The Singers of Nevya (47 page)

Sira released a long breath and returned to the present. The mountains, the deep open sky, and the fresh smell of new softwood trees invaded her senses.

Iban watched her, his mouth drawn into a drooping line. “Are you unhappy, apprentice?”

“No. I am only remembering my student days. They were good ones.”

“They say every Cantrix awaits her return home to Conservatory. Is that true?”

Sira bowed her head, letting the swinging gait of the
hruss
soothe her. She breathed in and out, through the sadness in the center of her body, where her diaphragm curved up below her heart. “It is not true for me,” she murmured after a moment. “Not anymore.”

They rode on in silence, and Sira felt Iban’s sympathy and concern. Indeed, the Spirit had sent her a fine master. She sent a prayer of thanks that it was so.

In the evenings the traders talked about their House, Soren, as the cooking fire burned to ashes and the stars wheeled slowly above them. The Gift was of concern to them, too, since
obis
-carving was their stock for trading. Sira knew little about this aspect of the Gift. She listened with interest as they spoke of the talent that led carvers to Soren to work with masters of the craft.

“May we see some of your wares?” Sira asked once. The leader of the group bowed, and hurried to untie one of his leather packs.

Many of the items were familiar. There were ironwood bowls, combs, pieces of saddle- and harness-making, and tools for curing leather, making clothes, and gardening. Sira did not touch them, fearing the trader would insist she keep anything she seemed to like.

When they had looked over the tools, the trader reached deep into the bottom of his pack and brought out a carefully wrapped pouch secured by a thong. He opened the pouch and laid out its treasures, one by one.

Sira murmured her admiration. In this inner cache were the delicate, the beautiful, the graceful objects she had sometimes seen in upper-floor apartments. They served little or no purpose except to give pleasure to the eye and to the fingers. Iban lifted one up on his palm, and held it out for her to see.

It was ostensibly a shallow bowl, though far too small and intricately carved to be useful. In its center Sira made out a woman’s face, the upward sweep of her bound hair described by the natural grain of the wood. Incongruously, the carver had inserted a scrap of metal, no more than a bead, to shine above the woman’s head like the Visitor itself. It was not a logical choice, but it was lovely, and Iban said so.

The trader smiled his agreement. “This was made by our very best
obis
-carver. It will bring a good price, perhaps from the Magister’s mate at Clare, or from the Housekeeper.”

“Who is the carver?” Sira asked.

“Cho v’Soren,” was the answer. “When he was a child, I remember there was talk of his Gift, but when he was tested, he didn’t pass. Better for us he didn’t!” One of the other men frowned as if in warning to the speaker, and he hastily rewrapped the tiny bowl and stowed it in his pack. Sira looked on curiously, wondering what it was about Cho that should not be spoken. She sensed, as she had with Brnwen at Amric, that something was being hidden, though she had no inkling what it might be.

The talk turned to other subjects, but Sira was silent, thinking long about the Gift and its many faces. She had tested a child herself, at Observatory, and the results had been as clear and shining as stars in a cloudless night sky. She wondered about those children who were found not to have an intact Gift. Would they be sorry or glad? She herself would have been crushed, and her parents disappointed, but Brnwen and little Trisa would have been relieved. She supposed no one person could understand the complexity of the Gift and its forms.

Clare was not a large House, but its
quiru
stretched wide to include its manufactory, separated from the House by a short enclosed walkway. For as long as anyone could remember, Clare had produced both the parchment and the thick brown paper used on the Continent. As the travelers approached the House from the north, the sour odor of soaking softwood pulp reached their noses even before they could see the roofs and the halo of
quiru
light.

It was still a new experience for Sira to enter the Houses from the stables. There were people to meet and remember, stablemen, kitchen workers, Housemen and women who would arrange beds and baths and meals. Iban was greeted familiarly by all of them. Sira sighed helplessly as he spoke a dozen names, expecting her to recall them all. By the time a smiling Housewoman showed her to the
ubanyix
, her head ached with concentrating.

“I’‘m sorry, Singer,” the woman said. “I didn’t hear your name.” Her name, at least, Sira remembered, was Almra, and she was short and plump.

“My name is Sira,” she said. Almra’s eyes were as round as her figure, and she turned them up to Sira suddenly, like a startled
caeru
dam away from its den.

“Not. . . not the Cantrix Sira, are you?” she asked.

Sira pressed her lips together. It was no use. She would either have to change her name or resign herself to this reaction. “Not any longer,” she answered, but it did no good. At least the Housewoman did not run away, but she saw her wordlessly to the
ubanyix
. She set out towels and soap, then bowed and withdrew. Irritated, Sira threw her clothes in a pile and splashed into the tub. The water was too cool, and she had to climb out again to retrieve her
filla
from her crumpled tunic, and stand shivering as she played it. Her
Doryu
melody brought steam curling from the surface, and when she slipped back into the water it was deliciously hot.

When she had soaped her hair and rinsed it, and washed herself thoroughly, she leaned back to soak and float for a precious period of comfort and solitude. Soon three Housewomen came chattering and laughing into the
ubanyix
. They shed their tunics and trousers, and one Housewoman with her hair still in its binding put her bare toes in the water. “By the Six Stars! The water’s wonderful!”

“Now why would that be?” another one asked. “No important visitors today, are there?”

The others hurried into the tub, groaning joyfully as they sank into the hot water. “Like my bedfurs when Anton’s at home,” one of them cried, and the others laughed.

Sira waited until the laughter quieted. “Is the
ubanyix
usually cold here at Clare?”

The three women turned to her, startled. “Where did you come from?” one of them demanded. “I didn’t see you there!”

“I am sorry,” Sira said with asperity. “I have been here some time. I warmed this water.”

“Well, we thank you for that, Singer. For once we won’t climb out with
ferrel
skin all over from the chill.”

“But surely your junior Cantor warms the
ubanyix
and the
ubanyor
each day?”

“Oh, he tries,” the woman said, bending her head forward to drop her long hair into the water. “That’s our Cantor Iov. He’s all right, but he’s overworked. Cantrix Magret is not very well. Age, maybe, or maybe she’s ill. They don’t tell us simple Housewomen much.” The others snickered at that.

Sira sat up very straight, water dripping from her lean shoulders. They fell silent at the fierceness of her attention. “Did you say Cantrix Magret? Magret v’Bariken?”

“V’Bariken she was. V’Clare now. Why, have you traveled to Bariken as well?”

But Sira, courtesy forgotten, had already climbed out of the tub and was toweling her hair and rummaging for her fresh linens.

“What’s your name, Singer?” asked one of the women. “We haven’t seen you before.”

Sira turned, her clothes in her hands. “I am Sira v’Observatory.” A shocked silence followed her announcement. “I need someone to take a message to Cantrix Magret. And quickly.”

*

A Housewoman came to Sira where she waited in the great room, and bowed deeply. “Cantrix Sira, Cantrix Magret asks that you come to her apartment. She’ll have refreshments for you there.”

Sira followed her out of the great room, up a staircase and down a long corridor. The Housewoman knocked softly, then opened the door. Sira stepped through.

She had not seen Magret since she left Bariken for her fateful trip to Lamdon more than five years before. Magret’s hair had gone as gray as old snow, and her once generous body had wasted until it was as thin as Sira’s own. She did not rise from her chair, though she lifted her hand when she saw Sira. Only her voice, sweet and true, was as Sira remembered.

“My dear,” she called softly when she saw her former junior.
It does my heart such good to see you. I thank the Spirit for it!

Sira strode forward to kneel beside Magret’s chair. She took the white hands in her own strong brown ones, and looked into the older woman’s face.
I am glad to see you as well. I have never had the chance to say I am sorry for failing you. I could not go back into the Cantoris.

Magret shook her head, and closed her eyes briefly as if in pain.
It was I who failed you, Sira. I will never forgive myself for what it cost you, and what it cost my House.

This is wrong,
Sira responded.
You could not possibly have known what Rhia and Wil were planning. Whatever Rhia may have been, she was not stupid. Nor was Wil.

Magret opened her eyes and smiled again.
Perhaps you are right. I am surprised you do not blame me. I wish I could cease blaming myself.

Sira squeezed Magret’s hands until the older woman winced, and she eased her grip.
Please, Cantrix Magret, do not give them even this victory, that you should suffer for what they did. They are all gone now beyond the stars. And I did not know you had left Bariken!

I could not stay there,
Magret sent,
any more than you could return. When Trude’s son by Magister Shen is of age, he will be Magister. Every time I saw him, it all came over me again. I could not work.
She gestured, and her Housewoman came forward with a tray of tea and fruit.
Come now, I have some time free. Tell me all about yourself . . . what I have not heard through gossip, that is!
Her eyes crinkled in the old cheerful way, but Sira knew she was not her old self, not at all. She looked aged, though Sira recalled she had only nine summers.

Are you ill, Cantrix Magret?
she asked bluntly.

Magret shook her head.
I am just weary. I cannot seem to sleep, and I grow more and more tired every day.

Is there no one to heal you?

Magret lifted one shoulder, as if to shrug with both would take too much energy. Sira drew a chair close, and put her hand on Magret’s again, feeling the chill of her skin and the tremor of her fingers.
May I presume to offer you my help?

Perhaps after we have had some tea, we can think about that,
Magret sent.
Now tell me your news. I have not had a visitor in such a long time.

And so Sira did, sending the story of the past five years in words and images, confiding in Magret her hopes for the future of Nevya. For a long time they sat together, until the tea grew cold and Magret’s Housewoman came to spread a fur robe over her mistress’s lap. Magret did not rise when it was time for the evening meal, but received it on a tray. Tonight it was a meal for two, and the Housewoman served it with tact and efficiency, not interrupting their silent communication. When the meal was over, Sira rose to go.

Must you go so soon, my dear?
Magret asked.
Why not stay here with me?

Sira looked about at the well-furnished apartment. It was certainly large enough, and there was a couch that looked almost of a size to accommodate her long legs.
Thank you. I will stay. And perhaps you will let me help you sleep.
She pulled her
filla
from her tunic and held it up in question.

Magret gave her weary nod, and spoke to her Housewoman, who hurried forward to help her to her bed. Aloud, Magret said, “It would be good to sleep well, just one night. My junior—” She stood, stumbling a little, and Sira added the support of her arm to that of the Housewoman. “Cantor Iov would like to help, but his healing skills are not strong. And when I do not sleep, I am little help to him.”

“Why does Conservatory not send you someone to help?”

We must not speak of that. Something our Magister did or said angered the Committee. They will not allow him another Singer. It is very hard for Iov.

And for you,
Sira sent.

Between them, Sira and the Housewoman made Magret comfortable. Sira sat near her bed and played in
Iridu
, a simple old melody. She wove a strong
cantrip
for sleep into it, directing it with strength and affection. There were dark places in Magret’s mind, she found, rough places that were hard to soften and smooth. For long minutes she played, until at last the Cantrix’s troubled features relaxed and her breath came deeply and slowly. Sira sat back, exhausted and sad. She wished she could help Magret, who had been kind to her. She prayed to the Spirit of Stars to show her a way. Only when she was certain, by extending her thought into Magret’s that the Cantrix was deeply asleep, did she go to her own rest.

Chapter Sixteen

The short weeks of summer were already beginning to fade as Singer Iban led Sira through the Southern Timberlands to Tarus. The path wound and twisted, searching out clear spaces where travelers and
hruss
could pass through the thick growths. Even then, huge suckers stretched between the ironwood trees, threatening to trip any careless
hruss
or human. The scanty patches of old snow they had been using for water disappeared, and Iban showed Sira where to look for tiny streams running from the Glacier toward the sea. On their last day out, Sira was startled to find water falling from the sky onto her head and hands. When she looked up, drops of it, sweet and clean, splashed on her face and in her eyes.

“What is it?” she asked in wonder.

Iban laughed, and pushed back his furst to let the drops fall on his face. “Have you never seen rain?”