Read The Singers of Nevya Online
Authors: Louise Marley
Tags: #Magic, #Imaginary Places, #Fiction, #Science Fiction, #Fantasy, #Singers, #General
The Singers of Nevya (65 page)
“Yes,” Sira answered coldly. “But I did not. You say I have failed in my Cantoris, yet I have sustained yours for a year. My Gift is intact. I know exactly what it will do when I use it.”
Ovan backed away then, stumbling again. His eyes had gone dull. “You will ruin me.”
“I may save you.” Sira relaxed her shoulders and hands, and drew a cooling breath. The brightness around her subsided. She turned away from Ovan to look up at the dais, where Zakri would receive his title within the hour.
It was no easy task that he faced, but Zakri’s life had never been easy. He had the strength and the courage he needed. Now would be his opportunity to grow. She hoped he would find satisfaction here, in this Cantoris. Only the Spirit could guide him now.
She looked over her shoulder at Ovan, slumped now on a bench, pale and beaten.
Cantor Ovan, Zakri is a fine Singer, and so Cantor Gavn will be, in time. They will be your juniors, and will show you every respect. Your Gift may even return, if you take care. Meanwhile, your House and your position will be secure.
He sent,
You have no idea how hard it is, working alone, day in and day out, forever.
She sighed, a deep sigh that came from the bottom of her soul.
You are mistaken, Cantor Ovan. I have always known. From the very beginning, I have always known.
Chapter Thirty-five
Softwood saplings grew everywhere, leaping for the sun like pale green arrows loosed into the night-darkness of the ancient ironwoods. Sira’s lungs filled with the essence of summer, the sweet tang of softwood leaves that would forever after remind her of this journey. There were seven in their traveling party. For six days they had ridden southeast at a deliberate pace, enjoying the suns of summer.
Singer Iban and Houseman Berk were there to see them all safely to the Pass. Tiny Mreen traveled in a soft fur carrier, either tied to Kai’s back or slung about Brnwen’s shoulders. Their evening
quiru
were mostly for appearances. The air was balmy and warm enough to be safe without them. They had heard a solitary
tkir
bellow, but it was far away.
It had not been as difficult as Sira thought it might be to say farewell to Zakri, Cantor Zakri v’Amric. With Isbel’s
filhata
tucked under his arm, he had smiled from the steps of the House as they made their parting ceremony. Cantor Ovan stood as if made of stone, and Cantor Gavn watched with stunned surprise, hardly knowing what further shocks awaited him. The general mood had been one of celebration and pride; only Lamdon had more than two Cantors, after all! If there were some ominously shaken heads, that could not be helped. Houseman Berk had a great deal of influence among his House members, and he had been quick to acclaim their new Cantor. Sira had no doubt Cantor Zakri’s
quirunha
would be well-attended.
She had not yet felt Mreen’s Gift, but she accepted Trisa’s judgment in the matter. Trisa would know. She was surprised, though, to find herself charmed by the baby. Mreen’s eyes, bright and curious, were as green as her mother’s had been. Her hair, though now the rosy color of summer dawn, promised to be as rich a red-brown as Isbel’s. She was cheerful and smiling, and Sira had not once heard her so much as whimper. And why should she? Kai, Brnwen, or Trisa leapt to do whatever Mreen needed or wanted to have done! Thank the Spirit the child would not have to mourn her mother, as Isbel had grieved for hers, all alone.
They rode down into the Pass in the same place Sira had so many years before, where Theo had caught up with her in her lonely
quiru
. This time the road was clear, the snow melted, leaving only worn gray patches in the shadows of boulders or ironwood trees. There had been any number of fat
caeru
scampering away from the travelers into the forest. They could have stopped at Bariken, but saw no reason to do so. Now they made their camp in the Pass, waiting.
When it was dark, and their
quiru
shone still and golden above them in the purple night, Sira unwrapped her
filhata
, and sat cross-legged by the cooking fire. As she took the instrument in her hands she thought of Zakri’s hands upon it, and a pang made her close her eyes. Isbel would be glad to have Zakri inherit her
filhata
. But her own would always remind her of him.
Trisa came to kneel close by, ready to follow, to help if she was able. The others in their party were silent, Mreen asleep with her pink lips parted, her plump cheek buried in Kai’s shoulder, Brnwen and Berk and Iban relaxing on their bedfurs. The stars were just beginning their night’s watch.
There was a melody Theo loved, which Sira had played for him early in their days at Observatory. It was a long, winding air that modulated from
Lidya
to
Mu-Lidya
and back again. It had no particular function. It was purely musical, and they had relished its shape and structure. Sira played it now, slowly, lingering on each note, not using her voice but only the rich sound of the strings resounding through the darkness.
She stretched her psi far out away from her in a long, sinuous fibril. It reached up and up, past the huge boulders that hid the path, past the treacherous cliff road they would soon have to traverse. It floated across the rocky valley beyond the chasm and farther up, to the mountain peak where Observatory perched high above any other House on the Continent.
It was a long way, a very long way. Sira took care not to rush, not to push. She had waited five long years to be here again, and she could not fail. When she knew she was there, she searched only moments before finding him.
Theo.
His answer was immediate, a joyous outpouring of feeling like the flaring of a solitary star in the wide sky.
Sira, is it you?
Yes. I am here, in the Pass.
Dear heart! Someone will come for you tomorrow.
Theo . . .
Sira’s fingers moved automatically, supporting the slender thread of psi that connected them. It took tremendous strength to sustain it, but she was loath to let it go, after so long. It was pure gossamer, the faintest touch, this contact between them. She had sometimes feared she would never feel it again.
Theo . . . soon, now.
Very soon. I will be waiting. I have been waiting.
Just a little longer.
She released the thread. She let the melody drift to its cadence, and she lifted her fingers from the strings and opened her eys.
Trisa was watching her, open-mouthed in wonder at the length of her reach.
Did it work? So far away?
Sira smiled, then laughed, stretching her tired fingers and running them through her hair. “Oh, yes, Trisa,” she said, so that everyone could hear. “Oh, yes, it worked very well. Someone is coming tomorrow, coming to guide us. To take us home.”
From her carrier, the infant Mreen’s green eyes regarded her in solemn silence.
Trisa had imagined Observatory to be huge, a massive pile of stone on top of a mountain they would have to climb, struggling over rocks and crevasses. She was disappointed in her first glimpse of it. They rode up a narrow path that had only a gentle rise. The cliff road was the scary part, but they had left that behind two hours before. Now she saw that the ancient stone walls of the House were bounded on two sides by walls of rock. It looked small, almost cramped in comparison to the Houses she knew.
Its
quiru
, though, shone as brightly in the sunshine as any other, and in the courtyard they found a formal welcome, just as they might have done at Conservatory or at Amric. People crowded the steps of the House, people in tunics of every color.
Trisa sensed the general surprise at the size of their party. A thickset man with bushy gray hair stepped forward. He bowed to Sira, but awkwardly, as if he was not really used to it.
“Welcome back, Cantrix Sira,” he said in a raspy voice. His accent was odd, like that of the guide Morys who had come down to the Pass for them. “I see you have brought new House members to Observatory. We’re glad to have them.”
“Thank you, Magister Pol.” Sira’s greeting brought a chuckle from the gray-haired man, but Trisa did not know why.
Several House members came down the steps to help the travelers dismount. One Housewoman held out her arms for Mreen, and cooed with delight as the baby reached up fat hands to pat her face. Pol and one other remained on the steps, and Trisa forgot everything else as she stared at the man who stood beside the Magister.
He was not quite as tall as Cantrix Sira. He had heavy shoulders and long, curling blond hair tied neatly at his nape. His eyes were the bluest Trisa had ever seen, so bright she could see their color from where she stood in the courtayrd. He smiled at them all, but she knew from the way his eyes sought Cantrix Sira’s that this must be Theo. The warmth of feeling between them was as real to Trisa as if it were coming from her own breast. She heard Cantrix Sira send,
Theo, my dear,
and she shielded her mind quickly to give them privacy. Just the same, their feelings were so strong she could hardly have kept from sensing them.
Sira walked up the steps to stand in front of Theo. For a long moment they looked only at one another, as if there were no one else in the world. They did not touch, but it seemed to Trisa’s dazzled eyes that they were surrounded by a light of their own, as if their feelings for each other raised a private and intense
quiru
about the two of them.
Suddenly Trisa realized that around her people were talking and laughing, introducing themselves, handing over saddlepacks and bedfurs. She had thought, watching Sira and Theo, that the whole world was as silent and rapt as they.
When she looked back at them now, she saw Theo presenting three youngsters to Sira. He said aloud, “Your students, Maestra.”
Sira laughed, the second time Trisa had heard her laugh in as many days. “I bring two with me as well, Cantor Theo.” She turned to beckon to Trisa.
Trisa hurried up the steps and bowed low. “I am pleased to meet you, Cantor Theo.”
“I am delighted to meet you, Trisa.” His voice was deep and clear. His eyes crinkled charmingly as he smiled. Trisa thought she had never seen such a lovely man. “It seems we will have our own school here, does it not?” he said.
“It is my privilege to be part of it,” Trisa answered carefully. Cantor Theo laughed, and the cheerfulness of his nature invested the entire courtyard with magic. All around them the people seemed happy, and healthy, and attractive in some mysterious way. There would be a school here, with five students, and no one of them—or any of their parents—shedding tears. It was wondrous beyond anything Trisa had hoped for.
Her grin was so big it hurt her cheeks.
I like your House
, she sent, breaching courtesy, carried away by pelasure at the warmth of their welcome and her delight in her new teacher.
I am very glad,
Cantor Theo responded.
Sira smiled broadly, too, looking happier than Trisa had ever seen her. Mreen was carried forward, and Theo took her into his arms.
Isbel’s daughter
, Sira sent. There passed between Theo and Sira a moment of such intense emotion that Trisa had to shield herself once again.
Pol spoke loudly, interrupting everyone. “All right, into the great room before the cook has my head! She claims she has something special to celebrate the Cantrix’s return!”
Trisa hung back, watching as her mother lifted Mreen out of Theo’s arms, and then, with Kai, followed the people in through the double doors. The
hruss
disappeared with a couple of Housemen, and soon no one was left on the steps but herself, Cantrix Sira, and Cantor Theo.
It was Theo who turned and held out a big hand to her. She put her own into it.
Will you not come in now, Trisa? he asked. I think you are home.
She saw tears of joy sparkle in Sira’s eyes. Her own eyes stung. Two tears slid past her smile, but it did not matter. Oh, yes, Cantor Theo, she sent. We are home.
Side by side, the three of them went up the steps and into Observatory.
BOOK THREE:
R
eceive
The Gift
Prologue
Mreen’s small fingers danced across the stops of her
filla
, and her
Aiodu
melody bubbled up to resonate merrily against the stone walls. Sira listened and watched, her chin propped on one long, narrow hand, her elbow on the ironwood table between them. She did not interrupt until Mreen began to embellish her tune.
No, no, Mreen
, Sira sent then.
You must stay in the mode, or make a modulation to the next.
Mreen’s eyes flashed green.
Why, Cantrix Sira?
She put down the
filla
, and kicked her short legs against the chair.
Why must I?
Sira regarded her gravely. Mreen was redheaded, dimpled, and plump. She was, in fact, very like her mother. But Isbel had never been as wilful as her daughter, except once.
It is unmusical,
Sira sent to her.
It jars the ear.
Not on my ear!
Mreen responded. Tiny sparks, born of her temper, appeared in the air around her. They glinted on her hair, and lifted little tendrils of it to waft around her face.
Sira raised one long forefinger. All of her students knew that warning finger very well. Mreen’s pink lip pouted, but the disturbance in her tiny
quiru
subsided at once.
When you are a full Cantrix, and have mastered your art,
Sira sent,
you will undoubtedly forget all I have said and embellish however you like. But for now, please follow my instruction. When you play in Aiodu, you must not leap to Doryu without preparation. I will show you.
Sira lifted her own
filla
,
obis
-carved at the House of Soren just as Mreen’s had been. She repeated the notes and rhythms of Mreen’s melody exactly, but after the first statement her modulation to
Doryu
was smooth and sweet, like a tidbit of dried fruit melting on the tongue. Mreen caught her breath at the beauty of it.
Sira stopped playing and gazed at her student with an arch of her scarred eyebrow. This, too, was familiar to her students.
Mreen, not yet five years old, squirmed and giggled.
All right, Cantrix Sira
. She dimpled as she picked up her own instrument.
I will try.
Sira rested her chin on her hand again, and listened. She could almost see her old friend Isbel standing behind her daughter, a hazy familiar figure, an apparition of memory reaching out to stroke the childish curls. A wave of remembered grief swept Sira, and she shook her head sharply to banish both the image and the emotion.
Abruptly, Mreen stopped playing. Her eyes glistened with welling tears; like the needles of the ironwood trees curling in on themselves in the deep cold season, they turned dark, a black-green for which there was no name.
Oh, Mreen,
Sira sent swiftly.
It was not you. I—I thought of something, that is all.
I know what you thought
. The tears, shining faintly yellow in the light of the
quiru
, spilled over Mreen’s smooth cheeks.
Do you?
The little girl dashed away the tears with her fingers.
I always know. I see the pictures.
Sira looked down at her
filla
, turning it in her fingers. Sometimes she hardly knew what to say to this child, who even now was two years younger than the youngest student ever to attend Conservatory. Mreen’s Gift was so intense that she went about Observatory wrapped in a little cloud of light that only faded when she lay down on her cot to sleep. Her moods brought sparks flying about her, or small shadows shifting through the light. And she was silent, always.
Gifted students never spoke aloud in Sira’s presence, in order to practice their sending and listening, to sharpen their skills. With their families, and with other House members, they chattered as volubly as other children. But Mreen did not speak at all, not to her Gifted friends, not to her teachers, not even to her unGifted father and stepmother. She had never cried as a baby, nor made any of the usual infant sounds. She was utterly and entirely a creature of the Gift.
Who is the lady?
Mreen asked.
The one you saw? Why does she make you sad?
Sira gently wiped the last tear from Mreen’s face. It hurt to know that Mreen could see the image in her mind, yet not recognize it. Sira took the child’s small hand in her own.
She was your mother, Mreen
, she sent gently.
She loved you very much.
The little girl sat still for a long time, looking down at her hand in Sira’s. When she raised her eyes, the look in them made Sira’s scalp prickle under her short-cropped hair.
I thought so
, Mreen sent.
I have seen her.
How could you have seen her?
Mreen turned her little hand over and pressed it into Sira’s.
Cantrix Sira . . . when I touch things, certain things . . . I know about them, about the other people who touched them.
Sira watched the little girl’s eyes. There seemed to be an old, old woman behind them.
Kai, my father, that is . . . gave me my mother’s brushes. When I hold them in my hand, I can see her.
Perhaps you only imagine that, Mreen. It would be natural.
Mreen shook her head firmly, her red curls bouncing, and she let go of Sira’s hand.
No, Cantrix Sira. I can see her. She had red hair, like me!
That is right, Mreen. She was beautiful.
Was she your friend?
Sira nodded, and sighed.
Was she a Singer, Cantrix Sira?
Sira hesitated. This was the hard part, and she had hoped not to have to touch upon it for some time yet. The child was so precocious—there were no rules to follow in teaching her.
Your mother was a full Cantrix. Cantrix Isbel v’Amric.
Mreen was still for a moment, thinking. When she looked back at Sira, the old woman looked out again from behind the childish features.
But Cantrixes do not have babies.
That is right, Mreen. But to your mother—
Sira remembered Isbel, caressing the swell of her stomach, smiling up at Kai.
To your mother, you were more important than being a Cantrix.
Mreen’s pink lips pursed.
I think I am too young to understand.
That is a wise observation.
They sat in silence for a time, each with their own thoughts. Sira asked,
Will you play once more?
Mreen dimpled, and reached for her
filla
.
So I will. I will modulate!
Sira smiled a little as she sat back to listen, but her heart ached. A strange and heavy Gift had been laid upon the child. As Mreen began her melody, Sira reflected that there was only one place where Mreen could realize her full potential. She needed the structure, the discipline, and the safety of a House entirely devoted to the Gift and to the Gifted. She needed Conservatory.
It would not be easy to send Mreen away, to let others take charge of her training, of the molding and direction of her Gift. Her father and her stepmother would miss her terribly, and so, Sira knew, would she herself. But like every Cantor and Cantrix on the Continent, Sira was accustomed to sacrifice. She would not shirk this one. She would do what she must.
Chapter One
The snow of the deep cold season lay thickly on the peaks and valleys around Amric. Ironwood trees drooped under its weight and the road leading away from the House was blankly white, undisturbed by any footstep of man or
hruss
. When Cantor Zakri v’Amric looked out through the rippled lime-glass window of his private apartment, cold sunlight sparkling on the snowpack dazzled his eyes. The wide vivid sky infected him with restiveness, with longing to be outside. He had worked in Amric’s Cantoris for three solid years. He had not been outside its walls since the day Cantrix Sira had left the House in his care and departed for Observatory. Not since his early childhood had he spent so long a time in one place.
Idly, Zakri stretched out a lazy fibril of his thought and tweaked one of the ironwood branches overhanging the courtyard, just to see a cascade of glittering snow fall from it. He chuckled, leaning into the window to watch the little pile of white snow drop to the cleanswept gray of the cobblestones. At least he could still do it. Three years of Cantoris discipline had not dulled his special talent!
The
quirunha
had been performed an hour before, and the warmth and light of the House
quiru
enveloped even the edges of the courtyard, spilling over onto the snow beyond. Cantor Ovan and Cantor Gavn, Zakri’s senior and junior respectively, had flanked him on the dais in the Cantoris as they did each day. Amric’s
quiru
was one of the strongest and warmest on the Continent, behind only those of Lamdon and Conservatory, making Magister Edrus justifiably proud of his three Cantors.
Zakri sighed again, and turned away from the window to brush and retie his long hair. He patted his tunic to make sure his
filla
was there before he went out of his apartment and down the broad carved staircase to return to the Cantoris. Cantor Gavn was already seated, and a short line of people in brightly dyed tunics waited in front of him.
Not many today, Cantor Zakri
, Gavn sent.
Zakri stepped up on the dais and sat down next to his junior. Indeed, their duties would be light.
You could handle this all by yourself
, he sent to Gavn with a wink.
Gavn’s answering smile was shy. He was only slightly younger than Zakri, but his Conservatory upbringing made him seem tender and unformed. Even his features were babyish, his mouth full and soft, his cheeks smooth. Zakri shielded the thought, sure that Gavn would not appreciate it. Gavn had four summers, after all, and would have five before long, Spirit willing. He had to be at least twenty-two years old.
Zakri was not sure of his own age; his parents, like so many itinerants and working people, had measured their children’s ages only in summers. With five years between summers, the system was no more than a general one, and there was great variety in its accuracy.
I could handle these, I think
, Gavn sent now,
but they would only ask for you in any case!
Zakri’s mouth curled in amusement.
If they only knew!
he responded.
Perhaps I should stay away and let them find out what you can do
. He turned to nod to the small group of waiting people. The first stepped forward, and Zakri took his
filla
out of his tunic, ready to begin.
He had barely opened his mouth to ask the Houseman what was troubling him when a clatter of
hruss
hooves sounded from the courtyard, and a hoarse voice called from the steps. Every head in the Cantoris turned. Gavn murmured aloud, “Travelers!”
The Housemen and women chattered excitedly to each other, and turned about, torn between their turn at Cantoris hours and wanting to see who had come. Very few travelers had been seen at Amric during the past months, and in recent weeks, none at all. A new face at the evening meal, bearing fresh news and gossip, would be welcome.
Housekeeper Cael burst into the Cantoris, hurrying up the aisle between the ironwood benches. His face was pale, his expression grim. As Zakri rose to meet him, he felt a chill of premonition creep across his shoulders.
Cael bowed very briefly. Zakri nodded in return. “Housekeeper?” he said.
“Cantor Zakri, you are needed in the great room,” Cael murmured.
Without hesitating, knowing in his bones that something grave was happening, Zakri tucked his
filla
back into his tunic and stepped down from the dais. To Gavn he sent,
You will have to care for these people alone, after all.
Yes, Cantor Zakri
, Gavn responded.
Shall I join you then?
Good idea
. As Zakri followed Cael out of the Cantoris, he heard Gavn speaking to the House members in a soothing and assured voice. He did not sound a bit shy.
The double doors to the great room were closed. Cael opened one of them for Zakri to slip through, then shut it firmly again, forestalling several curious House members who lingered in the hall, trying to see inside.
The great room was empty except for two men, heavily swathed in traveling furs, collapsed into one of the deep window seats. One looked up at Zakri with desperate eyes. The other sprawled in the seat with his legs dangling to the floor. He did not move at all.
Zakri’s steps slowed as he approached them, and his premonition solidified into dread. A tiny seed of fear and anger was born just under his heart. He knew already whose face he would see when he pulled back the
caeru
fur hood of the unconscious man. And he knew the man was beyond any help he could give.
He tried just the same. He got out his
filla
and played, searching frantically for a spark, for any glimmer of life in his old friend and master, but there was none to be found. He played on. His psi probed and prodded, but there was no consciousness to awaken, no pulse, however weak, to encourage. The people of Amric believed Zakri to be the greatest healer on the Continent. But there was nothing he could do for the Singer Iban.
Iban had been his mentor and his master. Any healing Zakri knew he had learned from Iban. But Iban was gone now, gone with the Spirit beyond the stars.
“What happened?” he demanded of Iban’s companion. The man slumped beside his dead comrade, his face sagging with fatigue and fright. “Who are you?” Zakri snapped.
The man turned pale eyes to Zakri, then looked swiftly away. “I’m Clive v’Trevi. Iban’s sister’s mate. We were coming to you . . . you’re Cantor Zakri, aren’t you?”
He looked up to see Zakri’s nod. “We were coming to you, to tell you—” He broke off, looking up at Cael, then, fearfully, at Zakri. “Iban wanted to see you.”
“But what happened?” Zakri repeated. He spoke harshly, out of grief and shock and anger. The air around him shifted and darkened, as if his emotions were a cloud before the sun. He took a sharp breath, concentrating on his control, and the light returned. This was no time for an undisciplined display. It would do no honor to Iban’s memory to lose control of his Gift.