The Singers of Nevya Read online

  Isbel sought out Maestra Lu after Sira had been gone from Conservatory for three days. She found her in the great room, in a rare moment of idleness, seeking the warmth of the sun as it filtered through the thick green windows.

  “Excuse me, Maestra?” Isbel asked aloud. A student never sent thoughts to a teacher without invitation.

  Maestra Lu did not turn, but she smiled up into the weak sunshine. Good morning, Isbel.

  Isbel bowed. Good morning. Lu indicated a place on the bench next to her, only turning when Isbel sat down.

  The Maestra looked more frail than ever, her pale, papery skin nearly translucent over the sharp bones of her face. Isbel thought her own ruddy, freckled skin seemed extravagantly healthy next to Lu’s. But she kept these thoughts low in her mind, not wishing to offend her teacher.

  Maestra, I was wondering if you are following Sira.

  Lu looked at her sharply. And how could I be following Sira?

  Isbel dimpled, and the Maestra’s lips twitched gently. Maestra, we all know you have the longest reach of anyone. Maybe the longest ever.

  Maestra Lu sighed a little. And how do you all know that?

  We have heard the stories!

  Maestra Lu turned to gaze out the window. For a moment Isbel thought she had forgotten her presence. The look of memory was on the old Singer’s face. Surely Maestra Lu, who had twelve summers, must have many memories. Isbel waited until she turned back to her.

  Sira is fine, Lu sent. That is all I can sense, but it is enough, is it not?

  Isbel nodded, content. She will be a wonderful Cantrix.

  Indeed, I hope so.

  Do you remember her first quirunha?

  Very well.

  Isbel leaned against the cool glass of the great window. The others were jealous.

  Lu raised her eyebrows, though this was hardly a revelation.

  Yes, Isbel went on. It was two years earlier than any of the rest of us could perform the quirunha. They teased her that day at breakfast.

  Tell me about it, Isbel.

  Isbel loved stories, her own or anyone else’s. No one knew more of them, or invented more, than Isbel. Sira had loved to listen to her tales, especially when the two girls lounged together in the ubanyix, floating lazily in the scented warm water. Now Isbel straightened, ready to make a story of Sira’s first quirunha.

  She was only fourteen.

  Maestra Lu nodded. Individual birthdays were put aside when the Gifted children entered Conservatory. Each summer, a class came from the Houses across the Continent, Gifted children of six and seven, sometimes eight, delivered by their families. From then on, they shared the same birthday, the anniversary of their first day.

  In the great room, the students tormented her. One in particular— Isbel looked sideways at her teacher, not wishing to cause trouble for one of her classmates. Lu seemed not to notice.

  One was asking her if she was nervous, going on and on about how the whole House would be there, and listing all the things could go wrong. Sira was trying to eat—you always tell us to eat before we work—Lu’s lips twitched again. Isbel saw, and her dimples flashed.

  Finally, I am afraid I lost my temper. I told them all to stop it. All around us the House members were calmly having breakfast, not noticing our argument. Sira could not eat her keftet, and she stood up.

  She sent to me, so that everyone could hear, that I was not to worry. That she was not nervous. Then she turned to—to the one who was teasing her, and she told her she had better not miss the quirunha. She might learn something!

  Lu began to smile.

  Sira went striding out of the room. You know how she walks, with her back so straight. Lu nodded, sharing the memory of Sira’s tall, narrow form pacing the halls. And of course you remember the quirunha, because you were her senior that day. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

  Lu took Isbel’s hand. Only a Gifted one could touch another one of the Gifted, and the contact soothed and connected them, one to the other. So it was, Isbel. And you need not have worried about your friend.

  I was still angry.

  I know. But Sira would not have worried about what her classmates thought. She is always most critical of herself. Had she been disappointed in herself, that would have been something to worry about.

  Isbel grew thoughtful. I am sure she will be a great success at Bariken.

  A shadow passed between their two minds, and the Maestra withdrew her hand. Isbel looked searchingly at her, sensing something amiss.

  She will be a fine Cantrix, Lu sent. And so will you, my dear. Perhaps you should be practicing now?

  Isbel giggled. Yes, Maestra. She jumped up from the bench beneath the window and bowed. Thank you.

  Lu watched her leave the great room. She was such a pleasant student, neither complicated nor difficult, reasonably hardworking, and with a pretty, warm voice. Sira had been her most challenging student, intense, talented, driven. Her only weakness was in healing, but both Mkel and Lu had thought her new senior Cantrix could continue training her. In the end, Lu felt certain, Sira would be a better Cantrix than she herself had been. She had not been a great healer either, but had been renowned for her singing. And, of course, as Isbel and the other students knew, for the strength and reach of her psi.

  She hoped Sira’s great Gift was not wasted on Bariken. She had protested the assignment, but the shortage of Conservatory-trained Singers had reached a critical point. Lu rose from the window seat, grimacing with the effort. There was something not right at Bariken, something hard for Conservatory and Lamdon to identify. And now Sira, young and inexperienced, was their Cantrix. It was out of Lu’s hands.

  The journey from Conservatory to Bariken took five full days. Traveling had a rhythm of its own, Sira discovered: riding, resting, meals. There was little talk during the day. Sira often did not speak at all, and the odd silence of being with unGifted people added to the strangeness. As her saddlesoreness began to ease, Sira studied the riders to see how they sat their hruss, how they handled their reins, how they used their feet. In the evening, around the fire, the riders told stories and jokes, but never spoke directly to Sira. She was the reason for their journey, and she was their protection. But it was not for them to hold unnecessary conversations with a Gifted one. Only Rollie, assigned to Sira for the trip, spoke to her. Sira was grateful for Rollie’s warmth and humor, Gifted or not.

  On their last day in the mountains they made their camp rather late, in purple twilight. Blane found a spot ringed by huge ironwood suckers. Sometimes the long thick shoots that connected the great trees lay hidden under the snow to trip hruss, but tonight they were welcome, as the riders leaned against them for support.

  Sira made the quiru rise swiftly, and Rollie sat next to her, grinning in appreciation. “I’ll be sorry not to hear you do that anymore.”

  Sira frowned. “I do not understand.”

  “We’ll be at the House tomorrow, just after midday,” Rollie said. “If the Spirit allows.”

  “I see.” Sira tucked her filla into her tunic and smoothed her bedfurs. But you can attend the quirunha, can you not?”

  Rollie’s tanned face changed subtly. “It’s not my custom.”

  “But at Conservatory, even the Housemen and women hear the quirunha.”

  “Things will no doubt be different at Bariken from what you’re used to, Cantrix,” Rollie said gently.

  “But I would like you to attend,” Sira said. “I know no one else there.”

  Rollie looked out beyond the quiru into the deepening dusk. “I’ll be around,” she said. “If you want me, just tell that Housekeeper. He’ll send for me. But he won’t like it.”

  Sira wanted to know more, but with Conservatory courtesy, she did not press. Rollie went to the fire for Sira’s tea and keftet. As the riders began the meal, the silence was broken only by the gentle crackling of the little fire.

  In the quiet, Sira’s sensitive ears picked up a sound. “Rollie!” she called softly. “The
re is someone approaching.”

  “Not likely, Cantrix.” Rollie stared out past the quiru, listening, then shook her head. “Why do you think so?”

  “I hear it!” Sira turned toward the direction of the sound. “Out there, up the hill. Hruss.”

  “Blane!” Rollie called. “I don’t hear it, but the Cantrix says there are hruss up on the hill.” She pointed.

  Blane stood up. Hruss could survive in the deep cold, but if there was a person there, leaving him or her in the lethal darkness was unthinkable. “We’ll go see,” he said. “I’ll take Chan.” The other man was already beside him. They pulled on their heavy furs, and plunged out of the quiru into the blackness beyond.

  Sira stood with her head bowed, listening to their progress up the hill. To send people out of the safety of the quiru was a serious thing. Following them with her ears, she opened her mind as well. She sensed fear, and sadness, a man lost out there in the freezing dark.

  Those in the quiru did not have to wait long. The sounds from the hillside grew until everyone could hear them. As they watched, Blane and Chan led two hruss into the warmth and light of the campsite. A man clung to the stirrup of one saddle, stumbling as he came into the quiru, falling clumsily to his knees as his strength suddenly failed him.

  Blane crouched beside him and dropped an extra fur over his shoulders. “Take your time,” he said quietly. Everyone in the quiru was silent, stunned by awareness that the stranger had been within heartbeats of freezing to death.

  The man’s hruss were still outside the circle of quiru light. Ice hung from the long hair under their chins, and clogged their forelocks. Sira pulled her filla out of her tunic and played briefly until the quiru swelled, its warmth and light expanding to include the half-frozen animals.

  The stranger turned, stiffly, to see who was playing.

  Blane said, “This is a party from Bariken. I’m the guide.”

  There was a long silence, and Sira could see the man’s lips and face were too cold to move. At length he mumbled, “Devid,” through still-rigid lips. He managed his House name, “Perl”, then fell silent again. They all waited for his circulation to return. Every Nevyan knew it was a slow and painful process.

  At length he gave a ragged sigh. “My Singer …” he struggled to say. His pain was unmistakable through the shield of Sira’s mind. “My mate. She died last night.”

  Chan brought the man’s bedfurs from his saddle, and helped him to sit down. Devid pulled his hood back, uncovering a lined, weatherbeaten face and graying hair. “She was ill.” Another pause. “We were going to Conservatory for help.”

  Rollie had built up the fire, and now she pressed a cup of hot tea into Devid’s icy hands.

  “We’re bringing our new Cantrix to Bariken,” Blane told him, with a nod in Sira’s direction. Devid stared at her, too exhausted for courtesy. “You can come with us.”

  “No metal,” the traveler said miserably. “My mate hasn’t worked in some time.”

  Blane put up a hand. “Not necessary,” he murmured. “Nevyans help each other.” The other riders nodded.

  “Thank you.” Devid turned to bow stiffly to Sira. “Cantrix.”

  Sira nodded in return. It felt odd to be treated with deference for doing only what every Conservatory student over three summers could do. “I am sorry about your … Singer.” She stumbled over the word. She had known, in a rather distant way, that itinerant Singers took mates. No Cantrix or Cantor would dare to do such a thing, unless—like Magister Mkel—they intended to leave the Cantoris.

  “Thought we could make it,” Devid said to the riders, his eyes reddening. “Thought Conservatory could help. But she wasn’t strong enough.”

  The riders sat staring into the flames, honoring Devid’s loss with their silence. Tragedy struck often on the Continent, and there were few whose lives had not been touched by it.

  The deadly cold ruled the lives of Nevyans. The snow and ice, which receded only once every five years, was as much a part of their surroundings as the sky or the rocks. Survival required almost all their energies.

  At length Sira ventured to ask, “What troubled your mate?”

  Devid lifted his face, and it seemed the lines in it grew deeper by the minute. “Pain in her side.” He indicated the right side of his body. “We were in Deception Pass, on our way home. We turned for Conservatory, but the pain got so bad she couldn’t ride.”

  “There’s no road there,” Blane said.

  “Right. We tried to make a shorter trip of it, but the irontrees are so thick, and the drifts twice as tall as hruss … . Thank the Spirit, at the end she couldn’t feel the pain anymore.”

  “She’s with the Spirit of Stars now,” Chan offered.

  Devid nodded. “Yes. But our children will miss her. And I—” His voice broke, and he hung his head. Almost whispering, he finished, “I had to leave her there. In the snow.”

  Sira took a breath. Of course, if a Singer mated, there could be children. But the idea embarrassed her. She looked away, out into the darkness beyond the yellow quiru light.

  “You can go back in the summer,” Chan suggested.

  “Better get into your bedfurs now,” Blane said. “Warm up quicker.”

  Devid obeyed. There was really nothing else anyone could do. The other riders began to roll into their furs. Rollie and Sira went out of the quiru briefly, and returned to find the others already sleeping. Rollie said good night, and Sira slipped into her own bed.

  Devid lay wakeful. Sira heard small sounds as he turned and shifted under his furs. When she sat up, she saw his hair tangling as he twisted.

  “Traveler?” she whispered.

  Devid lifted his head to see who was speaking. The skin around his eyes was gray and worn, and his lips trembled.

  “May I help you sleep?” she asked quietly.

  He looked confused, and didn’t answer. She hesitated a moment, then began to sing, softly, a simple cantrip the older Conservatory students sometimes sang for the young ones who lay awake crying for their mothers. It was as familiar to her as the memories of the dormitory, where the narrow cots of the first-and second-level students lined the walls in neat rows. She used the gentlest touches of her psi to soothe the sorrowing man into sleep.

  It did not take long. Soon his fretfulness stopped, and sleep stole over him. No one else seemed to have been disturbed by her singing.

  Sira was satisfied, thinking how simple her job was, really. Looking up, she saw her quiru warm and bright above the travelers. Reassured, she too lay down and closed her eyes.

  She was surprised to hear Rollie say, “Sleep well, Sira.”

  In her drowsiness, Rollie had forgotten her title. The omission, in a strange way, made Sira feel at home.

  Chapter Three

  The riders, with Sira in their midst, clattered over the cleanswept paving stones of Bariken’s courtyard just after midday. Sira looked up at the big doors of the House, and took in the sweep of its wings stretching east and west from its center hall. It was smaller than Conservatory, but she could imagine the fullness of the life inside, the great room where the House members met for meals, the huge kitchens, the apartments where families lived, their children tumbling over each other on the stone floors. At the very center would be the Cantoris, where she would do her work. The glassworks would be between the wings in the back, as would the nursery gardens.

  One of the riders had galloped ahead to announce their arrival, and several people were assembled on the steps of the House.

  Rollie murmured, “Perfectly natural to be nervous, Cantrix.”

  “Do you know my thoughts, Rollie?”

  The rider chuckled softly. “You’re the mind-listener, Cantrix, not me!”

  “Rollie, I have not done so,” Sira protested, and did not realize until a moment later that Rollie had been teasing her.

  They reached the front of the courtyard, and Rollie slipped off her hruss. She came to assist Sira, but Sira dismounted on her own b
efore she could reach her, her young body adapted already to the rigors of days in the saddle. Rollie untied her charge’s saddlepack as a little, wrinkled Housewoman left the group on the steps to come and take it.

  Rollie bowed quickly to Sira and stepped back. “Good luck, Cantrix.” It sounded like goodbye.

  “But I will see you, Rollie?” Sira’s words hung in the clear air like those of a forlorn child. She wished she could take them back. She would have liked to touch Rollie’s arm, but that would be a breach of custom. Rollie bowed again without speaking.

  “Cantrix, Rhia is waiting for you,” said the wrinkled Housewoman. She fidgeted impatiently, shifting the saddlepack in her arms, and looked up at the steps of the House.

  There were two men and two women waiting before the big doors. The Housewoman said again, “She’s waiting. Best hurry.”

  Sira had no idea who Rhia was, nor did she know the identity of this little Housewoman who spoke to her so brusquely. Taking a deep breath, she pulled her wrapped filhata from its place on her back, and slipped it into its more customary position, under her arm, a badge of office to give her confidence. Then she strode to the steps, her back arrow-straight. Blane walked close behind her.

  “Rhia,” Blane said. One of the women stood a little apart from the others. Her face was as smooth and still as the ice cliffs of Manrus, her bound hair glossy and pale. She seemed to be measuring Sira with her eyes. Unconsciously Sira put a hand to the binding of her hair.

  Blane went on. “This is Cantrix Sira v’Conservatory.”

  Sira still unsure of who the woman was, bowed politely.

  “I am Rhia v’Bariken,” the pale woman said. “And this is Cantrix Magret, and Cantor Grigr.” There was no mention of Magister Shen, although Sira had expected him to be in her welcoming party.

  The blonde woman bowed the shallowest of bows, but Cantrix Magret, middle-aged and plump, smiled warmly at her new junior, her eyes crinkling cheerfully. Sira noticed, however, that she sent nothing.

  “Welcome to Bariken, Cantrix,” Rhia said, in a voice as dry and crisp as a softwood leaf.

  “Thank you.”