The Singers of Nevya (81 page)

Nikei kept her waiting for a response while he tucked his
filla
away, then folded his arms, gazing down at her.
You must think, Mreen.

Mreen sat very still.
You are angry with me.

No, I am not angry, but I want you to think about what you came here to do.

I came here to learn to be a Singer!

Yes, and so did your classmates. They are slower than you, and they knew less when they arrived, but they want to be Singers just as you do. You must not impede their studies.

Mreen pondered that. She thought of Palo, and Emle, and the twins who had cried for their mother for weeks after they arrived at Conservatory. She thought of the first-level students too, Corin and Sith who would soon go into their own Cantorises, and who had known her own mother, her real mother, when she was a first-level student here and they had been third-level, like herself. Thoughts of her mother led her to Sira, and Theo, and she began to see the pattern. It was a design, and it had shape, like the
Doryu
study, with a rhythm defined by Nevya’s seasons, by its history, and by the Gift. This pattern was too great, too complex, for her to hold in her mind all at once, but she saw it was there. And she knew, looking up at Nikei, that he was helping her to see it.

Nikei followed her thoughts.
Yes. You are part of a great tradition. Some are quick, and some are not, but we all serve together. We each make our sacrifices for the Gift—yours is to be patient.

She sighed, and looked down at her
filla
.
I am sorry, Maestro Nikei
. She looked around at the brilliance of the light in the practice room. Palo would never make such warmth, and she felt sorry for him. She stood and bowed to her teacher.
I will remember. May I come back to class, now?

Please
.

It took Zakri and Berk eight days of travel to reach Conservatory with Cantrix Jana and Cantor Izak. Their pace was slow, because Izak had to ride in the
pukuru
, well-padded with bedfurs. They jettisoned all unnecessary supplies, leaving them lying outside Soren’s courtyard. They were hardly out of sight over the hill before the House members came running out to retrieve everything for use in the House.

Izak had not regained enough strength to ride
hruss
, but he was improving. Zakri and Jana worked over him every night and every morning, trying to repair the bonds broken by Cho’s attack. Little by little, the sparks that joined his mind and his body grew in brightness and strength. Zakri feared for his Gift, but he was alive, and for brief periods he could stand and move about, with help. He had not spoken, nor would he release the bit of carving from Soren. When anyone tried to take it from him, he whimpered and pulled away. In the end, they thought it best to let him keep it.

Unheralded, they rode into Conservatory’s courtyard. One of the Housemen pounded on the doors, and the Housekeeper of Conservatory came out onto the steps.

“Cantrix Jana!” he exclaimed, appalled. “We had no—why, what is all this?”

Jana dismounted with the help of one of the Housemen, and trudged up the steps. “This is Cantor Zakri v’Amric,” she said, with a gesture. “And in that
pukuru
is Cantor Izak, badly hurt. We have come directly from Soren.”

The Housekeeper paled, and stared at Zakri. Then, without a word, he whirled and hurried into the House.

Several Housemen and women came to take charge of the
hruss
, and to bring a litter for Izak. They moved him into it, and carried him indoors. Everyone else followed, and the Housekeeper led them upstairs. Zakri looked back to see the litter set gently down in a room just beneath the foot of the staircase.

The Housekeeper had summoned the Singers of Conservatory. They were already gathered in Magister Mkel’s apartment, a circle of grim faces around the big table.

They were all new faces to Zakri. Maestro Nikei, Maestra Lisvet, Maestra Magret, the others. He struggled to keep their names straight. It seemed Conservatory was full of gray-haired Singers. He knew they must think him very strange; he was introduced as Cantor Zakri, yet none of these people, the people who trained Nevya’s Cantors, had ever met him.

Bran hastened to explain what had happened. “You know of the problems at Soren, I’m sure,” he said to Magister Mkel. “Cantor Abram sent Cantrix Jana and Cantor Izak and myself to negotiate with this Carver Cho, try to bring him to some understanding.” He shrugged eloquently. “There’s no use talking to that one. He’s got a House full of frightened people, and a bunch of itinerants who do everything he tells them.”

“But what does he want?” asked Maestro Nikei. “What will satisfy him?”

“He says he wants equality,” Bran said flatly. “For all the Gifted. I think he wants power, and Spirit knows he’s got plenty of that. I’m sure he likes things just the way they are.”

“And the carvers?” Magister Mkel asked. His appearance concerned Zakri; he was gray of skin and his hands trembled where they rested on the table. “Do they want the same?”

Bran shook his head. “I don’t know about the carvers,” he said. “I didn’t see them.”

“Did Cantor Izak?”

“No,” Bran answered. “We were together. We met with Cho, but he laughed at everything we had to say. It was—I’m afraid Cantor Izak had no patience. He was angry. I don’t blame him for that. Cho was insulting. It was a nasty argument, all about duty, and responsibility to the people, and the Committee—Cantor Izak said everything Cantor Abram and Magister Gowan told him to say. Then he told Cho he could see why he had not been admitted to Conservatory. He said if he’d had a decent Gift he’d have been a Cantor like himself, and as it was, he’d have to let the fully Gifted rule the Continent. Then he walked out. He just turned his back and left. I liked his spirit! But Cho followed him. I didn’t know—” Bran gulped and spread his hands. “I didn’t know what he could do.”

The Housekeeper raised one more question. “If Cantor Izak never went to the carvery, where did he get that piece of carving he’s holding so tightly in his hand?”

“Cho gave it to him—threw it at him, more like,” Bran replied. “Cho said, ‘Look at what my Gift can do! Where would you be without that?’ and tossed that bit at Cantor Izak. I don’t know why he kept it.”

“He will not let it go,” Zakri put in. “Of course, for the moment, his mind is not whole—Cho is capable of terrible violence, especially to the Gifted. But for Cantor Izak—perhaps it feels to him as if, keeping that bit of carving, he can understand what has happened to him.”

“What is it?” the Housekeeper asked.

“It is a panel for a
filhata
,” Jana said miserably. “The section that fronts the soundboard. He has not let it leave his hand since it happened.”

Zakri looked at her with sympathy. She had been blaming herself, ever since the confrontation at Soren, for not going into the House with Izak. She believed she could have helped him to keep his temper. Zakri was certain it would have made no difference.

Magister Mkel looked around the room, into each face. “How can we risk any more Singers? We have so few to spare. And yet, Cantrix Elnor is trapped, and Soren’s House members are being held hostage. I hardly know where to turn next.”

A heavy silence settled over the room. Zakri had held a vain hope that here, at Conservatory, he would find the weapon they needed to deal with Cho. Now it seemed they were no further ahead than they had been. O Spirit, he thought, what are we to do?

There was no knock, or any audible footstep outside the Magister’s apartment, but the door swung open, making a small click in the stillness. Every head turned.

A small child, no more than five or six, stood alone in the doorway. She was wrapped in a halo of light that made her red hair shine, and that moved with her as she stepped into the room. Her eyes, the color of softwood leaves in summer, were glazed, round and unfocused.

Four years had passed since Zakri had seen her, but he guessed immediately who she was, even before Cathrin exclaimed, “Mreen!”

Mreen?
Zakri sent.

Her eyes seemed to look at him through a thick fog.
Are you Cantor Zakri?

Yes, I am.

You play my mother’s filhata?

Yes
.

We must go after Cantor Theo,
she sent.
He is too far away for me to call him, but we will need him
. Her childish features were drawn, making her look like a caricature of a very old person. Her hands were clasped tightly around a bit of carved ironwood held before her.

Zakri crossed the room quickly to kneel beside her. He felt the stares of the Conservatory Singers, marveling at this strange Cantor and the little haloed girl.

Mreen, what is it? Why do we need Cantor Theo?

She put out her hand to him, and he took it in his own. Her fingers were small and soft, but they gripped his hand with a strength she should not have had. He found himself awash in images, a flood of ghostly scenes that flowed through his mind with frightening power. He did not see how her child’s mind could bear them.

Do you see?
she sent, begging with her eyes.

I see them
. He released her hand, and stood to address Magister Mkel.

“It would be best,” he said aloud, “if we speak privately.”

Mkel looked about as if for counsel, and Nikei bent toward him. Without compunction, Zakri listened as Nikei sent to Mkel,
I do not know what the child sees, but as you know, hers is a strange Gift. It would be better to work this out without the audience of these Lamdon folk!

Mkel nodded, and gave his mate a subtle sign with his hand. She squeezed his shoulder, then urged everyone but the Singers out of the room. “Come to the great room,” she said comfortably. “You’ll feel better for some refreshment, and then a bath. We have such nice hot water here, because our students practice on it!”

With evident reluctance, the Housemen and the two couriers followed Cathrin, Berk with a lifted hand to Zakri. The three teachers remained behind with Zakri, Jana, and little Mreen.

Mreen put the carving on the table, then clambered into the chair nearest Zakri. Her hand found his once again, but no nightmare visions came with it this time. He wondered why she had sought him out, in particular.

You are the one,
she sent, her eyes clear now, looking up at him.
You knew my mother, and you can help me.

Help you do what, Mreen?

Help me call Cantor Theo, and Cantrix Sira.

Mkel and the others watched them in amazement.
Mreen,
sent Mkel.
Will you tell us why you came here today?

Mreen’s round eyes were solemn, her little nimbus steady and bright.
I heard the man, the sick man, calling.

Jana and Zakri exchanged a glance.
Do you mean Cantor Izak, child?
Jana sent.

Mreen nodded.
Yes, Cantor Izak. He was calling, and I went to find him.

I did not hear him calling,
Jana sent, shaking her head.

But I did,
Mreen assured her.
And I found him, and he gave me that
. She pointed her short finger at the carving lying now on the table.
And when I touched it
— she shuddered, and Zakri held her hand tighter.

She saw things—pictures of battle, very like the one we have already experienced at Soren,
Zakri sent to them all.

Mreen nodded.
And the man—Cantor Izak—sent me to Zakri. Zakri knew my mother!
she added, and Magister Mkel smiled a little at her. She went on,
And Zakri, I mean, Cantor Zakri, will help me. We need them. We need them now.

How do you know that, Mreen?
asked Magister Mkel.

She looked back at the little carved ironwood panel before her, but she did not touch it.
That told me,
she sent, slowly, almost dazedly. Her face was round and plump, meant for smiles and dimples, but now solemn. Her eyes narrowed, with an expression as old as the mountains themselves.
That is for a
filhata, she sent to Mkel
, but if the carver is not stopped, there will be no more filhata, no more Gift, no more Singers. We need Theo, and Sira. And Zakri
. Her eyes glazed again, and her body went slack in her chair.
And me,
she finished. Zakri gripped her hand, hard.

“Mreen!” Nikei said sharply.

Mreen shivered, once, and then her eyes focused on her teacher’s face.
Yes, Maestro Nikei.

“Let it go now, Mreen,” he said, firmly, but gently. “Clear your mind.” To the others he sent,
It is too much for her. Too strong—

But she is right
, Zakri sent.
She has had a vision, and she is right. We will need Theo, and Sira. I must go after them.

You have to take me, too,
Mreen told him.
Because you cannot reach so far, and I can.

Zakri took a deep breath.
So I will, then, Mreen, with your teachers’ permission.

Cantor Zakri . . . is there no other way?
Nikei asked.
She is so young!

I know of no other way,
he answered. He looked down at the tiny girl, radiant in her baby
quiru
, and he marveled at how much she looked like her mother, and how strong and strange her Gift must be.

Tears stood in Jana’s eyes, and Mkel looked as if he could hardly hold up his head from weariness. Nikei frowned deeply, his arms folded across his chest. But Mreen smiled now, looking up at Zakri. She released his hand and scrambled down from the big chair.

All right,
she sent calmly.
I must go back to practicing now.

They all watched her small figure go tripping out of the apartment. Mkel asked generally,
Can we be certain she will be safe?
No one had an answer.

Chapter Fifteen

Sook’s one respite from confinement was her daily visit to the
ubanyix
. It was a relief to walk the corridors, even though Bree, one of Cho’s itinerants, was with her at every step. The House members she encountered were too frightened to speak to her. Bree stared defiantly at everyone they met, as if daring them to approach. When they reached the
ubanyix
she said briefly, “Wait here,” and Sook had to stand in the hall while three other women were banished from their bath. They passed her on their way out, and their glances were sympathetic, without resentment. “Now,” Bree ordered, and Sook followed her inside.