The Singers of Nevya (73 page)

Morys laughed. “Doesn’t say much, does she?”

Theo was taking out his
filla
to call up his first camp
quiru
in years. “She does not say anything, my friend,” he answered. “Not a word.”

Morys stared at the child. “I’d heard that, but I thought it was exaggerated—you know, stories about the Gifted.” He began unsaddling
hruss
. “Why doesn’t she speak, Cantor Theo?”

Theo turned his
filla
absently in his hand, and looked to the northeast, over the snowy reaches of the Pass. “We are not exactly certain. Perhaps it is because her stepsister sent to her since her babyhood, or perhaps it is simply her nature.”

“Does she always have that light around her like that?”

Theo looked over at Mreen, who was plunging her fingers into the snow and scattering it around her in a pale shower. “Yes, Morys, she does.” He laughed, filled with pleasure at the calm evening and the carefree play of the child. “She will never be cold, that one!”

“Lucky,” Morys said.

Theo hoped he was right.

Mreen was fascinated by the darkness outside the
quiru
. Theo took her out once to relieve herself, then had to insist that she hurry back into the safety of the light and warmth.

I want to look at the stars!
she protested.

You can see them from the
quiru, he answered.
It is not safe to stay outside in the cold.

Why? I do not feel cold!

You could feel it, though, very soon, and by the time you felt it, it might be too late.

Why?

For answer, Theo scooped up the squirming girl and carried her back to her bedfurs, dropping her in a giggling pile. Morys was laughing, but Theo looked somber.

Mreen
, he sent.

She looked up at him, giggles subsiding, her eyes suddenly round, the deep green of ironwood needles.
Yes, Cantor Theo.

Riding on the Continent is a very serious thing. When it comes to the cold, and the danger, you must no longer be a child. Your Gift is precious, and it is your duty to protect it.

Mreen pointed to the saddle they had ridden during the long day.
I know
, she answered.
There are many pictures with that.

Are there?
Theo knelt beside her, helping her off with her bulky furs, tucking her into her bed for the night.

Yes. I know people can die of the cold, and of other things.

It is true, Mreen. It is our lifework—we Singers—to try to keep that from happening.

I will remember.

Mreen yawned and snuggled into the yellow-white depths of her bedfurs. Morys had already banked the fire, and rolled into his own bed. The two
hruss
, grumbling in their throats, stood hipshot, broad heads hanging low, to rest the night. Theo went to his own bedfurs, and sat down to pull off his boots.

Mreen’s eyes were already closed, her thick auburn lashes making delicate half-circles on her plump cheeks.
Cantor Theo.

Yes, Mreen?

Mreen sighed, almost asleep.
Cantrix Sira sends good night.

Theo looked up. He had heard nothing, not so much as a tickle in his mind. He stared at Mreen, and tried hard to push down the thought that he would have preferred to hear Sira’s voice himself. If his Gift was not strong enough, there was nothing to be done about it.

He looked up at his
quiru
and found it steady and strong in the vast darkness. The embers of the fire glowed dully under the banked softwood. All was well.

He rolled himself into his furs, and pulled them up under his chin. Before he slept, the deep and rewarding sleep that came after a day in the open, he gave thanks to the Spirit, with passionate sincerity, for his Gift and its training.

Chapter Seven

Far into the night hours, Zakri started up suddenly from an uneasy sleep. A rhythmic sound had invaded his dreams, and it persisted when he was fully awake, a light tapping at the door of his room that paused and then came again. As the other occupants of his room slept on, Zakri extended a cautious fibril of psi to find who came knocking at such an hour. When he recognized her, he hurried to the door, wearing only his trousers.

Sook stood in the hall, her eyes wide and glistening in the
quiru
light. Her black hair hung in long tangles, as if she too had just risen from her bed. “Oh, Singer, thank the Spirit it’s you!” she whispered. “Could you please come, please? And hurry!”

Zakri answered without hesitating. “Of course.” As a Cantor, he was used to calls that came in the middle of the night. He stepped back into the crowded room to retrieve his tunic and boots. He pulled them on in the hallway and tucked his
filla
into his tunic while Sook shifted from foot to foot beside him.

“What has happened?” Zakri asked as he followed her quick steps down the corridor. He kept his voice low, and his thoughts as well. Shielding his mind every waking moment was tiring him; even as he tried to sleep, he must stay half-alert, on guard.

“It’s Nori,” she said breathlessly. She led him around a corner and down a long corridor to the back of the House, where large family apartments flanked the nursery gardens and the carvery. “She’s bleeding . . . “ Her eyes were enormous, tear-washed and frightened. “We don’t know what it is, and she won’t say anything . . .”

They did not have far to go. The apartment was near the
ubanyor
. Sook opened the door without knocking, and went in with Zakri close behind. Several strained faces turned up to them. Zakri recognized Mura, but he had no time to speak to her before Sook seized his hand.

With a strength that surprised him, she tugged him into another room, an inner bedroom. It was small and dim, furnished with a cot and a chair, and a carved table cluttered with a young woman’s small possessions—brushes, hair bindings, quill pens in an ironwood jar. Nori lay on the narrow bed with her knees drawn up, bedfurs clutched tightly to her breast. Her eyelids and her lips were clenched and pale. She was surely no older than Sook; Zakri doubted she had four summers, but pain aged her, making deep furrows in her smooth skin.

Zakri had to lower his shields to assess the girl’s agony, the wrenching spasms that made her moan wretchedly. He scanned her body with his psi, briefly, his
filla
still in his hand, before he knelt beside the bed. He spoke quietly to Sook.

“Have you attended childbirths?”

Sook protested, “This can’t be a childbirth, Singer!” Her eyes flashed in the half-darkness. “Nori’s not mated!”

“She is having a miscarriage, nevertheless,” Zakri said, completely forgetting to watch his speech patterns. “We will need towels, a sharp knife, and water, and if you are too upset to help her, then you must find an older woman who has some experience.”

“No! I’ll do it!”

She put her head outside the bedroom door to ask for the supplies, and was back almost immediately, hovering over Zakri, touching Nori’s hand and forehead.

Zakri played in
Lidya
first, to relax the suffering girl. Her fear and the tension it caused made her pains worse. He had helped several Housewomen at Amric to give birth. The powerful natural process usually needed little assistance, but laboring women were grateful for his soothing melodies and for his special talent, the gentle touches of psi here and there that gently urged the babes on their way. But there was nothing Zakri could do for Nori’s babe; he knew as soon as he touched her with his psi that her child was dead before it was formed.

Mura brought clean towels and a heavy pitcher brimming with water. “What is it?” she whispered to Sook. She took a sharp small knife from a pocket. “What’s wrong with Nori?”

“The Singer says it’s a miscarriage,” Sook said. She took the towels from Mura, and Mura set the pitcher at the foot of the bed. Zakri went on with his melody, aware of Sook lifting the fur that covered her friend, placing a pad of towels beneath her. She replaced the blanket, then knelt beside Zakri. He sensed her gaze on him, felt the pressure of her trust and hope.

Nori’s body needed to shed its burden, and because of that Zakri dared not stop her bleeding completely. He was worried about the risk of her losing too much blood, growing too weak. He tried not to think of the tragic circumstances of Cantrix Isbel’s giving birth to her babe; surely this girl need not suffer the same fate as Mreen’s mother.

Moments passed as the
Lidya
melody flowed on; Zakri transformed the lowered third of
Lidya
into the second degree of
Mu-Lidya
, a subtle variation. Nori’s tight fists relaxed, and her eyelids smoothed and fluttered slightly. A sighing breath escaped her. Only then did Zakri modulate to
Aiodu
, the second mode, to sweep her body once again with his psi.

He hoped no one was listening at this moment. His mind must be fully open. This was Iban’s legacy, this understanding that to sense the precise functioning of Nori’s body, to touch her thoughts, to feel what had gone wrong and to find what he might be able to put right—to do all these things, the Singer’s mind must not be shielded. He must feel the sufferer’s pain and misery in himself. It was the flaw in Conservatory’s rigid training, the weakness that made Cantors and Cantrixes superficial healers. It still plagued Sira’s healing.

Zakri touched Nori’s mind now, gently, searching for a cause. She was unGifted, of course, but her feelings were very strong. She was so frightened, and hurt. Zakri’s melody died as he sucked in a sudden breath. The sharp hiss made Mura and Sook jump.

In Nori’s mind was an unspeakable deed, a vile image. Zakri had to put down his
filla
, and pull away from the awful picture in her mind.

Nori knew exactly what had happened to her, and the understanding of it made her afraid to speak, even to her friends and her family.

Zakri knew that her body and her babe had been deliberately hurt. The life that had taken root in her had been extinguished, pinched out as deliberately and carelessly as one might pinch out an annoying ember that fell from a campfire. With his carver’s psi, he had severed the cord that nourished the growing babe in her womb. No doubt he had convinced her he could kill her just as easily—and perhaps he could.

Zakri reeled under the shock of it, the violence, the enormity of the evil that inspired it. He lost the iron grip he kept on his Gift, and behind him a brush and a quill rolled from the table. The empty chair scraped noisily on the floor as if someone had pushed it. Sook gasped, and Mura exclaimed.

Zakri leaned forward, pressing his forehead into his hands, striving for control.

O Spirit! he thought. How is it possible for the Gift to be used in such a way?

In his mind he heard a flashing warning.
Be careful, friend. He will hear you.

Zakri closed his mind sharply, suddenly, and sat back on his heels. He trembled, and perspiration stung his eyes when he opened them. Sook was staring at him.

“What is it?” she begged. “Singer! What is it?”

Zakri shook his head back and forth, slowly. “It was he,” he said wearily. “Cho did this.”

He had already been angry over Iban’s death, but now he was filled with a deep revulsion as well. Not only was Cho dangerously powerful, but he must be a man without remorse, without even the semblance of control. What sane person could have done such a thing? Everyone in this House was in peril. Zakri felt the knot in his breast turn to stone.

Are you all right, Singer?

It was the same voice that had warned him, the same person who had heard him in his shock.
I am all right,
he sent back.
Were you following?

Yes
.

Can he hear us?

There was a pause before the imprisoned Cantrix answered, and her sending when it came was careful and wary.
It seems he hears very strong thoughts, although he is not able to understand more subtle ones. But he is easily angered, and very dangerous, especially for us . . . and probably for you. Beware any mention of Conservatory.

There was no time to explain everything now, to reveal the truth. Clearly, Cantrix Elnor believed Zakri to have come from her own tradition; and in a way, of course, he had. He only sent,
Thank you
, before he broke the contact.

The girl on the cot moaned as a fresh spasm began, and Zakri picked up his
filla
again and resumed his melody to ease her. Sook replaced the blood-soaked towels with fresh ones. Mura came with broth, and when Nori was able to drink, they spooned a bit into her mouth. The night passed slowly. Morning found them all exhausted, but Nori was stronger, her burden shed, the bleeding stopped.

Before she fell into a healing sleep, Nori clutched Mura’s hand. She made a pitiful sight. Her eyes were red and swollen, her hair tangled around her. With a sob, she said, “You have to know—I thought he meant to make me his mate. I believed him!”

Mura tried to shush her, putting her rough hand against her cheek, but Nori shook her head. “No, Mura, it’s true! Cho . . . I thought he cared about me, that he—” She sobbed again, and her voice rose. “But when I told him about the babe—”

Mura smoothed Nori’s hair. “There,” she murmured, “it doesn’t matter, and he isn’t worth it. It doesn’t matter. There will be other babes for you. Sleep, now.”

Sook wept, too, silently, but Zakri sensed her tears were more from anger than sorrow. When they left the bedroom, she seized his arm with sharp strength, and her eyes blazed.

“Singer,” she said in a tense whisper. “I thank you for healing Nori. We have to do something about Cho!”

“I must find Berk,” Zakri said. “We will go to Lamdon at once. They will take action.”

Mura, who had been consoling Nori’s family, spoke from behind him. “Cho won’t let you leave,” she said. “No Singer is allowed to leave this House except under his orders.”

Telltale sparks flew around Zakri, and he quelled them quickly. He was at risk of letting these brave women learn his secret, and in this House, knowledge was dangerous.

“We need a distraction,” he muttered. “Some noisy event to keep Cho occupied.”