The Singers of Nevya (54 page)

“What do you think it was?” Zakri asked.

“I cannot explain it.”

After a time they went out of the
quiru
to relieve themselves, in twos as Iban had taught them. First Iban and Zakri went together, then Iban went with Sira, politely turning his head to give her privacy. The distant roar of a
tkir
rumbled out of the darkness as they came back into the light. Zakri’s eyes flashed white, and Sira moved closer to him.

Iban had not heard the story of Zakri’s nightmares. “The
tkir
hate this season,” he said in a low tone, as if the animal might hear him. “All the little animals stay safely in their dens—except us!” He winked at Sira. “Did anyone bring a throwing knife? Just in case?”

Zakri listened in silence, the air around him calm.

Iban still teased. “
Tkir
won’t bother you in your
quiru
. Nor will
urbear
, usually. But I do remember a time—just out of Forgotten Pass, it was—” He kept his eye on Zakri, but Zakri had dropped his gaze to the embers of the fire. “A
tkir
hunting on the glacier, desperately hungry . . .”

Iban spun his story out for several minutes, but Zakri did not react. Sira relaxed, and after a time Iban chuckled and gave it up. “I see you’re a fearless man, Singer Zakri.” He bent to unroll his bedfurs, and Sira decided the time had come to speak.

She had just drawn breath when a deep growl sounded around them, much closer than before. This time it was Iban whose eyes widened and flashed in the
quiru
light. He jumped to his feet and peered out into the darkness. The growl came again, lower and louder, with a threatening snap at the end of it.

“What in the name of all the Houses—?” Iban began.

Zakri, who had not moved, fell back suddenly onto his bedfurs, laughing up at the stars. Even Sira laughed aloud, and Iban stared at both of them, his curse cut short. “How did you—Zakri, you whelp of a
caeru
, did you make that sound?”

Zakri gulped back his laughter. “So I did, master. I am sorry, but it was too good a chance to let pass!”

Iban sat down again, shaking his head. “You caught me out, and that’s the truth! I’ve never heard a human make such a noise.”

“I can make many of them,” Zakri said. He whuffed deep in his throat, exactly the sound a
hruss
would make when hungry or lonely. Then he imitated the
ferrel
’s cry, which made the
hruss
throw up their heads and stamp. He quieted them with a crooning murmur.

Iban chuckled as he lay down on his furs. “Never a dull moment with Singer Zakri around!” He propped himself on one elbow and looked across the fire to where Sira sat still smiling at Zakri’s joke. “I’ll miss this,” he said casually.

Sira’s brow lifted. “Master?”

Iban said lightly, “Your apprenticeship is complete.”

Sira could not speak for a moment, moved by the depth of his wisdom and perception. When she could, she answered in a low voice, “I am sorry to end it.”

“But it is time, Singer, and past time. I have little left to teach you.” For once Iban’s brows were level. “I have learned as much from you, Cantrix, as you from me.”

Sira inclined her head to him with deep respect. Iban had known already what she had not yet found words to tell him. She wished she knew how to properly thank him. For a year they had traveled together, worked together. She would miss his changeable face and his constancy. She could only say, “I am certain we will meet again.”

Iban smiled. “I’ll be at your service. But there is one more lesson I must offer you.”

She waited. Iban spoke with care. “There’s something happening on the Continent, something to do with itinerants. I’ve heard only rumors, but I want you to know, to be prepared.”

Zakri sat up suddenly. “My father!” he whispered. “That was what my father was going to tell me.”

Iban frowned. “What do you mean?”

“My father said that when I completed my apprenticeship, he would tell me something important. But I never completed it!”

“You have now,” Sira reminded him, and he smiled.

Iban nodded. “It’s something about Soren,” he said, “but I don’t know exactly what. Some House members seem to know, and a lot of itinerants, though not all.”

“Know what?” Sira asked. “I do not understand.”

“I’m sorry,” Iban said. “I don’t, either. But a lot of itinerants are traveling to Soren, more than they need for their trade. They’re keeping it very quiet, especially from anyone with connections to the Committee. I just thought you should know.”

“Thank you,” Sira said. She lay down on her furs, and looked up at the night sky through the brilliance of Zakri’s
quiru
. Her psi prickled, telling her Iban’s warning was important. She wondered how long she would have to wait before she knew why.

Chapter Twenty-four

The courtyard of Conservatory was empty when Sira and Iban and Zakri rode into it. No greeting party stood on the broad steps. Sira had not expected one, yet she looked up at the blank windows of the House and felt a pang over something missing, something lost. They dismounted and led their
hruss
around the side of the House to the stables at the back. The stableman, Erc, greeted Iban as sooon as he pushed back his furs.

“Singer Iban! It’s a pleasure to see you once more.” They exchanged the shallow bows of old acquaintance. Sira and Zakri also put their hoods back, and Erc’s demeanor turned formal. He bowed deeply. “Cantrix Sira. Welcome home to Conservatory.”

The correction of her title was on her lips, but Erc went on before she could speak. “I see you still ride the same
hruss
that carried you away from here. It looks in remarkable condition.”

Sira nodded to Zakri. “This is Singer Zakri. He is very good with
hruss
.”

Erc bowed to Zakri. “Singer,” he said, and Zakri blushed and bowed. Sira feared she saw a glimmer in the air around him, but no one else seemed to notice. Erc added, “This beast looks fresh as a foal. That’s good work, Singer. Cantrix Sira, no one knew you were coming! I’m sure a welcome would have been arranged! You go ahead now and find the Housekeeper, and I’ll take care of these
hruss
.”

“I will help you, Houseman,” Zakri offered. “If you will just show me where.”

Zakri and Erc turned into the stalls together while Sira and Iban went on into the House.

Almost five years had passed since Sira had walked the halls of Conservatory. She looked around her at the spare beauty of the corridors, the unadorned arches of the doorways, the smooth worn stone of the floors. As she led Iban toward the great room the sounds of music floated from the student wing, notes both sublime and sour, scales and fingering exercises and fragments of melody. Sira’s eyes suddenly stung. Had she been Zakri, she thought, she would be surrounded by a gloomy haze.

But she was not Zakri. She was a travel-hardened and experienced woman of twenty-four. She blinked her eyes hard, and kept her head up and her back straight.

She had not changed so much, perhaps. A Housewoman recognized her as she came into the great room, and bowed deeply before hurrying away in search of the Housekeeper. Sira went to the window seat and looked out through the thick, wavy windows at the familiar scene. Snow blanketed the trees around the House. The weak sunlight was faded to nothing by the strength of Conservatory’s
quiru
. Sira sat down, thinking of Gifted children clustering here after meals and before bed. There was no place on the Continent like Conservatory. It was full of music, of the Gift, of the dedication and labor of the Singers. What possible substitute could there be for such a place? Yet something must change, or there would be no more Gifted ones to fill these halls.

It was not the Housekeeper, but Magister Mkel himself who came to greet her. “Sira,” he said aloud. “Welcome home.” His voice was less resonant, less deep than she remembered.

She rose quickly to bow to him. “I am glad to be here.” She introduced Iban.

“It’s an honor, Magister,” Iban said. To Sira he added, “I’ll leave you alone now.” The Housekeeper had come behind the Magister, and Iban, with a wink to Sira, followed him out.

“Let us go to my apartment,” Mkel said. “Cathrin will be delighted to see you.”

Sira followed the Magister’s familiar gray-headed figure, slightly stooped now, up the wide stairs. Her feet fitted perfectly in the centers of the treads, the stone worn hollow by generations of Singers’ feet. Strains of music followed her, haunted her like ghosts from her own past, and she was just as glad to reach the Magister’s apartment, to go in and close the door.

“Well, Sira,” Cathrin exclaimed. They had agreed, it seemed, on how to address her. “How wonderful to see you!”

She brought a chair forward, and bustled about bringing a tray of fruit and tea, very much in the same way she had when Sira was last there. But there were differences now. Sira felt a chill, as if she had brought the deep cold with her into this cheerful room.

Sira and the Magister sat near the largest window, just as they had during their last, painful interview. How hard it had been to refuse the pleas of both Magister Mkel and Cantor Rico v’Lamdon! They had used their psi to persuade her to return to the Cantoris, and she had almost given in beneath their pressure.

But now Mkel only smiled pleasantly as Cathrin withdrew. “Tell me about yourself,” he said. “You have been a long time at Tarus, I hear.”

“So I have. I have been working with—that is, teaching a young Singer, Zakri v’Perl.”

Mkel’s expression did not change, but Sira had the sense that his features stiffened, froze into place. His eyes were cold, and she wanted to squirm in her chair like a first-level student.

“Zakri was the son of an itinerant who died, Magister,” she said hurriedly. “He never received his training, yet his Gift is great, the strongest I have seen. For years no one could work with him because of its wildness.”

The Magister let a moment pass. “I feel sorry that the boy’s life has been so hard. If only he had been sent to Conservatory at the proper time, if his family had seen their duty, he need not have suffered so.”

They were the words Sira had used herself with Zakri’s father years before. She took a deep breath. “So I thought myself, Magister, when I first met him. His family refused, and there was little a young boy could do. But now I see another way. I would like you to meet Zakri, to understand for yourself how strong his Gift is.”

Another moment of silence passed. Sira concentrated on her breathing as she waited for an answer. At length, Mkel said, “Nevya needs itinerants, of course, Sira. But it needs Cantors more. I wonder if you realize how desperate our shortage is.” He spoke as if the issue were no longer of concern to her, as if she had no part in it.

“So I do, Magister,” she said. “That is why I am here.”

He only gazed at her, waiting in his turn. She moistened her lips. “At Observatory, there was a Singer.” She shielded herself carefully. She knew how perceptive Mkel could be. “Theo is his name. I think you met him.”

He nodded briefly, and Sira rushed on. “There was also a
filhata
, but they had neither Cantor nor Cantrix. Theo and another itinerant were trying to maintain the
quiru
with only a
filla
. It was hopeless, and exhausting. But Theo was so strong and capable. I taught him to play the
filhata
. I was trapped there, and the people were cold.” She paused for breath.

“That is quite interesting,” Mkel said. “But Observatory could rejoin Nevya. It is their choice to remain outside the Magistral Committee’s jurisdiction. They live as outlaws, when they could be a part of our community, their needs met with properly trained Cantors.”

“But Theo is properly trained!” Sira insisted. “His
quiru,
Magister—”

“Everyone is partial to their own students, Sira. But only Conservatory produces Cantors and Cantrixes.”

Sira felt as if she had missed a turning and walked straight into a wall. “The shortage—”

“If Observatory were to come within the law, and send their Gifted children for training, perhaps that would ease the shortage.”

Sira had thought Mkel was her best hope for understanding. He had always been a sympathetic, if stern, leader, and he had taken a great interest in her work. At this moment she felt keenly her drop in status.

“Magister,” she said in a low, intense voice. “Have you not wondered why fewer of the Gifted are being born to the Houses?” He did not answer, and she pressed on. “It seems the cost is too high. Isolation, loneliness, sacrifice, await every Cantor and Cantrix. Cantrix Isbel—”

“Cantrix Isbel?” Mkel interrupted. “What do you know about Cantrix Isbel?”

A dizzying moment of premonition swept Sira, and she had to grip the arms of her chair until it passed. “Why—I only know how unhappy, how lonely, she is. Her senior—”

“Cantor Ovan is a hard-working and dedicated Singer.”

“He is mean and nasty to Isbel,” Sira said. She felt the heat of temper in her cheeks. “He is a terrible healer, and he blames her for it.”

“Cantrix Isbel,” Mkel said, stressing the title, “will one day be senior herself, and then she will understand.”

“But she has nothing now,” Sira protested. Her temper cooled as she thought of Isbel’s sadness, Zakri’s need, her own losses, and the pressure of destiny that drove her on. “She is without friendship, without even the satisfaction that her work could bring. But Cantor Theo—” Mkel’s eyes narrowed, but he only pressed his lips tightly together. She hurried on. “Cantor Theo has a rich and rewarding life. He is loved and respected, and he knows his House members each by name. He is the best healer I have ever seen, because he allows himself to feel what his people feel. He is overworked, of course, because he is alone, but—”

Mkel began to speak, but Sira held up a swift and commanding hand. It was evident she had nothing to lose here. She spoke with the authority of experience and the impatience of necessity. “Three Gifted children have been born since Theo began to serve in Observatory’s Cantoris. Three. To a House that is no more than one-third the size of Conservatory.”