The Singers of Nevya (62 page)

Zakri mulled that over for a long time before he fell asleep that night, while his strong, steady
quiru
glowed above him in the half-darkness of the snowy mountains. Change is necessary, but it hurts. It had hurt him, yet look what he had gained. He had his calling, his friends, his teacher. He thought of Isbel, and all she had lost, and he prayed to the Spirit that her passage beyond the stars had been a swift one.

*

Berk kept Zakri with him when he met with Magister Mkel at Conservatory. Mkel’s mate served them tea and dried fruit before Mkel opened the leather wrapping and took out the roll of paper. There was a long silence as he read the message, then read it a second time. His face was aged and sorrowful, and Cathrin stood protectively behind him.

“This is terrible news,” he said heavily.

Berk inclined his head in acknowledgment. Zakri sat still, listening to the flood of thoughts pouring from Mkel. Mkel obviously did not know he could hear him, and Zakri felt it best to keep that secret for the time being. There might be something here that would aid Sira.

“Cantrix Sira is working with Cantor Ovan,” Mkel said, shaking his head over the idea. Cathrin put her hand on his shoulder. Zakri heard the Magister thinking that Sira was back where she belonged at last, and if there was anything good about this tragedy, it was that she would be forced to serve as she had been trained to do.

“Well, Magister,” Berk said. “Cantrix Sira is working in the Cantoris, yes. As to Cantor Ovan . . . ahem . . . he hasn’t been well.”

Mkel looked up in question. “Magister Edrus says nothing about that.” Zakri heard Mkel’s thought: It was true about Ovan, then.

Berk leaned a little forward, in a confidential manner. “Actually, Magister Mkel,” the courier began. His delicacy made Zakri hide a smile. Berk was such a big man that his nicety of manner became even more pronounced. “As it happens, Singer Zakri here has been of some help to Cantrix Sira.”

Mkel flushed a sudden dark red, and looked at Zakri.
I had no idea, Singer.

Zakri bowed where he sat.
I understand
,
Magister. We have not met, you and I. I am Cantrix Sira’s student.

Mkel frowned, but his thoughts were shielded now, and Zakri could hear only his spoken words. “And so Cantrix Sira continues to challenge Conservatory’s authority.”

Berk said quietly, firmly, “To us at Amric, she is a gift straight from the Spirit.”

“The Committee will be furious,” Mkel said. “They have enough problems without the Gifted taking matters into their own hands.”

“Magister Mkel,” Berk said solemnly, “imagine what might have happened had she not.”

“But where will be be if others behave in like fashion? We’re having enough trouble with the itinerants at Soren!”

“What trouble?” Zakri asked.

“It’s not all the itinerants,” Mkel said, without explanation. “But enough to worry us. I imagine the Committee will soon make a ruling that will force all parents of Gifted children to be sent here for training. I don’t know what else we can do.”

He heaved a sigh, and stood. “Your Magister has requested a Singer for his Cantoris. I will write to him, and you will carry the letter, if you please. In perhaps a year and a half, by next summer surely, one or two of our third-level students should be ready for assignment. There is no one now to spare. We have already sent two Singers who were teaching here to help at Bariken and at Manrus. Our first-level class is seriously shorthanded because of it.”

Zakri and Berk had both risen when the Magister did. “I don’t blame your Magister for allowing Sira to work in his Cantoris,” Mkel added. “I can see he had no choice.”

Zakri felt a sudden flare of anger.
Perhaps you should blame yourself! If you knew Cantor Ovan was incompetent
—

Mkel stared at him.
You know nothing about these things.

The air around Zakri had begun to glimmer. He shielded himself quickly, and concentrated on regaining control.

Berk was bowing his farewell. Mkel sent to Zakri,
Do not think we will let Sira dictate to us how we use our resources. I cannot stop her from teaching you. But Conservatory recognizes only Cantors trained here, trained properly. Remember that.

I will remember, Magister.
Zakri cast his eyes modestly down to his boots.
No one understands better than I what a poor substitute I am for a full Cantor. I only help because I am needed, and I use my Gift
—
my small Gift
—
as I can.

Mkel’s mouth tightened, and he did not answer. Zakri struggled with renewed fury. He did not want to embarrass Sira by losing control in front of the Magister of Conservatory. But would Mkel rather Sira had to work alone?

He took a steadying breath. He must trust that the Spirit had its own plans for them. They would follow the path it laid out. He avoided Mkel’s eyes as they left the apartment. No wonder Sira did not want Conservatory running her life! These people were like
carwal
cast up on the beach at Tarus–hidebound, dry and inflexible. Sira would show them all.

Come to think of it, so would he.

Thus their mission was quickly accomplished at Conservatory. After only one night’s rest they were ready to return to Amric. Zakri felt some urgency, knowing Sira was working all but alone in the Cantoris, though Ovan continued to appear on the dais. It would take some time, Sira said, for the Cantor to repair the damage to his Gift. She had spared no pressure on Ovan, and he had sworn, if they told no one of his lapse, that he would discipline himself.

Before the dawn had fully broken behind the mountains to the east, Zakri had the
hruss
saddled and ready. He met Berk in the kitchens, where they begged a bowl of
keftet
from one of the Housewomen. They ate standing up, and drank two cups of tea each. The Housewoman had heard their news. Indeed, judging from the talk in the
ubanyor
the night before, it seemed all the House members had. She gave them a fat packet of nutbread and fruit for their saddlepacks.

“We’re just heartbroken for the young Cantrix,” she said. “We hate to lose one of ours.”

Zakri was touched by the familial way in which she spoke of the Singers. Singers here were cherished, nurtured until the time of their leaving. The separation had to be a great shock.

When the travelers could see through the House
quiru
that light streaked the sky with violet and pink, they went to the stables. There was no one to see them off. As Berk led his mount through the outer door, Zakri took the reins of his own beast and turned to follow.

“Please, Singer Zakri.” A small voice spoke behind him, musical and very young. “Please take me with you.”

Zakri whirled to see a tiny figure, swathed in furs, standing inside the stall. She put back her hood to show her curly hair. “Trisa!” Zakri breathed.

“Yes. I want to go home. I want to go with you.”

“O Spirit,” Zakri groaned.

Berk’s gray head appeared around the stable door. “Problem, Singer? I thought you were right behind—” He stared at the little girl. “Who’s this, then?”

She had to tip her head far back to see Berk’s face. “I am Trisa. I want to go home, with you. Home to my mother.”

Zakri dropped his
hruss
’s reins and went to kneel beside the child. She had grown since he had last seen her, but her face was still round, her eyes stretched wide as she looked at him.
Please, Singer Zakri. It is terrible here.

Zakri cast Berk a despairing look, then said, “Trisa, we cannot take you away. This is where you belong.”

“But we are all very sad,” she replied. Her eyes swam with tears. “We have only one teacher for our whole class. We are not learning as fast as we should—everyone is saying so—and I am so lonely. Please, Singer. Please, Houseman.”

Berk looked down at her with great sympathy. “I’m sorry, little one,” he said quietly. “Singer Zakri is quite right. You belong here.”

Trisa began to cry, making Zakri’s heart ache. Her unhappiness was almost as uncontrolled as his own emotions had been a scant three years before. He remembered the motherless babe at Amric, and felt as if his heart would break in two. It took all his strength to turn away from Trisa.
I am so very sorry,
he sent, trying to penetrate her misery.
There is nothing I can do.
He pushed down the thought that maybe Sira could help this child, could undertake the training of her Gift as she had his. It was not a decision for him to make.

He felt the girl’s tearful gaze on his back as he led his
hruss
out of the stable. It seemed unbearably cruel to ride away and leave her crying, all alone. He wept tears of his own as he mounted, and he saw that Berk was affected, too.

I will not stay!
she sent after him.
I mean it, Singer Zakri! They cannot make me!

“This is a one, Berk,” Zakri said. “She is still after me. I wish we could take her home.”

“It’s a terrible shame.”

They were a dismal pair as they rode away. Zakri was grateful Trisa did not send more pleas after him. He did not think he could have borne it. As it was, he lagged behind Berk, as if to leave Trisa more slowly was kinder than to rush away.

They did not make good time that morning. It seemed to Zakri that Trisa held him back, as if her little hand were pulling at his furs. His
hruss
dragged its feet in response to his mood. Berk said nothing, but he had to stop his own
hruss
several times to wait for Zakri. At mid-day they stopped briefly to have a cold meal, unwrapping the Housewoman’s packet of bread and fruit, supplementing that with strips of dried
caeru
meat from their saddlepacks. They were just mounting
hruss
again when Zakri heard it.

Singer Zakri!

He threw up his head. There was no one near, of course, and he had heard no other
hruss
. “Just a minute, Berk. She is still sending to me, and I do not know how that can be.”

Berk grunted with surprise. He settled his bulk into his saddle and held his reins, watching Zakri.

Singer Zakri, can you hear me?

I can. But where are you?

The answer came faintly, but clearly.
I am following you, but I cannot keep up as I have no
hruss.

“By the Six Stars!” Zakri swore. “Berk, she has done it now.”

“What? Where is she?” Berk asked in alarm.

Zakri looked back the way they had come. “She is somewhere back there, on foot. We have to go back for her, or she will die of the cold.” He saw no choice. He could hardly leave the girl behind in the mountains. He gave Berk a helpless glance.

The gray-haired courier clucked his exasperation. “We’ll have a time explaining this one. She’s got a mind of her own, doesn’t she? I have a granddaughter just like that!”

“What do you think I should do?”

Berk shrugged his shoulders, a massive gesture under his furs. “What can you do, Singer? Take her home to her mother! Truth to tell, Amric’s got so much trouble already we’ll hardly notice another scandal.”

“But Conservatory will be furious!”

“They’ve had their chance with this one,” Berk said stoutly. “She’s been there two years, and she’s miserable. Let her go home.”

Together, they turned their
hruss
.
Trisa, we are coming. Stay where you are.

Thank you, Singer Zakri.

Zkari and Berk made much better time on the return trip. Some three hours later they came upon Trisa sitting on an ironwood sucker, waiting. The sun had already started its descent into the west, and she was shivering badly inside her thick furs. Zakri reached his hand down and pulled her up behind him, and the docile
hruss
turned about to walk over the same road for the third time that day.

Thank you, Singer Zakri,
Trisa sent, as casually as if he had done her a simple favor.

You are fortunate I could hear you. You could have frozen to death. Do you realize that?

Yes, Singer Zakri,
she answered demurely. He felt her happy wriggle behind him as she settled onto the saddle skirts.

I do not know what is going to happen to you.

I do not care. If you take me back to Conservatory I will run away again.

Zakri shook his head, worried, but Trisa put her arms around him and snuggled into his warmth. As they rode, he was startled to find the image of his mother floating up from the past, an image he had thought long gone. He sighed again. It could be a cruel world for children.

He patted Trisa’s gloved hands where they were locked around him, and he felt her cheek press against his back. Sira would certainly have something to say about this. And he was not looking forward to hearing it. Not one little bit.

Chapter Thirty-two

Zakri and Berk skirted the courtyard of Amric and rode around to the stables. Trisa sat small and silent behind Zakri on his
hruss
. Berk had said that under the circumstances, the less attention they drew to themselves, the better it would be.

She had been smiling and happy all through the trip. At Perl, Zakri located an itinerant bound for Conservatory, and Berk sent a carefully worded message, wrapped in
caeru
leather, informing Magister Mkel that Trisa was in their care. She had left a note behind on her cot in the dormitory, but Berk thought that would hardly be adequate. “Your teacher will think you’ve frozen to death by now,” he told her.

Tris had looked up at him with the stubborn light in her eyes Zakri had come to recognize. “They will not care,” she said.

Berk shook his grizzled head. “You’re quite wrong. They will make themselves ill with worry.” But she was unrepentant.

Trisa looked young to Zakri for her nine years. Her hands were as smooth and plump as a baby’s, with short stubby fingers, and her eyes were round and clear. When she spoke aloud, she still lisped, though her sending was clear and precise. When he asked her to play the
filla
for him, she declined.

I am no good at it
, she sent.
My teacher made me practice and practice, but I was no better
. She added, with faint resignation,
Maybe I am not meant to be a Singer.