The Singers of Nevya (99 page)

“We will speak aloud out of respect for our guests,” he said, nodding to the itinerants who sat in a cluster far at the back. “And for Cathrin, of course, who has our deepest sympathy at this sad time.” He bowed to Cathrin, who sat on the first bench with Maestro Nikei and Maestra Magret on either side. Sira and Theo were on Nikei’s left, and Mreen crept close to sit in the circle of Theo’s arm.

“My friends and colleagues,” Abram went on. “The last years have seen great changes on the Continent. We at Lamdon have spent many hours discussing the challenges Nevyans face—”

Theo’s elbow dug into Sira’s side and she flashed him a look.

Abram said, “The shortage of the Gift has been of special concern, and it is Lamdon’s feeling that in the next years we must examine the causes and possible remedies as closely as possible. We are particularly pleased by the renewal of trade and exchange of information with Observatory, and we . . .” He rattled on for several minutes, never saying anything in two words if five would accomplish the same.

Sira tried to keep her attention on the speech, but a strange sensation distracted her. She heard in her mind, but clearly, as if with her physical ears, the old song:

S
ING THE LIGHT,

S
ING THE WARMTH,

She almost looked behind her to see who was singing in the Cantoris, singing even while Abram droned on. Of course, she knew there was no one, but the song was so vivid!

R
ECEIVE AND BECOME THE GIFT,
O
S
INGERS,

Surely even Theo could hear it! She glanced at him, then at Magret, and Nikei, but their eyes were fixed on the dais. She looked down. Mreen’s green eyes were wide, staring at her.

Do you hear it, Cantrix Sira?
the child sent.

Sira caught her breath and nodded. Mreen heard it, too. Where did it come from?

T
HE WARMTH AND THE LIGHT ARE IN YOU.

The melody faded away. It was achingly familiar, that song. Sira had learned it as a first-level student, and had sung it before an erudite audience at Lamdon when she had just four summers. She had taught it to Theo, and to Zakri, and last, to Mreen. It echoed in her mind now as if it was sent from the Spirit, from beyond the stars. It was Mkel’s farewell.

Abram talked on. “We feel that the choice of Conservatory’s next leader is a crucial one. It is always an important decision, of course, but in these difficult times even more so. After much weighing of possibilities, Magister Gowan, the Committee, and I, your senior Cantor, have decided to accept Magister Mkel’s own nomination for his successor.”

Nikei and Magret and Cathrin looked at Sira, and she arched her scarred eyebrow. They seemed very calm, she thought, considering the importance of this announcement. Probably Nikei or one of the other teachers—doubtless they already knew Mkel’s choice—

Abram’s chest swelled and he stepped to the edge of the dais. He raised his voice and announced in ringing tones, “My friends and colleagues! I present to you Conservatory’s new Magistrix . . . Magistrix Sira v’Conservatory!”

He turned to her and bowed very low.

Chapter Thirty

At Abram’s announcement, Sira rose to her feet very slowly, as if trying to stand in deep water. She felt every vertebra in her spine, every joint of hip and knee and ankle flex and expand to lift her upright. Her feet carried her to the dais without her being aware of making a conscious decision to go there. She saw herself bow to Abram, and then to the assembly, but she seemed to have left her real self standing at Theo’s side. Nikei’s and Magret’s smiles were serene, Cathrin’s tearful. The entire body of the Gifted rose to bow to the phantasm of Sira on the dais, while the real Sira, the essence of her, watched in shock.

The assembled people erupted in applause liberally mixed with exclamations of surprise. Not a few expressed dismay. The true Sira saw only Theo, registering the amazement that made his eyes wide, then the freezing of his features as he reined in his emotions. His usually open face became a closed mask. He bowed with the others, and when he straightened, though his eyes were open, she could neither see into them nor hear his thoughts.

Several moments passed before the dream Sira and the real Sira, reluctantly pulled from Theo’s side, fused into one. Her face felt stiff, her body awkward as she bowed once again, and then looked over the faces in the Cantoris, trying to take in the import of what had happened, what had been said. Abram was saying something to her, and she nodded, but his words had no meaning. Nikei and Magret stepped up on the dais, to stand beside her as bulwarks against the tide of thoughts flowing around the room. She nodded to them as well, and it seemed she spoke, but none of it was real. Every detail was unutterably trivial . . . except for Theo’s still face, his eyes blue-black, fixed on a point beyond her head.

Abruptly, Sira had to be away, away from the Cantoris, from the noise, both mental and audible, from the crush of people. With a muttered apology, she left Magret and Nikei standing with Abram on the dais. She glanced once at Theo, and then she fled, striding up the aisle on her long legs. She was not aware until she was already in the corridor, on her way to her old haven of the nursery gardens, that Mreen was with her, trotting frantically to keep up.

Mreen flashed a pleading glance, and Sira slowed her steps. The little girl, panting, took Sira’s hand.
It is going to be all right, Cantrix Sira,
Mreen sent firmly. The words were sent as one adult might send to another. There was no doubt in them. Mreen’s childish features shone with confidence.
You are the one. The Gift decided it.

They reached the gardens, and Sira pushed open the door. Inside the air was rich and heavy, the farthest walls invisible in the nourishing haze of moisture and glowing
quiru
light. Sira and Mreen were alone. All the House members were still in the great room, all the Gifted left behind in the Cantoris. Hand in hand, Sira and Mreen walked between the flats of seedlings, the raised beds of root vegetables, the rows of tiny fruit trees kept close by the inner wall for warmth. Sira’s legs grew suddenly weak, and she sat down abruptly on the nearest ledge. Mreen stood close by, stroking her arm.

Sira looked at her closely, seeing her, and everything, clearly for the first time since Abram’s startling announcement.
Mreen! What is that in your hand?

Mreen was holding a little
filla
, an old-fashioned one with tiny fragments of smooth metal worked around the stops. She held it up to Sira.

You remember this, do you not?
Mreen asked, still in that strangely adult way.
This was Mkel’s, and it was given to him by his own Magister, who had it from his Magister
. Her eyes glazed and grew distant, but there was no fear, only a pleasant dreaminess, in her expression.
So many hands,
she sent, shaking her curls.
So many Singers
. She dimpled at Sira.
And now you, Magistrix. You must have this.

Mreen handed the little instrument to Sira, who took it with weak fingers.
Mreen—why?

Because that is why Mkel gave it to me
. Mreen suddenly laughed with her familiar soundless mirth. She was free of her burden, all at once, and the adult look faded from her face.
You will have to give me yours! Now I have no
filla
at all!

Sira stared at her, and then at Theo who had come up behind her.
Theo—I am so glad you are here. Look what Mreen has given me!

Theo looked at the little
filla
, and he bent to sweep Mreen up into his arms.
I see that. So this is why he gave it to you, little one
. He hugged Mreen. The look he turned on Sira was warm with love, but the old crooked grin was absent.

Yes!
Mreen answered. She bounced in his arms.
Now let me go, Cantor Theo, please. I have to go to my lessons!

He set her on her feet and she bowed to both of them, her nimbus as bright as the Visitor itself. She turned and ran up the path toward the distant door of the nursery gardens, then whirled and trotted back. She stopped in front of Sira, and sent with a little shrug,
Magistrix, it is true—I have no
filla
now.

Sira brought out her own
filla
, hardly less worn than the one Mreen had just given her. She handed it to Mreen, and the child bowed, dimpled, and ran off once again, leaving Theo and Sira alone.

Sira met Theo’s eyes, then dropped her gaze to the
filla
in her hand. She turned it over and over in her long fingers. Theo’s shielding was a wall between them, a barrier to their usual closeness, and it hurt her to feel it. “You are unhappy,” she said aloud.

“I am proud,” he answered. He sat beside her on the ledge, and picked up a crumb of the rich soil of the bed behind them, rubbing it between his fingers into black dust. “You will be a wonderful Magistrix.”

“Do you think so?” she whispered. “I am frightened half to death.”

“I think that is natural,” he said, with an attempt at a chuckle. “There is no more important job on the Continent.”

“When we rode up to Conservatory,” Sira mused, “I wanted nothing more than to come in and stay. And now—now that I will be staying—maybe for always—I do not know how to feel. I am torn in pieces!”

His face was close to hers, and he met her eyes, but he did not touch her. “You are thinking of Observatory,” he said, “and our school.”

“And of you, Theo.” Her throat closed.

“I know,” he said. He watched her tears spill over and roll down her face, but he did not reach out to wipe them away. She supposed it was because she was now Magistrix, and that made the difference.

He shook his head. He had heard her thought.
No, Sira, it is not that.

What then?

Theo stood up, stretching his arms over his head, rubbing his hands through his thick hair. She knew he was giving himself time to discipline his own emotions. He turned to face her, and the pain in his eyes was almost more than she could bear.

Sira, this is the destiny that has driven you all along. You are the reformer. You will restore the Gift to the Continent, and make our Houses safe. I—
He managed a wry grin.
I am only an old itinerant. It is my destiny to love the Magistrix of Conservatory. We have been apart as much as we have been together. Now it looks as if we might be apart forever.

Sira stood, too, and faced him. They were not any great distance from each other, but she felt that a chasm yawned between them, a gulf with no bridge. She hoped he would not ask, and he did not. Then suddenly she wished he would, and she chided herself. Of course he would not ask, because he knew perfectly well she would refuse. He knew her heart and mind as well as she herself did.

You know that I love you, too, Theo.

I know that very well.

But the Gift—

He held up his hand.
Shall I say it for you, Sira? Do I need to tell you that you would not be yourself if you made any other choice? Or even that I would be disappointed in you if you made another choice?

She shook her head. Now he did smile at her, fully and generously. He dropped his shields, and she stepped forward, of her own volition. They came together, their arms tight around each other, for a precious and fleeting moment. She pressed her lips to his cheek, once. When they parted, his eyes burned fiercely, and Sira found fresh tears on her own face.

Chapter Thirty-one

Sira’s investiture as Magistrix of Conservatory was to take place in three days. In the meantime, a thousand details were brought to her attention, needing her judgment, her decision. She had no time to contemplate what had happened, how a single stroke of fate had changed her life. Questions about the House, about the students, about her plans, rolled about her until she thought she would have no peace at all. Cathrin had already removed all of her personal things from the Magisterial apartment, though Sira protested her hurry.

Cathrin smiled at her. “This is what it is to be a Magister’s mate, Sira.”

Maestra Magret was there, and Maestro Nikei, sitting with Sira at the long table, helping to ease her into the demands of her new position. Magret and Nikei looked up sharply at Cathrin’s words, and Nikei looked away quickly. “I think perhaps I will excuse myself now,” he said hastily. He picked up the books he had brought with him and bowed quickly to the women before leaving the apartment.

Sira stared after him in confusion. “Why did Nikei leave like that? You would think an
urbear
was after him!”

Cathrin laughed a little. Magret said delicately, “We have been waiting, Magistrix, for a moment to speak with you. Nikei feels this is a discussion to be held among us women.”

Cathrin put down the stack of linens in her hands, and came to sit close to Sira. “When it was Mkel’s turn, Magistrix, all the women left the room.”

“Oh,” Sira said faintly. “I see.”

Magret said, “Of course you are aware that the Magister of Conservatory, traditionally, takes a mate.”

“Yes,” Sira said.

“There has never been a Magistrix of Conservatory before, at least not in our memory,” Magret went on. “Nikei and I, and the others, would like to know your wishes in this matter.”

The two older women waited in a polite and respectful silence. Sira looked down at her hands, and out the window, then at Cathrin. “Cathrin, I would never want to say anything to offend Mkel’s memory, please know that.”

Cathrin nodded, searching Sira’s face with her eyes.

“It is just that I want to use my Gift. It is not enough for me to simply oversee the school, and the training of the students.” Sira smiled at little, ruefully.

“Maestra Magret knows that when I first left Conservatory, I burned with ambition. I wanted to sing for great audiences, to hear the acclaim of my colleagues, to prove that I was the best. The Spirit taught me, through all of the strange turnings my life has taken, that what is truly important is to sing, no matter for whom. The work, the music, is everything. I need to teach, to sing—to perform
quirunha
. Otherwise, the tasks of this office would be eternal punishment.”