The Singers of Nevya (3 page)

At length he gave a ragged sigh. “My Singer . . .” he struggled to say. His pain was unmistakable through the shield of Sira’s mind. “My mate. She died last night.”

Chan brought the man’s bedfurs from his saddle, and helped him to sit down. Devid pulled his hood back, uncovering a lined, weatherbeaten face and graying hair. “She was ill.” Another pause. “We were going to Conservatory for help.”

Rollie had built up the fire, and now she pressed a cup of hot tea into Devid’s icy hands.

“We’re bringing our new Cantrix to Bariken,” Blane told him, with a nod in Sira’s direction. Devid stared at her, too exhausted for courtesy. “You can come with us.”

“No metal,” the traveler said miserably. “My mate hasn’t worked in some time.”

Blane put up a hand. “Not necessary,” he murmured. “Nevyans help each other.” The other riders nodded.

“Thank you.” Devid turned to bow stiffly to Sira. “Cantrix.”

Sira nodded in return. It felt odd to be treated with deference for doing only what every Conservatory student over three summers could do. “I am sorry about your . . . Singer.” She stumbled over the word. She had known, in a rather distant way, that itinerant Singers took mates. No Cantrix or Cantor would dare to do such a thing, unless—like Magister Mkel—they intended to leave the Cantoris.

“Thought we could make it,” Devid said to the riders, his eyes reddening. “Thought Conservatory could help. But she wasn’t strong enough.”

The riders sat staring into the flames, honoring Devid’s loss with their silence. Tragedy struck often on the Continent, and there were few whose lives had not been touched by it.

The deadly cold ruled the lives of Nevyans. The snow and ice, which receded only once every five years, was as much a part of their surroundings as the sky or the rocks. Survival required almost all their energies.

At length Sira ventured to ask, “What troubled your mate?”

Devid lifted his face, and it seemed the lines in it grew deeper by the minute. “Pain in her side.” He indicated the right side of his body. “We were in Deception Pass, on our way home. We turned for Conservatory, but the pain got so bad she couldn’t ride.”

“There’s no road there,” Blane said.

“Right. We tried to make a shorter trip of it, but the irontrees are so thick, and the drifts twice as tall as
hruss .
. . . Thank the Spirit, at the end she couldn’t feel the pain anymore.”

“She’s with the Spirit of Stars now,” Chan offered.

Devid nodded. “Yes. But our children will miss her. And I—” His voice broke, and he hung his head. Almost whispering, he finished, “I had to leave her there. In the snow.”

Sira took a breath. Of course, if a Singer mated, there could be children. But the idea embarrassed her. She looked away, out into the darkness beyond the yellow
quiru
light.

“You can go back in the summer,” Chan suggested.

“Better get into your bedfurs now,” Blane said. “Warm up quicker.”

Devid obeyed. There was really nothing else anyone could do. The other riders began to roll into their furs. Rollie and Sira went out of the
quiru
briefly, and returned to find the others already sleeping. Rollie said good night, and Sira slipped into her own bed.

Devid lay wakeful. Sira heard small sounds as he turned and shifted under his furs. When she sat up, she saw his hair tangling as he twisted.

“Traveler?” she whispered.

Devid lifted his head to see who was speaking. The skin around his eyes was gray and worn, and his lips trembled.

“May I help you sleep?” she asked quietly.

He looked confused, and didn’t answer. She hesitated a moment, then began to sing, softly, a simple
cantrip
the older Conservatory students sometimes sang for the young ones who lay awake crying for their mothers. It was as familiar to her as the memories of the dormitory, where the narrow cots of the first- and second-level students lined the walls in neat rows. She used the gentlest touches of her psi to soothe the sorrowing man into sleep.

It did not take long. Soon his fretfulness stopped, and sleep stole over him. No one else seemed to have been disturbed by her singing.

Sira was satisfied, thinking how simple her job was, really. Looking up, she saw her
quiru
warm and bright above the travelers. Reassured, she too lay down and closed her eyes.

She was surprised to hear Rollie say, “Sleep well, Sira.”

In her drowsiness, Rollie had forgotten her title. The omission, in a strange way, made Sira feel at home.

Chapter Three

The riders, with Sira in their midst, clattered over the clean-swept paving stones of Bariken’s courtyard just after midday. Sira looked up at the big doors of the House, and took in the sweep of its wings stretching east and west from its center hall. It was smaller than Conservatory, but she could imagine the fullness of the life inside, the great room where the House members met for meals, the huge kitchens, the apartments where families lived, their children tumbling over each other on the stone floors. At the very center would be the Cantoris, where she would do her work. The glassworks would be between the wings in the back, as would the nursery gardens.

One of the riders had galloped ahead to announce their arrival, and several people were assembled on the steps of the House.

Rollie murmured, “Perfectly natural to be nervous, Cantrix.”

“Do you know my thoughts, Rollie?”

The rider chuckled softly. “You’re the mind-listener, Cantrix, not me!”

“Rollie, I have not done so,” Sira protested, and did not realize until a moment later that Rollie had been teasing her.

They reached the front of the courtyard, and Rollie slipped off her
hruss
. She came to assist Sira, but Sira dismounted on her own before she could reach her, her young body adapted already to the rigors of days in the saddle. Rollie untied her charge’s saddlepack as a little, wrinkled Housewoman left the group on the steps to come and take it.

Rollie bowed quickly to Sira and stepped back. “Good luck, Cantrix.” It sounded like goodbye.

“But I will see you, Rollie?” Sira’s words hung in the clear air like those of a forlorn child. She wished she could take them back. She would have liked to touch Rollie’s arm, but that would be a breach of custom. Rollie bowed again without speaking.

“Cantrix, Rhia is waiting for you,” said the wrinkled Housewoman. She fidgeted impatiently, shifting the saddlepack in her arms, and looked up at the steps of the House.

There were two men and two women waiting before the big doors. The Housewoman said again, “She’s waiting. Best hurry.”

Sira had no idea who Rhia was, nor did she know the identity of this little Housewoman who spoke to her so brusquely. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her wrapped
filhata
from its place on her back, and slipped it into its more customary position, under her arm, a badge of office to give her confidence. Then she strode to the steps, her back arrow-straight. Blane walked close behind her.

“Rhia,” Blane said. One of the women stood a little apart from the others. Her face was as smooth and still as the ice cliffs of Manrus, her bound hair glossy and pale. She seemed to be measuring Sira with her eyes. Unconsciously Sira put a hand to the binding of her hair.

Blane went on. “This is Cantrix Sira v’Conservatory.”

Sira still unsure of who the woman was, bowed politely.

“I am Rhia v’Bariken,” the pale woman said. “And this is Cantrix Magret, and Cantor Grigr.” There was no mention of Magister Shen, although Sira had expected him to be in her welcoming party.

The blonde woman bowed the shallowest of bows, but Cantrix Magret, middle-aged and plump, smiled warmly at her new junior, her eyes crinkling cheerfully. Sira noticed, however, that she sent nothing.

“Welcome to Bariken, Cantrix,” Rhia said, in a voice as dry and crisp as a softwood leaf.

“Thank you.”

“I hope you had a good journey,” Magret said aloud. Her voice was resonant, a Singer’s voice. “I can hardly wait to hear all about Conservatory.”

“Welcome, Cantrix Sira,” the older man, Cantor Grigr said. His hair was nearly white, and his face was marked with illness. “We are so glad to have you here.”

Sira bowed deeply to him, in respect. “Thank you, Cantor.”

“Rather young, aren’t you?” Rhia observed.

“Yes.” Sira regarded the woman curiously. Surely youth was nothing to apologize for, but there was implied criticism in Rhia’s manner. There was something extraordinary about every aspect of her appearance and bearing, the binding of her hair, the cut of her tunic. She spoke with authority, yet she bore no title. Sira hardly knew how to respond to her.

The dark man standing next to Rhia spoke now. “Magister Mkel of Conservatory spoke very highly of Cantrix Sira.”

Rhia nodded. “Yes. Of course.” Rhia lifted a graceful hand. “This is my Housekeeper, Wil. He will show you to your room.” As an afterthought, it seemed, she added, “We all look forward to hearing you sing.”

Sira doubted the sincerity of this very much, but she pressed the thought low so as not to offend her new senior. Rhia turned and went into the House, the elderly Housewoman trotting after her like a
caeru
pup after its dam.

Sira turned back to say farewell to the riders, but they were already leading the
hruss
out of the courtyard toward the back of the House, where the stables would be. The traveler Devid went with them. Only Blane still stood next to Sira.

“Thank you for escorting me,” she said formally. She bowed to him, too, feeling tall and awkward and out of place.

His bow was deeper, and when he spoke, she sensed his sympathy. “Good luck, young Cantrix,” he murmured. “We’re sure you’ll be a great success.”

Sira straightened her shoulders and looked up at the great House awaiting her, expecting her to warm and light it, to serve its inhabitants. “By the will of the Spirit,” she responded, and started up the steps.

*

Sira had expected, once she joined her new senior, the silent and easy communication she was accustomed to. It was a surprise to her that Magret persisted in speaking aloud as they sat together over their evening meal. The great room of Bariken was very like that of Conservatory, though smaller. The biggest difference, Sira thought, looking about her, was one of adornment. At Bariken, every surface was carved and molded into rich detail. The brightly colored clothes of the Housemen and women looked familiar, but the dark tunics worn by those of the upper class were heavily embroidered and embossed. Every wall bore hangings, and all the floors were laid with rugs. Conservatory was austere, its hard surfaces left bare to enhance their resonance. The first thing Sira planned to do tomorrow morning was remove the extraneous decorations that cluttered her own room.

“We are so glad you are here at last,” Magret was saying. “Poor Cantor Grigr was not sure he could cope much longer.”

Sira looked down the table to where Grigr sat, leaning on his elbows. His hand, as he lifted the wooden spoon to his mouth, trembled. She felt a rush of compassion that the old cantor must have sensed, for he turned to her. She thrust the feeling down, sorry to have disturbed him, and bowed respectfully from where she sat. His answering nod was tired, and full of understanding.

Since her senior spoke aloud, Sira did, too. “Can you not discover what is wrong?”

Magret shook her had. “Perhaps Nikei can help him. But you know, my dear, Cantor Grigr has eleven summers. He would have retired before this had there not been such a shortage of Singers.”

Sira nodded. This was why she had been graduated so quickly. As a general rule, Cantors and Cantrixes did not step into a Cantoris before the age of twenty. Sira was only seventeen, not yet having four summers.

“Cantrix Magret, where is the Magister?”

Magret’s smile faded. “I do not know where he is tonight, Sira. He may be hunting. He likes it very well.”

Sira raised an eyebrow. Her mind was open, waiting for closer communication from her senior, but Magret, looking up at the central table, sent nothing. Sira followed her gaze.

Rhia, who Sira now knew was the Magister’s mate, was deep in conversation with the Housekeeper. At Conservatory there would have been people coming to the table, asking questions and advice, being given directions. No one approached Rhia’s table. Wil lifted his dark, narrow head occasionally to scan the room, but he and Rhia were left in privacy.

Sira turned back to hear Magret say, “Would you like to bathe now? After all that traveling . . .”

Sira accepted gratefully. It had been a busy afternoon, and a long, warm bath would be a great pleasure.

She and her senior both fetched clean clothes, and Magret led the way to the
ubanyix
. Here, as elsewhere at Bariken, there was an abundance of decoration. The great ironwood tub was scrolled and sculpted all around its edge, and Sira marveled at the number of
obis
knives that must have been worn to slivers in its making. Scented flower petals floated on the water, and piles of woven towels from Perl, familiar to Sira, were set out on the benches.

The two women stepped out of their tunics and trousers and hung them on pegs above their furred boots. As they slipped down into the tub, Sira stretched joyously, relieved to be free of the clothes she had worn for so long. Her body under the water was as lean and taut as a child’s, while Magret’s was curving and plump, with generous breasts and hips softened by the passing of years and comfortable living.

There were bars of soap from the abattoir in carved niches around the tub, and the soap, too, was scented. The Housekeeper must be very good at his job, Sira thought.

“Cantrix Magret, shall I warm the water a bit?”

Magret nodded. “That would be nice.

Sira got out of the tub to fetch her
filla
, then stood naked, unselfconscious, as she played a little melody in
Doryu
, the third mode. The temperature of the water rose sharply, until Magret held up her hand.

Very good, Sira
, she sent.

Sira smiled, relieved. Now they could really talk to one another. She stepped back into the tub and began to unbind her hair for washing.
Maestra Lu sends her greetings to you
.