The Singers of Nevya (68 page)

It was all Sira could do to stay with Mreen, to keep from closing her own mind, until she felt Theo’s hand on her own, and realized that they were together, the three of them. The sensation of falling grew worse, more frightening, and Sira did not know where it would lead.

It was Theo who broke the spell. Sharply, he sent,
That is enough, Mreen. Lift your hand from the metal
. She obeyed. The vision, the impression, faded instantly.

The three Gifted ones stared at one another, and Pol’s small, hard eyes watched them until he could bear it no more. He burst out, “What happened?”

Neither Sira nor Mreen could find words for what they had experienced. Theo spoke, haltingly. “It would be difficult to describe. I am not so sensitive as Cantrix Sira, or Mreen, but there was an impression of blackness, and speed . . . and points of light, little flames, or stars. Then a falling, as if from one of these great cliffs around us. And fear. Terrible fear.”

Pol gave a short, sharp laugh that grated on Sira’s nerves. “The Ship!” he cried.

Sira looked up at him, shaking her head. “I do not know,” she said slowly. “Perhaps. But it was not a pleasant thing.”

Theo went to stand behind Mreen, who looked up at him with solemn eyes.
Were you afraid, little one?
he asked gently.

She shook her head.
No, Cantor Theo. But someone was. Very afraid.

But you do not know who?

No. The picture is . . . sort of faded. Dim. It was—I think it was too long ago. It is too old.
She looked up at the object on the table, and took a quick step backward.

Sira stood. “Thank you, Magister,” she said.

Pol bowed, and went to the door behind them. “You can tell them at Conservatory,” he said to Theo. “And they can tell Lamdon. Tell them it is still here.”

“I will, if you like,” Theo answered doubtfully. “But I am not sure even now what it is.”

“They know,” Pol said with assurance. “They have always known!”

Chapter Three

“It is wicked,” Zakri told Berk, as they made their first camp in the Mariks east of Amric, “how good it feels to be out in the open again.”

Berk laughed. “Please, Cantor Zakri, make your
quiru
before you indulge in your feelings! It’s mightily cold in these mountains today.”

Zakri pulled his
filla
from his tunic, but he stole one more moment to look out into the gathering twilight. Nevya’s sky darkened swiftly to violet, presaging the purple of the long night. As he watched, a lone star began to beckon in the south. Conservatory’s star, the itinerants called it. Iban had pointed it out to him on their first trip together. When Conservatory’s star begins to shine, he had said, you’d better have your
filla
in your hand or it’ll be too late.

I remember, Zakri called silently after his master’s departed spirit. I remember. When he put his
filla
to his lips he played an itinerant’s melody, a brief and simple melody Iban would have approved, and the
quiru
sprang up swiftly around them.

Berk chuckled, “That’s more like it.” Even the
hruss
shifted their feet and gave throaty growls as the circle of light swelled around them. “
Hruss
don’t like the dark anymore than I do!”

“Silly beasts,” Zakri said, “and they were born to it!” But he tucked away his
filla
and went to pull off their saddles and set out their feed. He patted the shaggy broad heads and tugged their drooping ears, making them whuff and push their heads into his chest, asking for more. He gave each of them one last rub. “Later, you foolish things. I would like my own meal!”

Berk had already put flint to stone, and a little cooking fire crackled invitingly in the center of the
quiru
. Zakri pulled the cooking pot and
keftet
makings from his saddlepack.

“I can do that,” Berk said, reaching for the pot. “You’re Cantor Zakri now, after all.”

Zakri laughed, and pushed back his
caeru
hood. “You see this?” he said. He passed his hand over his head. Only wisps of fine hair met his fingers at the back of his neck. “I am an itinerant once again, shorn hair and all. Singer Zakri!” He began to slice the dried
caeru
meat while Berk melted some snow in the pot to soak it. Zakri added, “In truth, if we go to Soren I had best be simply Singer. It may not be healthy to be a Cantor in that company.”

“If you’re going to be Singer, you’d better do something about the way you talk,” Berk told him.

Zakri protested, “What about the way I talk? I was raised with itinerants!”

“Yes, but you’ve come to sound just like Cantor Ovan and Cantor Gavn. Like all the Conservatory-trained. Like you’d rather be sending than speaking aloud.”

Zakri stirred the
caeru
meat in the pot and found it soft enough. He dropped in the grain and the spicy herbs, again as Iban had taught him. “I did not realize,” he began, and then stopped, surprised. “I didn’t realize that. I have not . . . I mean, I haven’t thought about it.”

“That’s better,” Berk said. “But you’d better practice.”

Zakri sat back on his heels to look up through the glow of his
quiru
into the wide starry sky. The ironwood trees groaned as the deep cold settled over them, and the wind sighed through the branches. It was easy to believe himself an itinerant once again. If he had not been so grieved over Iban’s death, he could have enjoyed the respite from the pressures of the Cantoris, of caring for the sick, of knowing that each day, no matter his inclination, the work must go on.

The two men ate their
keftet
as experienced travelers, leaving no scrap of meat or grain behind. They brewed and drank tea, then went together out of the
quiru
to relieve themselves before rolling into their bedfurs. Berk banked the little fire, and it glowed softly within the brighter light of the
quiru
. Zakri lay awake watching it for a long time, relishing the freedom of the mountains and the stars.

It seemed only yesterday, yet a lifetime ago, that he had traveled with Iban. Iban had been patient, funny, strict . . . the perfect master for a boy who had had no master for too long. Zakri’s two teachers—Sira and Iban—had helped him to discipline and harness his untamed Gift. It was hard to accept that Singer Iban would no longer come riding up to Amric, would no longer tease Zakri the Cantor about Zakri the itinerant Singer. The days of their journeys together seemed shining and perfect now in memory.

Yes, Zakri thought, there was much to be said for the itinerant life, but it had not been his to choose. The Gift had always had him in its grasp, and the Gift would not be denied. Even Iban had known that.

The journey to Soren from Amric took eight days of riding. Berk and Zakri pressed the pace, but the
hruss
needed more and more rest as they labored toward the southeast. Zakri had not ridden in three years, and his thighs and backside ached on the second and third day, but the saddlesoreness disappeared as they rode on. They saw
caeru
grown thin and wary from the long years of winter. They came upon tracks of
tkir
, and were thankful not to see the beast itself. A
ferrel
scream disturbed their sleep once or twice, but otherwise the nights were peaceful. Several wild
hruss
raised their heads from foraging as they passed. Zakri called to them in a low tone, but these beasts were not accustomed to people, and their liquid dark eyes rolled as they made their throaty growls and flicked their ears nervously back and forth. Zakri laughed.
Hruss
raised in stables could hardly bear to be out of the sight of humans. If a Singer did not make his
quiru
big enough, the
hruss
would trample the travelers rather than be left outside the light.

Since Berk had decided they should avoid Ogre Pass, and Bariken as well, they took the most direct possible route south. They saw no other people during the journey. Zakri had never actually been to Soren, but Iban had described all the Houses and the landmarks and roads that led to them. As part of his apprenticeship, Zakri had carefully committed them to memory.

As they rode down into the Southern Timberlands, the air softened and grew warmer. Ironwood suckers, thick and numerous, crisscrossed the open country beneath the snowpack. In places softwood trees still stood in little groves here and there, but they were black and shriveled by the cold. Mists clouded the ground in the early morning hours, and they often broke camp with wisps of fog swirling around the thick legs of the
hruss
.

There was no danger of missing the last turn to Soren. Zakri had never seen such a well-traveled road. The snowpack was trampled and dirty, and
hruss
prints and the marks of
pukuru
runners were everywhere.

“Busy place,” was Berk’s comment.

Zakri grunted agreement. He was concentrating, keeping his mind open, listening for anything that might give him a clue, or a warning. They rode two more hours before they saw the glow of a
quiru
shining among the hills. Then one last rise, and the House lay before them, a great ancient sprawl of stone and ironwood cupped in a shallow valley.

Soren’s walls were weathered to the soft blue-gray of the morning mists. Its unswept courtyard was as trampled and dirty as the road leading down to it, and its circle of light was dimmer, more ragged than any House
quiru
Zakri had ever seen. The chill of presentiment prickled his skin again. He could well believe that Soren’s Cantor and Cantrix were already lost.

“Look at that,” he said to Berk. “Their nursery gardens must be in terrible shape. I do not—I mean, I don’t see how they can grow anything in a
quiru
like that.”

Berk muttered, “It looks bad.” They rode into the courtyard, and waited for a moment before the steps, but no one came to open the doors. They dismounted and turned to lead their
hruss
to the back of the House. Zakri kept his mind open, listening, but he heard only muddled echoes, half formed and unfocused. It was like peering into cloud, seeing only shapes and shadows. Berk raised questioning eyebrows at him.

He shook his head. “Nothing. Not even their Cantors.”

A stableman, feeding grain to several
hruss
in loose boxes, looked up with a frown when they appeared at the stable door. “Not more beasts to feed!” was his greeting. “How does Cho think I can manage that?”

Berk glared at the man with snow-reddened eyes. “Is that your welcome? We have been traveling eight days! Since when does any House on the Continent treat travelers so?”

The stableman, who was about Berk’s own age, put his hands on his hips and stared at them both. “This House is full of nothing but travelers,” he said. “Problem is, they come, but they don’t go. Look at this crowd!” He waved his hand at the stables around them, where
hruss
looked curiously out of every stall, their long ears turning back and forth. In truth, Zakri had never seen so many
hruss
in one place before.

He held the reins of both their beasts in his hand as he stepped up to face the stableman. “Look, Houseman,” he said. “This is Berk v’Amric. He’s courier for Magister Edrus, and I’m his Singer! You’d better fetch somebody to take him up the stairs, and do it quick.”

The man smiled nastily at Zakri. “You think Singers are special here?” he said. “You’ll see before long.” He gestured to the stalls. “Well, I’m not turning you away, in any case. If you can squeeze your beasts into one of the stalls, you’re welcome to. Tack room is over there—” he pointed, “—and kitchens the other direction. Although I hope you’re not too hungry. Nothing much but meat on our tables these days.”

The stableman went back inside, and they heard him calling for someone. “Better do this the usual way,” Berk said. “I’ll go up alone.”

Zakri nodded. “Yes, Houseman,” he said mildly. “I’ll no doubt meet you in the kitchens, or the
ubanyor
.”

They parted, Berk to go in search of his escort to the upper levels, and Zakri to unsaddle and curry the
hruss
. He debated simply leaving them outside the stables, knowing they wouldn’t leave the circle of light. But the state of the
quiru
gave him no confidence. He found a stall with only one beast, and crowded his two in with it. The tack room was also full, crammed to the rafters with bridles and ropes, stacks of bows and furred arrows, empty saddlepacks. Zakri shook his head, looking at the clutter. It must be true. Soren was overflowing with itinerant Singers.

Alone, Zakri wandered in the direction of the kitchens. Soren, by long tradition a House dedicated to
obis
-carvers, was richly adorned with objects, some useful and others only decorative. They lined every wall, and filled every corner. Open shelves were laden with bowls, vases, boxes, and implements. Closed cupboards, Zakri was sure, held even more. He stopped to examine some of the things, impressed by their intricacy, and in some, true beauty. Occasionally the mark of the
obis
-knife, the metal blade wielded with psi, could still be seen on the ironwood. More commonly the psi-carving was so smooth and skilled that the ironwood, which would yield to a bone or stone implement only when used with great strength, seemed to have been smoothed with a miraculous hand, as if it were no harder to shape than the gray clay found in summer above the cliffs of Arren.

What was bizarre about the House was its
quiru
. It was quite warm in places, then utterly frigid in random spots, as if it had gaps, rifts in it. It was like the water of the
ubanyor
or
ubanyix
, improperly heated by some careless junior Cantor, with icy currents left flowing beneath a warm surface. And the House itself appeared untidy, as if its care was as random as the warmth of its
quiru
. Zakri guarded his mind, hiding his surprise, as he walked on to the kitchens. He felt like a
caeru
pup that had stumbled into an
urbear
den, and he meant to watch his step at every moment.

“Well, here’s another new face!” The woman who spoke was wrinkled and cross-looking. “And where did they get you from, Houseman?”