that the tub was empty and he was alone. He was gratified, even in his black mood, to see steam rise at once from the water. Certainly, he thought, I am a better Singer than I was. That thought led him back to Sira, when his intention had been to stop thinking of her.

He sighed as he stepped down into the carved tub. His thick hair touched the water when he had immersed himself up to his shoulders. Its length surprised him. How long had they been here? He had not kept track, but it must be almost a year. Sira cut her hair often, keeping it cropped short as if she were ready to leave at a moment’s notice. Theo had let his grow, usually tying it back with a bit of thong. Not since his childhood had it been so long.

He was resigned to a long stay at Observatory. Their imprisonment grieved him less than it did Sira. His studies gave him satisfaction, and his
filhata
skills grew quickly in the hours he spent with her, practicing, listening, working. He had not been outdoors in all that time.

What I need, he thought, is a trip through the mountains, a few nights under the stars to regain my balance. Maybe the hunters could take me, just for a few days.

He took up a rough, unscented bar of soap from a niche in the tub and soaped his hair savagely, knowing Pol would never allow him to leave Jon alone in the Cantoris.

“I must be the greatest fool on the Continent,” he muttered savagely, “to fall in love with a Conservatory Cantrix!” The soap slipped from his hand, and he swore. “By the Six Stars,” he exclaimed, as he searched for it under the water, “I hardly know what I am anymore!”