The Singers of Nevya (50 page)

“Can we not find out what the trouble is?”

Iban shook his head, looking out into the morning mist. “I’ve asked, but gotten no answer. I think you’d better hurry your teaching. We can’t stay where they don’t want us.”

Sira rubbed her burning eyes. She felt so tired that deciding anything seemed impossible. “I will try. But some things come only in their own time. His Gift is much abused.”

Iban regarded her with sympathy. “You know, apprentice,” he said very softly, “if I could hear minds . . .”

She looked up at him under the arch of her eyebrow.

“It’s just that if we knew what the trouble was, perhaps we could do something about it,” he offered, watching for her reaction.

“I think you know I cannot do that,” she sighed. “But I will begin teaching Zakri tonight, and we will simply have to stay here as long as we can. I suppose they would not throw us out?”

Iban chuckled. “No, probably not. But itinerants live by their reputations, and I certainly don’t want mine spoiled.”

Sira pushed back from the table and rose. “I think I must sleep, master. I will be seeing more of the stars than the sun in the next weeks.”

Sira remembered Theo’s tuition as a time of laughter and discovery, pleasure in his Gift as well as her own. Trying to harness Zakri’s wild power was another matter entirely.

She went to him every night, and worked side by side with him in the stables as she began his instruction.

Send me the names of things,
she began. They were on opposite sides of a
hruss
, Zakri with a curry comb, Sira with a brush. The
hruss
made its throaty noise, enjoying the attention. Sira held up a slender, pointed tool with a serrated edge.
What is this?

Zakri’s first response was a blur of mental noise that made Sira blink and rub her forehead. He looked at her over the back of the beast, quick tears forming in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m no good at it.”

You will be. Focus your thought on the name of the thing, then tell me its purpose.
She went on brushing out the long hair beneath the
hruss
’s chin, ready to shield herself.

It is a hoof pick,
he sent.

She smiled across at him.
Good. It looks as if it is made from a
tkir
tooth.

Without warning, an overwhelming image assaulted Sira. A huge
tkir
, tawny and speckled, leaped out of the darkness, great mouth open, jagged teeth dripping foully. The acrid stench of its body overpowered her senses, and terror of the beast’s claws immobilized her. She cried out, and her shielding sprang up to protect her. For a moment she trembled with shock. When that passed, she still breathed hard. Perspiration trickled down her ribs. “By the Ship, Zakri! What was that?”

His tears did fall now, and several tools rolled from nearby shelves. Sira ducked, but one caught her a glancing blow on the shoulder.

“I told you!” he cried. “I’m no good at this!”

Sira stepped back from the
hruss
, trying to conceal how strongly the scene had affected her. It was not only the surprise of the event, but the incredible reality of it that stunned her. She ran both hands over her hair, then leaned against the side of the stall, collecting herself.

“I’m sorry, Cantrix,” Zakri muttered miserably. He picked up the fallen tools, and turned back to bury his face in the
hruss
’s mane.

“Zakri, did you see that
tkir
yourself?”

He shook his head. “My father did, and he told us about it. It gave me awful dreams when I was little, and my mother would have to sit with me until I fell asleep again.”

Despite Sira’s shielding, the strength of Zakri’s sadness clouded her mind, so the light around them wavered and dimmed. She put her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. This was not going to be easy.

When she had regained her equanimity, she said, “Now. We will start again from the beginning. It will be different for you than for others.”

“It’s hopeless!” he burst out.

Sira held up her narrow hand, and he dropped his head in shame. “Your Gift is incredible,” she said quietly. “Its very strength is its greatest challenge. You must accept it for what it is, give thanks for it, then find a way to discipline it.”

“You really think you can help me? Show me how, as my mother would have?”

Sira bent and picked up her brush again. She came back to the
hruss
, pressing down her private thoughts. She doubted even Zakri’s mother could have coped with this wild talent. She only prayed that she herself would be strong enough. “I will show you as best I can. But in the end, you must be the one to take control of your Gift.”

He nodded, looking at her with wet, miserable eyes, but setting his jaw as if preparing for a fight. He looked terribly young, younger even than his seventeen years. Sira had to quell an impulse to put her arms around him.

“You must remember, first,” she said, “that I am no longer a Cantrix. I am only Singer.”

“I will remember,” he said solemnly.

“And now, we begin again,” she said. Cautiously, she held up the brush in her hand, hoping it held no strong associations for him.
Send me the name of this.

Chapter Nineteen

Isbel’s voice felt full and flexible. Her sweet vibrato filled Amric’s Cantoris with a beauty that made Ovan’s tone even more colorless and harsh in comparison. Her fingers were strong and sure on the
filhata
, and her harmonizations exalted Ovan’s drab melodies. But her psi, her Gift, was unpredictable. She would be there with Ovan, the
quiru
growing as they worked, expanding and intensifying, glimmering around the dais. Then it would be as if her feet had suddenly gone out from under her. Her psi would falter and weaken, and it seemed there was nothing to lean on, no support in her moment of difficulty.

Her senior was in a constant state of fury. Today was worse than ever, and after the chanting of the ending prayer, he turned on her.
Am I to do all of this by myself, then, Cantrix?

His scorn was as painful to her as a blow.
I am sorry, Cantor Ovan
. She hung her head, contrite and frightened. Misery made her droop like a nursery flower needing water.

He towered over her. His face, pinched tight, made her shrink away from him.
See that you have pulled yourself together by Cantoris hours!

I will try. I am so sorry.

Sorry does not make
quiru
, does it?
His step was heavy as he left the dais.

Kai was waiting for Isbel when she walked out of the Cantoris, though he kept a careful distance. The others around them, working House members and many of the upper class, nodded sympathetically to their young Cantrix; Cantor Ovan was not a popular man. Isbel and Kai walked away from the Cantoris with a little space around them, as if they two were in some way separate from everyone else, yet together. Still it seemed no one suspected.

“What happened?” Kai whispered, when they were far enough from the crush of people.

Isbel tucked her
filhata
under her arm and looked up at Kai with brimming eyes. Only Kai, she thought, cared how she felt. Only Kai cared for something other than how swift and strong her
quiru
could be. When he stood before her like this, so tall and strong and sweet, she thought she could not bear it. How could the Spirit have set her such a trial?

“It was as before,” she answered him. “I simply could not do it. I could not keep up.”

“He deliberately makes it hard for you!”

It was tempting to believe that. Isbel could have said, Yes, yes, he traps me, he confuses me, interferes with my psi. But she would always know it was not true. Her eyelids drooped, and she shook her head. “No, he does not, he could not. It is my own fault. My own weakness.”

She walked on with a dragging step. The staircase was empty, and Kai followed her up, watching for other House members as he went. When they reached her apartment, he looked up and down the hall to make sure they were not observed, then reached for the door latch. Isbel held up her hand to forestall him.

“It is because of my love for you,” she blurted. A sob caught in her throat. “I must choose, Kai. I must!”

Kai withdrew his hand from the door, and stood looking down at her. They did not touch, but the feeling between them was tangible, a bond that tightened and pulled. It seemed the more they resisted, the more it drew them together, like a wet leather thong that contracted as it dried.

“If you must, you must,” Kai said. His voice was thick with longing. “You know I’ll do whatever you ask. I’ll abide by your decision.”

“I know,” she said faintly. “But it is a very hard decision.”

He took a step away, and she put out her white hand as if to stop him leaving. “But what would I do without you?” she cried.

They stared at each other, there in the corridor, until the sound of voices told them someone was coming up the staircase. Kai touched his fingers to his mouth and then to Isbel’s lips, and hurried away, first walking backward with his eyes on hers, then turning to run as the voices came closer. She slipped quickly through her door, and stood with her cheek pressed against the heavy wood as if it were Kai’s broad chest. There, in solitude, she shed her tears.

After a time she dried her eyes. She wrapped her
filhata
and returned it to its shelf. She felt no appetite for the mid-day meal, but she had to gather her strength for Cantoris hours. They loomed before her like a threat, a punishment. They always seemed endless, with too many ill or injured people, and Ovan frowning beside her. Too often, just as she was about to identify some person’s ailment, just as she was approaching its source, her senior would break in, spoiling the rapport. He flared at her with irritation and anger. Never, though, was he able to pick up where he had forced her to leave off. In such cases the ailing House member went away disappointed, feeling no better, and Isbel’s sense of failure deepened.

She went to her cot and lay down with her hand over her eyes to shut out the
quiru
light. She had not slept well in so long. Could that be the problem? Surely she had not done anything so wrong that her Gift should be seriously impaired. It had been so little—a fleeting kiss, the pressure of his hand against her back, her waist. How could it be wrong, when his touch was so sweet, his hands so strong, his lips so warm? If she sent him away from her, she would have nothing. Her life would be utterly, irretrievably empty. She rolled over on her side and curled into a ball, trying to squeeze out the desperate feeling in her center.

A timid knock sounded on her door, and she sat up. Had he come back? Surely he would not dare, not now. Or could it be Ovan, come to chastise her? Carefully, she extended the thinnest tendril of thought to discover who had knocked. Her psi was greeted with a wordless burst of energy and concern. Trisa!

Isbel tried to smile as she opened the door for the little girl.
Hello, Trisa. Have you come to visit me?

Trisa nodded, and tried to send something, but it was formless and unintelligible.

Try again
, Isbel sent.
Tell me again.

Trisa tried again.
Sad. Crying.

Isbel took the child’s hand and led her to the cot.
Trisa, you must not listen to other people’s thoughts unless they send them to you. It is not polite.

The child’s round face fell, and her eyes filled with tears. “I’m sorry, Cantrix,” she said. “I didn’t mean to, but I could feel you. I don’t want you to cry!”

Isbel hugged the little girl. Thank the Spirit, she thought, for one person in this House I can touch without guilt. “It is all right,” she said. “I am glad to have you come to see me.” She held Trisa until the girl stopped crying, then wiped her running nose with a handkerchief. “Even big people are unhappy sometimes,” she said soothingly. “You must not worry.”

“I hate Cantor Ovan,” Trisa said stoutly.

Isbel laughed. “Now why should that be?”

“He’s mean and ugly,” Trisa answered, utterly without remorse. “And he smells funny.”

Isbel looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean? How does he smell funny?”

“He smells like my father when he’s been in the kitchens. Sweet, sort of, but bad sweet. Not good, like you.” She snuggled back into Isbel’s arms.

Isbel sighed. “Let us not worry about Cantor Ovan today. I have an idea, Trisa. I will tell you a story, but I will send the whole thing, and you have to listen very carefully. Then at the end, I will ask you questions, and you will send back to me. All right?”

Trisa glowed with pleasure, her cheeks pink once again. Her curls flew free of their binding as she bounced happily on Isbel’s bed. She sent some babble of agreement, and Isbel laughed again.
Now
, she began.
I will tell you the story of the
ferrel
and the
wezel.  
Ready?

Trisa knelt close to Isbel, and Isbel closed her eyes at the delight of the warm little body against her own. She had been wrong, she reflected. There was at least one other joy in her life. Smiling, and curling one of Trisa’s locks around her fingers, she began to tell her story.

Chapter Twenty

“The Housekeeper found us a traveling party yesterday.”

Sira looked up from her
keftet
. Exhaustion made her feel dull and slow, and nagging dreams about Isbel had disturbed the little sleep she was able to get. “A traveling party?”

His face was alive with movement, dancing brows and quirky mouth. “Yes, a traveling party! We’re supposed to be itinerant Singers, and that’s how we earn our way. Perhaps you remember, apprentice?”

She rubbed her eyes. “Oh, yes, master. I do remember, now you remind me.”

“I’m hard pressed to find a reason to refuse. Somehow Housekeeper Aleen doesn’t find training Zakri the stableman to be an adequate answer.”

“But it is the answer.” Sira blinked tiredly. “Can you put this off?”

“I’m trying. But it will get harder and harder. How much time do you think you need?”

Sira shook her head. “We cannot hurry it. It would truly not be safe for you and Zakri to travel together yet.” She looked out into the courtyard, where the heavy snow of the changing season was already falling. There was so much she did not yet know about traveling, much she had hoped to learn from Iban. “Perhaps,” she said tentatively, “perhaps you should go without us. Perhaps Zakri and I must go alone.”