The Singers of Nevya (80 page)

We must do this together,
he sent.
Together we can make a shield strong enough, I think, and then I will bring Izak here, where he will at least be warm.

He cast a quick glance at the sky. Twilight was not far off, and the deep cold right behind it. Even now Izak was in danger of freezing. Zakri knew all too well what would happen if he lay too long on those icy stones.

Tell me what to do,
Jana sent.

Join your shields with mine,
he told her.
Follow me closely, and we will combine our strength.

He meant only that they should combine their psi, but when he returned to Izak’s side, and bent to lift the fallen Singer, the Cantrix followed him, putting her hands under Izak’s shoulders to help support his weight.

Cho stood with his head tilted back against the doorjamb, as if nothing that happened were of any concern to him. But when they lifted Izak between them, the cutting edge of his psi sliced at them. It was a different attack from the brute, undirected blows they had felt before. It was as precise a strike, Zakri was sure, as Cho was capable of. It was as lethal as the highly honed blade of an
obis
-knife.

Jana sucked in her breath, but she held.
I am here,
she sent to Zakri, and he felt the polished discipline of Conservatory in her effort. Her skills were born of years of training and unrelenting practice. Despite her fear, for herself and for Izak, the refined precision of her shielding, added to his own, made them doubly strong. And, thank the Spirit, Cho was weakened and tired. They turned aside the attack, and together they raised Izak upright. The injured Singer’s feet shuffled and stumbled, seeking purchase on the cold stones. He gripped the bit of ironwood tightly, mindlessly. It seemed only the muscles of that hand were fully in his control.

Supporting the Cantor between them, they backed away from the courtyard and over the much-trampled snow to the camp. Inside the
quiru
the Housemen hovered about them, unwilling to touch one of the Gifted, but not wanting Izak to fall again. Zakri and Jana stretched the Cantor on a pallet of bedfurs, where he lay with his head falling back, his legs nerveless. He was safe, at least for the moment. Zakri looked back at the House.

Cho called, “He will not thank you. He will wish you had left him to die!”

Jana had been bending over Izak, covering him, pillowing his head. Now she came to stand beside Zakri.
What does that man want? And what has he done to Izak?

Cho turned and stalked into the hall behind him. He did not touch the great double doors, but they slammed shut behind him with a great crash that made everyone jump.

He did that,
Zakri sent to Jana.
He did that to Izak’s mind.

O Spirit
, she sent shakily.
Will he recover? He will not die, will he?

Zakri wished he could reassure her.
I do not know, Cantrix. I will do what I can, and you must, too. But I do not know.

Damn Cantor Abram!
she exclaimed unexpectedly.

Zakri raised his eyebrows, looking down at her.

He sent us because he was afraid to come himself. I know it as surely as I know anything. If Izak does not recover, I will denounce him!

Is that such a strong punishment?
Zakri asked.

Jana went back to Izak’s pallet and knelt beside him.
For a Cantor, it is the only punishment,
she sent slowly.
And for the senior Cantor of Lamdon . . . well, perhaps not. But it is all we have.

Zakri sank down on Izak’s other side, and pulled his
filla
out of his tunic.
For now, let us see if we can help Cantor Izak.

Jana brought out her own
filla
and prepared to follow Zakri. Exhausted as he was, he smiled at her.

I think your senior Cantor would be surprised by the courage of his junior Cantrix.

She answered with a lift of her chin.
I thank you. I know he would be surprised by Amric’s Cantor! I can hardly wait to tell him.

Berk joined the Lamdon camp before dark. He turned their two
hruss
in with the other beasts just as the last light was fading to the west, the sky shading from violet to purple. The Housemen cooked and served a generous meal of
keftet
, dried fruit, nutbread, and tea, while the House members of Soren crowded the windows to watch. Zakri and Jana worked over Izak for an hour, then rested, ate, and worked again.

Dark came, and with it the bite of cold beyond the
quiru
. Zakri and Jana lay down on their bedfurs, too exhausted to do more. The Housemen were preparing to sleep when a sound from the House brought them all to their feet.

The big doors opened, which was in itself a shocking thing in the hours of the night. There was a moment of suspense before Bran, the courier, stumbled into their sight, staggering as if he had been pushed.

No doubt, Zakri thought, he had been pushed. No Nevyan fully in his right mind willingly leaves House or
quiru
after dark. The courier caught his balance, and looked back at the House as if hoping for a change of heart.

“Bran!” Berk called. “We’re here, man!”

Bran whirled to see that the camp
quiru
was intact, and he hurried across the courtyard to rush into its warmth and light.

“Thank the Spirit!” he breathed as he stepped inside. “They would have left me out here to die!”

He looked down at Izak, who lay pale and unmoving as if his spirit had already gone beyond the stars. Bran recognized Zakri, and bowed briefly. “Is he dead?” he blurted.

Zakri and Jana exchanged a glance.

“He is not dead,” Jana said, “but he would have been had Cantor Zakri not been here. He extended his own shields, risking himself, and because of that, Cantor Izak may recover the full use of his mind. Without Cantor Zakri’s aid, Cantor Izak would surely have died, and most probably I would too.”

The Housemen and Bran looked at each other, wide-eyed. The deaths of their Singers meant the deaths of them all. Bran rubbed his eyes as he collapsed on a nearby stool.

“I could not persuade them,” he said wearily. “There were no negotiations, only a list of demands.”

“What are they? Who gave them to you?” Jana asked.

“They want food, clothes, other supplies—even metal. They want higher pay for itinerants, more privileges. As for who made the demands—” His face was bleak as he looked up at the group. “They have no Magister. This carver, this Cho—he acts as Magister, and claims their own Magister came to Lamdon. Of course we never saw him there. And Cho says he now speaks for every itinerant on the Continent.”

“We’ve already told you all of this,” Berk said roughly. “Why did it take Cantor Izak being hurt to make the Committee listen?”

Bran shook his head and shrugged. A Houseman began stoking up the cookfire to make tea, and Bran watched him for a moment before he spoke.

“Our Magister has never been outside the doors of Lamdon in his life, nor has our senior Cantor, since he came there. They—to be honest, I, too—had no idea that such evil was possible, that anyone would use the Gift this way.”

“And why, why would he do it?” Jana cried.

“Cho was tested for Conservatory, years ago,” Zakri told her. “He failed his testing, and I believe he has never forgotten. He has gathered other malcontents around him, Singers who are willing to hurt anyone in their path.”

“I wonder that he failed,” Jana said slowly. “His Gift must be very strong.”

“Strength is not the only criterion, though, is it?” Zakri had never been tested except during Sira’s rigorous training of him. “There is the question of discipline, of control, of character. Someone must have sensed Cho would never make a Cantor. But such power–by the Ship! Surely it could have been channeled somehow.”

“And now what? How do we fight him?”

It was the question no one wanted to ask. No one had an answer.

The cookfire blazed, and tea was made. When Bran had been served a restorative cup, each of them took one, and they sat on into the night, watching the stars, waiting for the dawn. Sometime mid-night, Jana lay down to sleep while Zakri kept watch over Izak.

Berk lay down as well, and the Housemen rolled into their bedfurs. Only Bran sat up with Zakri, too agitated by the events of the day, and his own failure, to sleep. When the others had closed their eyes, Zakri asked him quietly, “Did you see a girl in the House, a young woman with dark eyes and black hair? Her name is Sook.”

Bran turned slowly to look at Zakri. “Is she a friend of yours, Cantor?”

Zakri’s mouth dried. “So she is,” he said roughly.

Bran sighed. “He keeps her in his apartment,” he said heavily. He did not explain who he meant, but Zakri understood all too well. “I saw her once.”

“Is she all right?”

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “She never spoke.”

“Did you hear any word of Cantrix Elnor?”

The courier shook his head.

There was nothing more to say. Bran bent forward, his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. He didn’t look up to see the flashes around Cantor Zakri, the fury that sparked and burned in the air. Zakri sat on through the night, close by the injured man, his hands clenched into fists and his mouth a bitter line.

Chapter Fourteen

Mreen and her class listened as Maestro Nikei played a short study in the third mode,
Doryu
. It was only an exercise, but Nikei’s technique was limpid, perfect; he played as if support and intonation and tempo were as effortless as the breath he took to begin. Mreen wriggled in her chair with the sheer pleasure of it. The teacher played it twice through, then each of the students attempted it in their turn.

Mreen barely waited for the boy next to her to finish before she put her own
filla
to her lips. The pattern was as clear in her mind as if she had always known it. The notes swirled in precise and graceful shapes, organized by the rhythm into a sharply defined pattern. She repeated the exercise exactly. Maestro Nikei smiled at her when she was done, but he spoke only to the others, pointing out their errors, asking them to try again.

Mreen’s nimbus clouded about her, and she kicked her feet against the legs of her chair until the teacher turned to her.

Mreen, why are you angry?

I played the study perfectly!

Nikei folded his arms and regarded her calmly.
Yes, you did.

But you did not say so!

Why should I point out what you already know?

Mreen’s mouth opened in surprise. Someone giggled and she snapped her mouth shut and glared at him.
Be quiet, Palo,
she sent.
You cannot even play the first mode studies yet!

Palo wailed, “That’s not fair! Maestro—”

Nikei sighed.
Palo, please do not speak aloud in class. Send your thoughts.

But she—
the boy began.

The teacher held up his hand.
Enough
, he sent sternly.
Mreen, please go to the third practice room, with your filla, and wait for me there.

Mreen was indignant.
Why?
She jumped to her feet, and stood looking up at Nikei with her hands on her hips.

He was not a tall man, but she was small. Nikei looked down at her, his lips pursed, making deep grooves in his face. Mreen was sure he had at least twelve summers, maybe thirteen. His hair was gray, and the skin around his eyes and mouth was wrinkled and thin. But his voice, and his music, were as fresh as new snow.

Mreen
, he sent clearly,
do as I ask. Now.

All the children could feel Nikei’s temper rising, though no telltale shimmers appeared around him. His control, of course, was absolute. Mreen hung her head in humiliation as she left the classroom. Her feet dragged as she wandered down the hall to the practice room. Behind her she heard Palo trying the
Doryu
study once again, missing half the notes and making a mess of the rhythm. Mreen stamped her foot in frustration. She gave the practice room door an angry bang when she went in.

She stood with her back to the wall, her
filla
dangling in her fingers. They were all so slow, so stupid! It was boring, boring! waiting for everyone else to catch up.

She nursed those thoughts, building up a good case of temper, planning revenges on Palo she knew she would never complete. After a time that, too, got boring. She turned around and around in the practice room, looking for something to do.

There was nothing, of course. The practice rooms were small and bare, cubicles furnished with just one stool, meant for only one thing. Time passed. The tedium made Mreen yawn, but she could not even lie down, unless she lay on the cold stone floor. At last she sat on the stool. The only diversion she had was her
filla
.

The
Doryu
exercise was as clear to her as if it was painted on the bare wall of the practice room. Its simplicity made it perfect. How could the others not see? The scale shaped itself if you only played the right rhythm, and the lowered fourth degree melted down to the third in the most logical, natural way.

She played it again. It reminded her of a similar study in
Aiodu
. They could be combined, she thought, if she allowed the fourth degree of
Doryu
to become the seventh of
Aiodu
—oh, yes! And then, if you added quarter-tones to fill in the interval . . .

The little practice room was bright as summer sunshine when Maestro Nikei came looking for her at last. Mreen had forgotten all about pouting.

Listen, Maestro Nikei,
she sent, the moment he appeared.
Listen to this, this works, do you not think?

He leaned against the wall, and she played her new creation for him. He nodded when she finished.
Try the cadence again,
he sent.
Retard the ending, like this . .
. He demonstrated on his own instrument, and then listened as she imitated.

Yes, that is better,
Mreen agreed. She dimpled and swung her short legs.
I like this better than class. Could we not just work together, you and I?