The Singers of Nevya (45 page)

Isbel, it seemed, did it without hesitation. Sira felt Isbel’s awareness of the man’s misery as she probed his mind and then his body for its cause. But there was no distaste, none of the disgust Sira herself felt despite her good intentions.

To one side, holding himself even further from the process than Sira, was Cantor Ovan. Sira sensed that he was mystified by Isbel’s skill. His resentment was a strong presence, and Sira had to press down her own reactions so he would not be aware of her. He must not find her trespassing. Surely he was more hindrance than help to Isbel as she worked! She could hardly be open to the sick man’s mind, yet closed to her senior’s.

Abruptly, unmusically, Isbel switched to
Iridu
. Sira listened in surprise. It had been a trick of Theo’s to use
Iridu
, a mode commonly used for sleep, when he was working with illnesses or injuries. He said it relaxed the sufferer, making the process easier for all concerned. Indeed, it seemed that the Houseman breathed more deeply now, that his body relaxed. Where could Isbel have learned to do this?

Soon she modulated again, more gracefully this time, into
Doryu
, for infections. She concentrated her psi on a spot deep inside the man’s body, a place for which Sira knew no name but where she could feel the heat and the pain. For some minutes Isbel’s psi worked there, but what she was doing Sira could not tell. She knew Ovan could not, either, by the intensity of frustration she felt from him. She wished she dared intrude upon his mind, slap him for the poor support he gave his junior, but she held back.

Isbel ended her melody in the middle of a phrase. She sat back wearily, her eyes still closed. Sira felt her fatigue, and the lingering sensations of fever and nausea in her mind. The Houseman’s mate helped him to his feet.

“Your mate must rest until he has been cool and without sickness for three days,” Ovan said firmly to the Housewoman, as if he had been in charge throughout.

“Yes, Cantor,” the woman said. But it was to Isbel she bowed, as best she could with her mate’s weight on her arm. “Thank you, Cantrix Isbel,” she said clearly. “We’re grateful to you.”

Ovan’s black eyes narowed, and the air around him shimmered, an irregular convulsion of light that flared and flickered above the dais, and made Isbel cringe. He sent to her,
There was no need to waste time in
Iridu.
Where did you pick up such an idea?

Isbel looked down at her
filla
, avoiding her senior’s eyes.
I do not know, Cantor Ovan. The idea was there and
—
I just tried it. It seemed to help.

Do not experiment during Cantoris hours,
he responded. He gestured to the next House member to come forward.
Our responsibilities are too heavy to be playing games.

Sira could bear it no longer. She rose from her seat in the back and walked with deliberate steps toward the dais. Casually, but as distinctly as she could, she sent,
Congratulations, Cantrix Isbel. You are a far better healer than most of us. When I see Maestro Nikei, I will congratulate him on his teaching.

Ovan turned to her, and the air around him now glimmered yellow with fury.
Are you spying . . . Singer?
His sending had a nasty edge to it.

Sira feigned innocence. She saw that there were gaps in the light around him, and her eyebrow arched.
Why, Cantor, have I offended you?
She bowed to the two of them.
I was merely observing
,
of course. The Houseman was so ill, and his color and posture were so much improved when he left. It was impressive.

He was not half so ill as he would have us believe
. Ovan turned to the Housewoman waiting before the dais.
If you will excuse us now, we have work to do.

As Sira left the Cantoris, she heard the strain of the same
Aiodu
melody now coming from Ovan’s
filla
. It was too fast, an impatient, irritating tempo. Sira gritted her teeth.

In search of Iban, she was just passing the great room when a small, high voice lisped, “Cantrix Sira!”

The girl who trotted to her had to tip her curly head far back to see Sira’s face. The lisp came from two missing baby teeth. The child had clear blue eyes and an intense expression on her round face.

“Yes?” Sira said gravely. Placing her hands on her hips, she regarded the little girl, appreciating her courage. She rather thought her own appearance must be terrifying, all height and thinness and scarred face.

“My mama wants to talk to you,” the child said. She reached a chubby hand up to seize Sira’s, to pull her through the open doorway into the great room.

The mother was waiting just inside. She came forward quickly, saying, “Trisa! You mustn’t touch the Cantrix!”

“I am only a Singer,” Sira told her mildly, but Trisa had already dropped her hand.

The woman bowed. “We’re told you’re the Cantrix Sira who was lost and then found.”

Sira nodded to her. “True enough. But I am no longer a Cantrix.”

The woman frowned in confusion, and Sira said, “Never mind, Housewoman. What is your name?”

“I’m Brnwen. This is my daughter Trisa.” The Housewoman put her hand on her child’s shoulder in a gesture that was both caress and protection. Sira’s shielding was still relaxed from the Cantoris, and she felt Brnwen’s sadness as a cloud over the bright day.

“Trisa has the Gift,” Brnwen told her.

“Ah. I see.” Sira looked down into the girl’s eyes.
Can you hear me?
The child nodded.
Can you send back to me?

A tide of confused images and words flooded from Trisa. Sira had to hold up her hand to stop the deluge. It was no worse than her own sending had been before she joined her Conservatory class, but it was almost unintelligible. Sira walked to the window seat and sat down. Brnwen and Trisa followed, Brnwen to stand before her, Trisa to kneel on the cushion and stare up into Sira’s face. “What happened to you?” she asked, pointing at the scarred eyebrow.

“Trisa!” Brnwen exclaimed.

“It is all right,” Sira said. “All children are curious, and Gifted ones deserve special privileges, as they bear special burdens.” She touched her brow with her forefinger. “A
caeru
claw made this mark,” she told Trisa. “It was in Ogre Pass, a long time ago.”

“Did it hurt?”

“So it did.”

“Can I touch it?”

Brnwen caught Trisa’s reaching hand. “I’m so sorry, Cantrix. She’s very independent.”

Trisa subsided onto the window seat, but her blue gaze searched Sira’s face. “Why do you cut your hair?” she piped.

Brnwen said, “No more questions, Trisa. I’m sure the Cantrix has things to do.”

Sira turned her attention to Brnwen. “Did you not wish to speak to me?”

Brnwen nodded, and Sira felt again the emotion that shadowed the woman’s eyes and bowed her shoulders. She was young, not much older than Sira herself. Her face showed signs of suffering no less distinct than the scar on Sira’s brow. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Cantrix, but Trisa heard–that is, we didn’t mean to pry, but—”

Sira waited while Brnwen strove to express herself, but her little daughter was less patient. “It’s the boy!” Trisa burst out. “The boy who doesn’t have to go.”

“Go where?” Sira asked.

“Conservatory!” Trisa cried, with emphasis. “And I don’t want to go either!”

A strained silence followed this declaration. Sira hardly knew what to say to this child, or to her unhappy mother. She could hardly tell them what she was only discovering herself. And yet, she could not let another child suffer what Zakri had suffered.

She turned her face to the window, looking out at the summer-green landscape beyond the
quiru
. A few Housewomen had taken their children out to feel the suns on their cheeks and breathe the sweet air. On just such a day, five years before, a younger Sira had played her
filla
in the courtyard at Bariken, and a girl no older than Trisa had danced under the two suns. That Sira had been sure of her society, confident of her role in it. Since then, the very foundations of her world had shifted.

Trisa’s eyes darkened and grew solemn, sensing Sira’s mood. Brnwen again put her hand on her daughter’s small shoulder.

I understand what you are asking me,
Sira sent to Trisa, holding the girl’s eyes with hers.
But I have no answer for you yet. The search for an answer is why I am here, why I am back from Observatory, and why I have cut my hair.

A spate of blurred words and images poured from the little girl, with an intense flood of fear and anger and confusion. Around her head shone a ghostly aureole of faint light, the beginnings of her power.

I cannot really understand you yet, Trisa. And if you do not go to Conservatory, you will never learn to send clearly, or learn to use your Gift to its fullest potential. Do you not want to sing, and play the
filla
and the
filhata?

Sira sent an image of Trisa with a
filla
at ther lips, her eyes peacefully closed, her face calm. Trisa shook her head, hard, and put one chubby fist to her mouth as she began to sob. She whirled to hide her face against her mother’s tunic. Brnwen clutched her, and her eyes filled, too. Sira felt utterly helpless. She shielded herself, because there was nothing more she could do to help. Brnwen’s pain was like a wound that could never heal.

“Please, Cantrix,” Brnwen said brokenly.

“I am truly sorry, Housewoman. In time, I hope there will be another way. For now, Conservatory is what there is for Trisa. I assure you, it is a wonderful place full of wise people.”

“Like Cantor Ovan?” Brnwen whispered. Sira took a sharp breath. Brnwen’s aim was fiercely accurate.

“There are all kinds of people there, as at any House,” she said carefully. “And for Trisa, the alternative does not bear consideration. A Gifted child, untrained, will go mad. As she gets older, she will hear every thought, feel every emotion around her, if she is not taught to manage her Gift.”

“The itinerants don’t go,” Brnwen said, louder now. Sira respected her spirit. She could surely name the source of Trisa’s independence.

She said gently, “The itinerants teach their own children, when Gifted ones are born to them.”

“I would take Trisa to the itinerants, if my mate would let me,” Brnwen said.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“The itinerants have their own ways,” Brnwen said. “At Soren, you know.”

“Do you mean the craftsmen there?”

Brnwen’s eyes slid away from Sira’s. “Not just that,” she muttered.

“Then what?”

But Brnwen only shook her head. “We are not supposed to talk about it.”

“I want you to teach me, Cantrix Sira,” Trisa cried, jumping up from the window seat. “We’ll go with you, Mama and me.”

Sira gave her a half-smile, and bowed to her. “I am honored, Trisa. But I cannot take a little girl with me, even with her mama. I do not know for a certainty where I am going or what I will be doing.” She pointed to her scarred eyebrow. “And sometimes there is danger.”

“I’m not scared,” Trisa said.

Sira rose. “I believe that. I see you are a very brave girl. You will not be afraid of Conservatory, then. I hope you will like it very much, as I did.”

“But you left the Cantoris,” Brnwen pointed out, her gaze as blue and frank as her daughter’s.

Sira bowed with real respect. “You are astute, Brnwen. I admire your strength. If I could, I would explain to you. You have earned the right. But it is not possible.”

She looked back at Trisa.
Go to Conservatory, Trisa. One day I will visit a Cantoris and hear Cantrix Trisa sing the
quirunha.
That will be a great day.

As she left the great room, she felt their double gaze, stubborn and unpersuaded, scalding her back.

Chapter Fourteen

Housekeeper Cael surprised Sira after the mid-day meal with an offer to replenish her traveling supplies. Amric was neither as lavishly decorated nor as profligate with its wealth as Lamdon, but it lacked nothing in comfort or resources. Cael took Sira to the kitchens first, to exchange her old, cracked ironwood bowl for one that was almost new. The Housewoman who managed the kitchens also laid out a new spoon, a cup, and an array of dried
caeru
meat, dried fruits, and herbs for tea, all of which she wrapped into a neat bundle for Sira’s saddlepack.

Next Cael led Sira to a large room situated in the hall near the
ubanyor
and
ubanyix
. The sharp fresh scent of clean laundry drifted out the door, and Sira sniffed it with pleasure. A Houseman was scrubbing towels against a stone slab, soap bubbling around his hands. Near him a Housewoman was folding linens and stowing them on the long shelves lining the room. Sira had never been in such a room, though she supposed every House must have one. She had never given any thought to where clean linens and towels came from, other than from her Housewoman’s hands.

“I’m sure you could use fresh things,” Cael said tactfully. “I’ll leave you with Petra to make a selection.”

Sira bowed to him. “You are considerate, Housekeeper, and you are right about my need. But as yet I have no metal with which to pay for these things.”

Cael’s bow was perfect, neither deep nor shallow. “Cantrix Isbel wants you provided with every comfort,” he said. “And Magister Edrus knows your situation. The House of Amric would not want Cantrix Sira, or any other Cantrix, to leave its doors unprepared.”

Sira spread her hands helplessly, but she was grateful for Isbel’s kindness. Observatory had had little to spare for her when she departed, just one change of linens, one extra tunic. “I am in your debt,” she told Cael. He gestured to the Housewoman, and left the room as Petra came forward to assist.

In the stables, the situation was the same. Sira’s saddle was freshly cleaned, her tack restitched and tidy, and her
hruss
’s feet trimmed and oiled. Again, she bowed to the stableman and apologized for being unable to pay him. She received the same assurance of Amric’s goodwill, finding that again Isbel had smoothed her path. She strolled back through the corridor to the House, thinking, and met Iban at the door.