The Singers of Nevya (61 page)

Slowly, Sira lowered the
filla
. She hesitated a moment, then handed it to Zakri. When he put it to his lips, it was still warm where her own had touched it.

He began with
Aiodu
, but then, moved by some instinct, he modulated to
Lidya
. With Sira’s psi guiding his, he carried them both back into Isbel’s body.

The babe was buffeted and squeezed by the contractions. Pain was the background, the field upon which all events were taking place. It came in waves of red darkness that rocked them both as they broke over Isbel. Zakri felt Sira falter, but she held on, supporting him, guiding him.

He had no way to interpret what he found. He knew the infant was there, felt its tiny heartbeat speed frantically under the force of each contraction. He knew the wetness, and the dark, and many details that meant nothing to him. Pulling Sira with him, he withdrew, ending the music and opening his eyes.

Isbel rested for a moment, her knees drawn up to her swollen belly. Without thinking what he did, Zakri stroked one of her bare feet, rubbing it lightly from ankle to toe. It was cold as ice under his hand.

Sira sent,
We must turn the babe.

Zakri froze with Isbel’s foot under his palm.
Why?

It cannot come out in that position.
She showed him with her hands.
We must turn it, so. But very carefully, or we hurt the mother.

I do not see how she could take further pain.

Sira shuddered.
I am sorry,
she sent, shaking her head.
This is my weakness.

Zakri took Isbel’s other foot in his hand, gently rubbing it. She moaned as another contraction began, and he released the foot.
Ease her pain first
, he sent to Sira.
Then I will do it.
He pushed aside his own fear, and his revulsion. He told himself he could feel things later, think about them later. Now was a time to act.

O Spirit, he prayed. Do not let me make one of my mistakes. Not here. Not today.

Sira was awed by Zakri’s dexterity and power as he moved the babe, ever so smoothly. He coaxed its little head down, and its tiny legs curled upward. Isbel’s torment went on unabated. She had retreated, withdrawn into her suffering as if she had chosen it for herself.

Sira had assisted several women to give birth at Observatory, but never had she seen a reaction like Isbel’s. The laboring women had embraced her help, were relieved by it, eager to ease their pain. It must be my own weakness, she thought, my ineffectiveness. She wished she could take Isbel’s pain into her own body.

The babe was in position now. The labor went on. Kai paced the outer room, and Yula came in and out, her fear of the Gifted forgotten as she pressed cool cloths to her mistress’s forehad and combed her wet hair back with her fingers. Sira and Zakri waited, watching.

There is something amiss still
, Sira sent.
There should be a flood of waters before the birth. They seem often to ease the passage.

Zakri nodded.
This I have seen with
hruss. He picked up the
filla
and played a straightforward tune in
Aidou
. He extended a small, sharp blade of power, almost as simply as putting out a finger, and the membrane that held the waters broke open. Sira marveled at the sheer kinetic strength of his psi.

Yula had been waiting for this moment. She leapt forward, crowing with satisfaction as she padded Isbel with towels. “There we are, there we are,” she cried. “We’re almost done now.” She nodded to the two Singers as she mopped Isbel’s wet face. “Soon now, the babe will be here soon.”

But still the birth did not come. For what seemed an age, the pains went on. Sira had to leave for a time, to go to the Cantoris and perform the
quirunha
once again. When she returned, Zakri was playing a fragment of
Iridu
over and over. He looked as pale as Isbel, his fine hair hanging in wet tendrils around his face. Sira knelt beside him, closed her eyes, and followed.

She trembled at what she found, and wondered that Zakri had the strength to stay where he was. The contractions were powerful now, and Isbel should have been past pain, consumed with the effort of thrusting her child into the world.

But Isbel seemed locked in her misery, mated to it. Her heart beat weakly, and with a frightening unevenness. She lay passive, not so much a part of the birthing as a victim of it. The baby’s swift heartbeat came more faintly now. Yula crouched beside Isbel’s head, crooning and pleading with her mistress.

As Sira watched, Zakri exerted a gentle force, and the infant began to move. Sira only supported him. She knew he was working by instinct, neither of them knowing what else to do. It was terrifyingly clear that if they did nothing, both Isbel and the child would be lost.

Zakri pushed and pulled by turns. It seemed most effective when he waited for a contraction. He took deep, noisy breaths, and endlessly repeated the little
Iridu
phrase, over and over and over until it seemed to have gone on forever. When at last the babe emerged to Yula’s waiting hands and tearful cries, Zakri collapsed to the stone floor, and Sira had to lift him up in her arms as Yula lifted up the newborn infant.

I am all right,
Zakri sent.
See to Isbel!

Sira picked up the dropped
filla
and turned back to the bed with a dragging fear.

Yula was holding the babe, now wrapped and clean, to its mother, but Isbel was too weak to take it. Her eyelids fluttered and her face was pale and gleaming, ice on a stone. “Poor little thing,” she whispered, so faintly Sira barely heard her. “She does not cry.”

“It is all right,” Sira said. “The child is fine. You must rest now, gather your strength.”

Yula held the babe close to her own breast and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Isbel murmured, her voice a little louder now. Yula came back, and put the infant down, close to its mother’s face. Isbel pressed her trembling white lips to its forehead, then fell back on her pillow.

“Take the child to its father,” Sira said to Yula. Zakri, who had been busy with the afterbirth, pulled himself to his feet and followed the Housewoman out. He closed the door softly behind them.

“Now rest, my friend,” Sira said quietly. Fear choked her, and she swallowed hard.

Isbel shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “I have only a moment,” she whispered.

“No, dear heart.” Sira’s throat tightened.

Isbel’s eyelids lifted, fluttering. “Yes.” Her voice was as light as a breeze through softwood leaves, a ghost of a voice. She moved her fingers, and Sira took them in hers and pressed them to her own cheek. She was startled to find her face wet with tears.

“Tell Kai,” Isbel breathed, “to care for her. To love her.”

Sira could no longer speak. She sent instead,
Isbel, do not leave us!

I cannot help it.
Isbel’s sending was suddenly clear and lucid, as if it were coming from a bright and open place. There was still pain in her body, Sira realized, but it was only an echo, a memory.
The poor babe,
Isbel sent.
Tell Kai her name is Mreen. Poor motherless Mreen . . .

Sira bent to kiss Isbel’s cold cheek.
No, Isbel, no! How can we bear this? Try, please!

But it was too late.

Sira feared Kai’s reaction, but she saw when she came out to him that he already knew Isbel was gone. He stood by the window, looking out over the frozen landscape as if he were watching her leave. The babe he cradled tenderly against his chest, a morsel of Isbel left behind for him. He pressed his cheek to the little head. His jaw was tight, and there were no tears.

“Isbel says—said—the child’s name is Mreen,” Sira murmured, with infinite sadness.

Kai nodded, his gaze not leaving the window. “Mreen she shall be.” He rocked his daughter in his arms. “It was her grandmother’s name.”

Yula, sobbing aloud, went back into the bedroom to do the things that must be done. Sira fell into a chair near Zakri and put out her hand to him.
You saved the little one.

Zakri’s eyes were red.
I wish . . .Isbel . . .

You cannot heal someone against her will.

They sat in silence for several minutes before Sira sighed and rose.
I must tell Magister Edrus. And I must hold Cantoris hours.

I will help you, Cantrix.
Zakri gave her a bleak look.
I doubt Ovan will be much use. But I will sit in the Cantoris and support you, and no one need know.

Gratefully, Sira clasped his arm. They took a last look at Kai, and the infant Mreen, before they went out, side by side, to carry on with the work of the House.

Chapter Thirty-one

Magister Edrus asked Zakri to escort his courier to Conservatory. “There are no other itinerants here,” he said, with an air of apology. “Cantrix Sira feels, and I agree, that Conservatory should be informed of what has happened as soon as possible.”

Zakri bowed. “I’m happy to help, Magister.”

Delighted would have been a better word, though Zakri felt some compunction about that. He missed Isbel, and he often thought of her when he stepped into the Cantoris, or into the apartment which had been hers, and where Sira now resided. But Sira was inconsolable. Outside, the sun shone relentlessly on the snowy hills, but Sira did not see it. For weeks, her world had been shadowed by grief. She never spoke of Isbel, but her sorrow spilled into Zakri’s mind as they worked together. Zakri was relieved at the chance to be away, to be outside again, to breathe cold fresh air and the scent of
hruss
and tack. He would miss almost two weeks of
filhata
practice, but perhaps he could bring back some good news to ease Sira’s mind.

The courier, Berk, was a huge man who frequently said his hair had gone gray in the service of his House. He rode the largest
hruss
in Amric’s stables, and still his legs hung far down on either side of the beast’s broad body. Tucked inside his tunic was a leather-wrapped roll of thick paper, inscribed by Magister Edrus himself. Together Berk and Zakri rode away from Amric into a brilliant blue and white land, the sun shining unobstructed from a clear sky. By nightfall, at their first campsite, the sunlight glancing off the snowpack had made their faces tender and red, and they were glad of the tiny ironwood jar of salve that Housekeeper Cael had sent with them.

Berk knew countless stories to enliven their evening campfires. In his youth he had been a rider for Amric, often traveling with Magister Edrus’s father. Although a son of the working classes, his reliability and discretion had brought him to his Magister’s attention, and more important duties had come his way. Now he wore the dark tunic of the upper levels.

“My mate thinks the whole family should move up the stairs,” he chuckled one night. “Especially all of her grandchildren! But my daughters and their mates are content where they are. And we see the children often enough, if you ask me! They make such a noise, a man can’t think a thought.”

Zakri was fascinated. His own family life had ended so early he hardly remembered it. Though Berk’s words sounded like complaints, Zakri felt clearly the affection that underlay them, especially when the big man was talking about his grandchildren.

“Six!” he boomed. “Six of the little rascals, and never a clean nose among them! My mate spends all her time running down the stairs to look after them. Morning, noon, and night she’s somewhere else. A man might as well live alone.” He laughed as he said it.

Zakri smiled. “So you’re happy to get away from time to time,” he said slyly.

Berk winked at him. “And happy to get home again.”

The courier talked for hours on their journey. By the time they arrived at Perl, Zakri’s head was full of House politics and Continent history. When he asked Berk about Observatory, the older man looked grave. “Most don’t know it’s really there. The Magistral Committee likes it that way. But every once in a while Observatory riders swoop down from their mountain to kidnap someone or steal
hruss
. Although now I think of it, I haven’t heard any stories since last summer, or maybe the last two summers. It could be the Committee is hushing up the rumors.”

“But why should it be a secret?”

Berk shrugged. “None of us has any idea. They say it’s because Observatory upsets the balance, breaks the rules, but I don’t know. They have some strange beliefs. Or maybe it’s just the way people are, like a
caeru
litter that pushes the runt out in the snow. Every group likes someone to look down on.”

At Perl, Zakri was gratified to be addressed as Singer, and treated as someone of importance. The stableman was surprised by his insistence on caring for their
hruss
himself, but when he saw Zakri knew his work, he gave him a free hand. They stayed for only a night before riding off toward Conservatory.

“That Cantor Arn is a one,” Berk said, their first night out from Perl.

“Why do you say that?” Zakri asked.

“He said to his Magister, in my presence, that Cantrix Sira got what she deserved. He said she always thought she was better than the rest of them.” He looked up at Zakri. “Sorry. Maybe I shouldn’t have told you.”

But Zakri was laughing. “You can be sure she was the best of her class, and that she knew it. She is the greatest Singer on the Continent, and no mistake about it.”

Berk finished the last of the
keftet
Zakri had prepared, smacking his lips with pleasure. “You’re a fine cook, Singer.” Then, after a pause, “Do you think Cantrix Sira will stay at Amric, then, in our Cantoris?”

“No.” Zakri hesitated before going on, wondering what he could say. He did not like to dissemble with a man like Berk. “I cannot speak for Cantrix Sira, but I can tell you there is even more important work to be done on the Continent than singing in a Cantoris. And she is the only one to do it.”

Berk surprised him by saying, “It’s been a long time since anything on the Continent has changed. Change is necessary sometimes.” He scrubbed out his ironwood bowl with a handful of snow, and laughed aloud. “It hurts, though, and the old ones don’t like it!”