The Singers of Nevya (78 page)

Magister, I will show you,
Mreen sent. She surprised everyone by ducking under the long table. She wriggled between the chairs, and Theo chuckled to see her emerge on the other side like a
caeru
pup darting among irontree suckers. Having found the quickest path to his side, she now stood very close to Mkel, holding out the bit of metal on her palm.

If I concentrate, I see pictures,
she sent, looking up at him with solemn eyes.
Would you like to see them?

Mkel smiled. He sat down, his eyes on Mreen’s earnest face, and he nodded.
Yes, Mreen, with your permission I will follow you.

You should close your eyes,
Mreen instructed. Mkel obeyed. Mreen closed her hand over the metal, and put her other hand on Mkel’s. Her eyelids wavered, half covering her eyes. Her expression grew distant. For some moments the two of them, the old man and the tiny girl, were isolated in silence, as Theo and Cathrin and the others watched and waited. After a time, Mkel opened his eyes and blinked as if to clear his vision. Mreen gave his hand a little pat before she bent down to thread her way back under the table.

When she reappeared next to Theo, she returned the bit of metal to him.
Thank you, Cantor Theo
. Blithely, she waved at Mkel and Cathrin, and scampered back across the great room to the table where her classmates sat finishing their meal.

Cathrin could bear it no longer. “Mkel, what is it? What was happening?”

Her mate shook his head heavily. “I hardly know how to tell you, my dear.” He reached to take her hand, and held it as he spoke. “I have never seen such a Gift, nor heard of one.”

“Mreen sees pictures, Cathrin,” Theo said quietly. “Certain objects, when she touches them, seem to speak to her of those who have touched them before.”

Morys, who knew of this phenomenon, swelled with pride at the rare talent Observatory had produced. The Housekeeper stood in silent amazement.

“Did you see the pictures, then, Mkel?”

Mkel sighed. “I did,” he answered. “But only because she showed them to me.”

Magister
, Theo sent.
Is it true that Lamdon knows of the big piece of metal?

Mkel looked up at him thoughtfully.
It is something of an open secret, Cantor Theo. No one speaks of it, and some no longer believe in it
. He shrugged.
We do not know what it is, and we would not want other Houses to follow Observatory’s strange customs . . . and so we have relegated it to one of those stories with no ending. Mostly because no one knows the ending.

Slowly, Mkel rose. “Do you know, Cantor Theo,” he said aloud, “I hope you have done the right thing, bringing Mreen to Conservatory. We are delighted to have her among us, but I wonder whether we know any more about how to train her Gift than you or Cantrix Sira.”

“I think her Gift will find its own way,” Theo said.

“If the Spirit wills. But I wonder if Sira herself should not be teaching her.”

“Sira thought she needed Conservatory.”

Mkel sighed and said sadly, “It would be best if she had both.”

Cathrin looked across the great room. Mreen glowed among her friends, a tiny, smiling, haloed sprite. “Poor little thing,” she murmured. “I’m afraid for her.”

Premonition tingled in Theo once again. O Spirit, he prayed, keep her safe. Watch over Isbel’s child.

It was all he could do. Even if he spent every moment guarding Mreen, he could not shield her from the strength, and the import, of her birthright.

The Gift had them all in its grasp, and they could only go where it sent them.

Chapter Twelve

“We can ride north, through Forgotten Pass,” Zakri suggested. “In this season, it should not be too cold, should it?”

He and Berk strolled together through Lamdon’s long, hot corridors toward the stables. They planned to leave early the next morning, at first light. Zakri was sure he could wheedle some bread and fruit from the kitchen to take along, so they would not have to wait for the morning meal to be served in the great room.

“Forgotten Pass is always cold,” Berk answered. “But it will do. Windy Pass is easier, but it takes longer. I’d like to get home before my grandchildren grow up!”

They had decided to go straight to Amric. Zakri missed his Cantoris, and Berk wanted to report to Magister Edrus. Zakri wanted to put the whole mess of Soren behind him; he tried to believe that because they had turned the situation over to Lamdon, to authority, that he could be finished with Cho v’Soren and his rebels.

But he still had no answers about Iban. And, worse, Sook still worried his dreams. In his latest, she had been calling to him, crying out for help. She teetered on the brink of a precipice, with no one to catch her. He tried to go to her, slipping and skidding across slick ice, but found Cho standing in his way, a thin dark figure growing taller as he approached. Zakri woke in a fiery sweat of fury and frustration, his legs aching from straining against his bedfurs.

When they reached the stables, Zakri led the way in, turning left toward the loose box where they had left their
hruss
.

The stables were alive with noise and bustle. Stablemen and Housemen called orders and questions to each other, and handed gear back and forth, bridles and harness and saddlepacks. In one corner several Housemen were packing a large
pukuru
.

Six
hruss
were being curried and fitted with saddles, and a seventh with harness for the
pukuru
. An enormous pile of bedfurs blocked the door, with the Housekeeper herself frowning over the stack. Pointing to one of the bedfurs, she made a Housewoman pull it out and unroll it to check its thickness. Then she gave instructions as the woman redid the roll and tied it.

Two of Lamdon’s Singers stood against the far wall, watching the proceedings. Their faces were carefully blank, but even without hearing their thoughts, Zakri felt their unease. They were both young. Cantrix Jana, Zakri knew, had been a classmate of Sira’s, and Cantor Izak appeared to be no more than a summer older than she. Zakri himself was even younger, but he considered himself aged by experience.

Zakri and Berk sidled past the clutter and made their way to the loose box. Berk pulled open its half gate and Zakri went in to pull the
hruss’
ears and stroke their shaggy necks. He picked up their feet, one by one, to inspect their hooves. While he occupied his hands, he listened.

Izak, do you know anything about traveling? I do not even know how to get there!
This was Cantrix Jana, standing with her hands folded tightly together. Her features were rigid, as if carved of ice. Izak affected a fierce look of concentration as he surveyed the preparations.

We will have four experienced travelers with us
. He answered bravely, but Zakri knew it took effort.

But no itinerants? Not even one?

Jana, there is not one in the House—it is as the Singer from Amric said. All the itinerants have been gathered at Soren.

But what will we be able to do, you and I?

We will have to do as Cantor Abram says—reason with them, but shield ourselves carefully. Strongly. We will have Magister Gowan’s courier with us, and he is experienced in this sort of negotiation. The main thing is to get their Cantrix back in the Cantoris where she belongs, and to help her establish the
quiru
.

Jana fell silent, watching the bedfurs and packs being tied to the saddles. The
hruss
were put in their stalls, the saddles laid in a neat row before them, ready for the morning.

Zakri whispered to Berk, “They are sending their youngest and least experienced Cantors,” he said. “And both are scared to death.”

“So they should be,” Berk muttered. He leaned on the stable door, ostensibly supervising Zakri’s work, but casting a skeptical eye on the hubbub behind him.

Zakri said softly, “Ship and Stars! It is like offering newborn
caeru
up for the
ferrel
to find. They will not last a day at Soren.”

Berk said, “It’s your decision, Cantor. I’m only the courier here.”

Zakri leaned wearily against the nearest
hruss
, and closed his eyes for a moment. He thought of his Cantoris, of Cantor Gavn coping with Cantor Ovan. He thought of his dream of Sook begging for help. And always, underlying everything, was the vivid image of Iban, dead in his arms. There was really no choice in the matter.

“We will have to follow them,” he said. “Amric will have to wait a bit longer.”

“It will still be there,” Berk said calmly. “Although my mate won’t recognize me when I finally make it home.”

Zakri managed a tired chuckle. “Are you sure she has noticed your absence?”

Berk laughed. “You make a good point, Cantor Zakri. In any case, the Spirit has me by the ear, and it hurts too much to tug it free.”

“Let us keep our plans to ourselves, though,” Zakri said. “I doubt Lamdon’s courier wants us along. Although—” he was quiet for a moment, listening again. “Although I have no doubt that a certain Cantor and Cantrix would be much relieved to have our company.”

“Perhaps you could ease their minds a bit, just tell them we’re not far behind.”

Zakri thought about that for a moment. He picked up the curry comb, and began working tangles out of his
hruss’
thick coat, and as he did so he dared a stronger probe. Gently, so as not to be detected, he tested the minds of the two Singers, just a brief touching that gave him a sense of their natures, their characters. He flattered himself that even the great Cantrix Sira—had she been able to bring herself to try it—could not have done it more smoothly.

He shook his head. “I think it is best I do not,” he said. “They are both—naive, I think is the best word. They are unused to keeping secrets, and even less to having to shield themselves at every moment. They are frightened, but perhaps that will save them.”

“Maybe,” Berk said. He looked over his shoulder at the young man and woman standing stiff and silent amid the commotion. “But maybe not.”

Zakri and Berk watched the elaborate farewell ceremony for Cantrix Jana and Cantor Izak from the window seats in the great room. They would make their own departure, without formalities, once Lamdon’s party was well away.

The Magister’s white hair shone brilliantly in the morning sun. Clouds waited on the western horizon, and Zakri knew they would stretch across the sky by noon. He was glad. He doubted anyone had warned Jana and Izak they should protect their faces and their hands. Their skin was soft and pale as only the skin of those who spent all their lives within doors could be. Four riders waited behind Jana and Izak. An extra
hruss
was harnessed to the large
pukuru
, and the bone runners of the sled pressed deeply into the snow, weighed down by the heavy load.

As the Magister and the senior Cantor gave speeches, Zakri watched how Cantrix Jana shrank into her furs, hiding her fear, and how Cantor Izak sat straight, imitating courage if not able to feel it. Zakri admired his nerve. It could not be easy for Izak, as it had not been for his own junior, Gavn, to face uncertainty after years of Conservatory, where every step was planned, every decision dictated by tradition.

The ceremony went on too long, wasting daylight, making Zakri fidget. He wanted to do something to hurry things along, tweak a
hruss
tail or tug on a rein.

“Never mind, Cantor,” Berk muttered. “One more day won’t make that much difference.”

Zakri didn’t answer, but he knew their progress would be limited by the speed of Lamdon’s party. The
pukuru
alone would force the party to a slower pace.

He sighed, restraining himself. It would be so easy to spank the nearest
hruss
, just a light slap of psi to hurry things along, get them all moving. But then, he supposed it would be like trying to hurry the Glacier in its slow progress. He said only, “I hope you are right, Berk.”

*

It was harder even than they had expected to match their pace to that of the Lamdon party. The first night, they almost rode right into Lamdon’s camp. With still an hour of light left, Jana and Izak and their Housemen had made camp right in the middle of the broad road that was Ogre Pass. Someone had created an enormous
quiru
, the largest Zakri had ever seen out of doors. Its light extended far beyond the perimeter of their camp, almost reaching from one side of the Pass to the other, and stretched up past the irontrees on the slope, its outer edge paling from yellow to a faint green against the early twilight. A large cooking fire blazed, tended by one of the Housemen. Only the size of the
quiru
warned Berk and Zakri off. They saw it above the irontrees, and backtracked until they were certain their own modest
quiru
would not be visible.

“At this rate, it will be summer before we get there,” Zakri fumed.

Berk chuckled. “Perhaps we should just ride right up and join them.”

Zakri bit his lip, thinking. “Do you think perhaps we should?”

Berk shook his head. “No. I think a party of that size will have Cho and his Singers on the attack all too soon. They will lose the opportunity to negotiate, and you and I will be easy targets.” He gave a hard laugh as he pulled softwood out of his saddlepack. “I doubt we’re Cho’s favorite people just now!”

The night seemed interminable. They had been forced to stop at least an hour too early, and they could not break camp until Lamdon left theirs. It felt to Zakri like mid-morning when he finally mounted his
hruss
. Until then there was nothing to do but watch. He sat on a huge irontree sucker, his back against the trunk of its parent tree. He was shielded by enormous boughs that drooped under their burden of snow. The Lamdon travelers rolled and stowed their bedfurs, laboriously refilled their saddlepacks, which they had for some reason completely emptied the night before, and at length, at last, saddled their
hruss
and departed. Zakri tried to listen, but at such a distance, he heard only fragments of thought. Sira, he knew, could have heard everything. She could have sent to them as well, as effortlessly as if they were in the next room. He grinned, thinking how good Sira was at eavesdropping, when she had had so little practice. It was he who was the expert!