The Singers of Nevya (35 page)

Isbel had little appetite for the mid-day meal. When she left the Cantoris she turned away from the great room, and walked, her head bowed, toward her own room.

In the distance she saw the hunter Kai, leaving the
ubanyor
with his brother, but she, a Cantrix, could hardly confide her sorrows in a mere Houseman. She was alone. She walked slowly up the staircase and into her apartment, with only the distant memories of her own mother, gone years ago beyond the stars, to keep her company.

Chapter Four

The long months dragged for Isbel as she settled into her routine at Amric. It was strange to have rooms all to herself. She tried to create a feeling of home in her apartment, placing her few possessions carefully on tables and shelves, drawing a good chair up by the window that looked out over the courtyard. She sat there to practice so she could watch the snow fall or the pale sunlight sparkle on the tips of the ironwood trees. She yearned for companionship.

Housekeeper Cael had made a special effort to make her rooms attractive. Finely worked split leather panels hung on the walls, and the floors and cot were thick with
caeru
furs. Isbel wondered if her senior kept such things in his own rooms. He had never invited her to his apartment, and she knew nothing of his private habits. He disappeared each evening immediately after the meal, giving her no chance to ask him anything.

Isbel liked the leather hangings. Their firm surfaces gave the acoustics of the room a nice ring, and she was fascinated by their workmanship. Intricate patterns—shapes that looked natural but were not—had been painstakingly tooled into them. She knew the House members of Amric took special pride in anything they could make from leather.

When she was tired of practicing, or of simply gazing out the window, she looked at the patterns in their hangings and wondered about the people who had made them. She wished she could talk to them, ask them things, hear their stories.

Only one event broke the monotony of those first months. There was a story in it, but it was a frightening one. At an hour she could not have measured, in the middle of one dark night, a Houseman came to her door, looking pale and frightened.

“I’m sorry, Cantrix Isbel—so sorry to disturb you, but we can’t wake Cantor Ovan, and we need a Singer at the stables!” The man looked as if he had been roused from his own bed, his hair standing every which way and his tunic creased and rumpled.

“I will come, of course, Houseman,” Isbel said. “I need just a moment to dress.”

He stepped back from the door hastily, as if afraid the Cantrix might come out in her nightclothes. “Do you need your Housewoman?”

Isbel shook her head, and closed the door. Why could they not wake Ovan? And why in the name of the Spirit did they need a Singer in the middle of the night?

As she dressed, her heart pounded at the thought that someone might be injured, and she would have to face some dreadful mess of blood and pain. It was her duty, she reminded herself. She was their Cantrix.

With trembling fingers, she picked up her
filla
from its shelf and tucked it inside her tunic. She took one deep breath and released it before opening the door again.

The Houseman led her quickly down the staircase. The House was silent around them, and their boots whispered on the stone floor as they hurried down the corridor toward the stables. An odd moaning met them as they drew close, and Isbel tried to breathe steadily, promising herself she would be brave and strong.

When the door opened to the stables, Isbel saw at once why they needed a Singer. At first she felt only relief that there was no gross injury to deal with. But as she reached for her
filla
she realized how serious the situation could have been, and she trembled again.

“What happened?” she asked. Her voice sounded brittle in her ears.

The Housekeeper was on his knees beside a man who had collapsed on the floor. It was the man’s continuous moaning, a kind of monotonous whimper, she had heard in the corridor.

“That
hruss
boy,” Housekeeper Cael answered shortly. “Donel here upset him, and this is what happened!” He swept an arm about him to point out the trouble.

Isbel could hardly have missed it. The stables lay in a deep pocket of shadow, a dark and ugly gap in the
quiru
. It was cold in the room, and growing noticeably colder at every minute. The
hruss
in the loose boxes stamped nervously, making deep rumbling sounds in their throats. The Houseman with Isbel also shifted from foot to foot and rubbed his hands, not really cold yet, but fearful of it. Every Nevyan had a terror of the deep cold.

Isbel brought out her
filla
and played a swift and efficient melody in
Iridu
. It was not difficult to repair the
quiru
, to fill the darkness with warmth and light once again. But it was frightening to realize that such a rip in its fabric was possible.

When the stables were bright and warm once more, Isbel went to the Houskeeper, who still knelt by the groaning Donel. “What is the matter with the Houseman?”

Cael, usually a kind and cheerful man, was grim-faced, and his voice was angry. “I don’t know,” he said. “He was like this when we found him.”

“It’s that blasted boy!” cried the Houseman at the door. “We never should have let him come here!”

“The boy had to live somewhere,” Cael said. “We could hardly send him out in the cold, could we? But he won’t be able to stay now.”

Isbel looked around, but she saw no one else. “Where is he?”

“He’s probably up in his attic, and good riddance!” the Houseman said. “It’s just like that one at Soren,” he added darkly. “That one killed a man, stopped his heart, and the Committee never did a thing about it.”

“What could they do?” Cael asked. “The boy at Soren ran right out of the House, and they didn’t find him till the next morning. Not much you can do to punish a frozen corpse.”

Isbel stared at Cael in horror. “Outside?” she breathed.

“Frozen to death at less than two summers,” he snapped. “And that’s what these itinerants get when they don’t properly train their children!”

Isbel looked down at the man on the floor. His eyes were half-open, staring at nothing, and his face was pale and damp. She raised her
filla
once again, thrusting away her questions to concentrate, mustering her courage to try to help the man.

Donel’s odd moaning went on and on, a wordless arrhythmic sound that ceased only when he took a breath. Isbel closed her eyes and began a slow tune in
Aiodu
. She extended a tentative fibril of psi, reaching for Donel’s mind.

The darkness she found chilled her. Donel’s consciousness had been thrust away, violently, in some way Isbel could not understand. His moaning was his attempt to touch the world, to stay in contact with what he knew. She cast about for a way to help him, but there was no physical injury to heal. His mind was beyond her reach.

She abandoned her melody and opened her eyes. “Housekeeper, I cannot help him,” she said simply. “I think he will heal, in time, but just now there is nothing I can do.”

“Do you think perhaps . . . your senior . . .” Cael’s words trailed off. Isbel knew he was trying not to offend her.

She tried to speak composedly. “Perhaps, yes. We should certainly ask him.”

“I pounded on his door,” the Houseman said again. “There was no answer.”

Cael frowned, and Isbel caught a flash of feeling from him, some deep worry he was trying to hide. He stood up, and she rose with him. “We’ll need a litter,” he told the Houseman. The Houseman hurried away.

“What about the boy, the boy who did this?” Isbel asked. “He must need help, too.”

“His name is Zakri,” Cael said. “He’ll have to leave the House. I feel sorry for him, but he’s completely out of control.”

“But he must have a very strong Gift!” Isbel protested.

“It’s no good, that Gift,” Cael said in a flat voice. “Those itinerants should take better care of their children.”

“I do not understand what you mean.”

Cael made an abrupt gesture with his hand, as if to dismiss an entire group of Nevyans. “Itinerants!” he exclaimed. “We need some, obviously, but boys like this one—” He broke off, and folded his hands together. “Never mind, Cantrix Isbel. Itinerant Singers are no concern of yours, though they’re a great concern to the Committee just now. I’m sorry we had to wake you. You’ll be tired tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

Isbel smiled at him. “I promise I will not, Housekeeper. I am glad to be of help. Please let me know how Donel fares, perhaps in a day or two.”

“I will. Can you find your way back to your apartment?”

“So I can.” She looked around her. “Do you not think I should at least talk to this boy—this Zakri?”

Cael shook his head. “Definitely not. It’s not safe. This is not the first time he’s made trouble. But it’s the last time at Amric!”

They said good night, and Isbel went slowly back through the quiet House to her own rooms. Still she wondered about the boy. How terrible it must be, to bear a wild and untrained Gift, to be shunned and isolated. She wished there were something she could do for him.

After the incident in the stables long weeks passed without anything interesting happening. Isbel heard no more about Zakri. Cael told her Donel was beginning a slow recovery. Ovan never spoke of that night, and Isbel did not know whether the story had even reached his ears. Day after day, week after week passed with nothing to break the monotony of work and loneliness.

Isbel sat by the window in her apartment, practicing modulations from
Lidya
to
Mu-Lidya
. Sira’s had been effortless, one mode mysteriously melting into the other, the lowered third of
Lidya
becoming the second degree of
Mu-Lidya
in the most natural way. Isbel played the transition over and over, searching for the fluid fingering she remembered. She barely heard the careful tapping on her door. She put the flat of her hand on the
filhata
strings to stop the tone, and listened to the knock. “Come in, Yula,” she called, then instantly regretted it. Yula would think she had been listening to her mind. Spying.

Isbel’s Housewoman was only slightly older than Isbel herself. Isbel was sure Cael had chosen her in hopes she would be good company for the new Cantrix. But Yula was horribly shy, her nervous fingers forever pulling on strands of her brown hair so they came loose from their binding and straggled across her blue tunic. And she was terrified of all Singers.

The girl opened the door, ducking her head and bowing nervously, making Isbel sigh. She could not think how to reassure her.

“Excuse me, Cantrix,” Yula blurted hastily. “The Magister wants you.” When she raised her head, her eyes were round with alarm. “The Housekeeper’s with him, and Cantor Ovan!” She pinched her tunic with stubby fingers.

Isbel said mildly, “All right, Yula,” and sighed again as the Housewoman hastily backed out of the room to stand fidgeting in the corridor.

It was an unusual summons, though Magister Edrus regularly attended the
quirunha
, and Cael often appeared at Cantoris hours. Rebelliously, Isbel reflected that the only unpleasant person at this gathering would be her senior. She pressed the thought far down where Ovan could not hear it, and smiled at her own foolishneess.

It was lovely simply to have a diversion. She took a
caeru
bristle brush to her hair to tuck it into a fresh binding, and smoothed her dark tunic over her trousers before going out to join her Housewoman.

Yula set off at a quick trot toward the Magister’s wing. She made a comic sight, with errant strands of hair flying about, turning her head frequently to make sure her mistress was following. Isbel had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. She saw no reason to be fearful. Day after day she spoke to no one but her senior, her Housewoman, and occasionally the Housekeeper. She doubted she would be chastised for being lonely and bored!

Yula led the way down a long, broad staircase, then up another. They walked past widely-spaced doors through a corridor liberally draped with tooled leather hangings. The thick limeglass window midway down its length faced a different direction from the one in Isbel’s rooms, affording a spectacular view of the expanse of the Great Glacier, an expanse of deep, silvery ice stretching off into the distance.

Yula stopped before a door at the very end of the corridor. She gave her mistress a hasty bow, and retreated, leaving Isbel to knock on the Magister’s door herself.

The Magister’s Houseman was not so shy as Yula. He was slight and gray-haired, and wore a tunic of a dignified dark red, befitting one who served on the upper level of the House. His bow was elegant. “Cantrix Isbel,” he said smoothly. “Please come in. I hope you’ll take some tea?”

Isbel stepped into a spacious and attractive room, full of light from a great window that filled most of one wall. The ironwood furnishings gleamed with polish, and furs were thick upon the stone floor. She imagined she could take her feet right out of her boots in this room, walk about barefoot, and still not feel the cold. There were numberous
obis
-carved objects scattered about on tables and shelves, and even more of the tooled leather panels.

Cantor Ovan sat beneath the window, cradling an ironwood cup in his thin hands. The Housekeeper stood beside him. The Magister rose when Isbel entered, and both he and Cael bowed. “Cantrix Isbel, I’m so glad you could join us.”

Isbel bowed in return. Magister Edrus was rather young, his father having died early and passed the Magistership on to him. He smiled at her pleasantly. There was no tension in the room. Even Ovan looked reasonably content. With a flash of dimples, Isbel murmured her thanks to the Houseman for the cup of tea and the tidbit of nursery fruit he served her.

“We would have given you more warning, but an itinerant arrived only this morning with the news. I hope we haven’t inconvenienced you.” Housekeeper Cael spoke with just the right amount of respect for her station and solicitude for her youth.

Again, Isbel showed her dimples. “Of course not, Housekeeper.” She could have added, It is a great treat simply to be in company! She cast her eyes to her lap and shielded her mind, knowing her senior would never approve of such exuberance.