The Singers of Nevya (43 page)

Iban’s eyebrows danced. “With the Committee, it’s usually the other way around. I can hardly wait to hear this.”

They pulled out chairs at one of the tables, and seated themselves, careful not to disturb the bowls and spoons laid ready for the evening meal. Through the windows, Sira saw full darkness beyond the
quiru
. Indoors the House was almost as bright as day. She had become accustomed to the near-darkness of night at Observatory, had found it soothing and peaceful once the House had grown warm enough to be comfortable. It would take days, she thought, for Lamdon to cool enough to suit her.

She abandoned the thought. Soon Lamdon’s overheated, overbright atmosphere would not matter to her. “I need a master,” she said bluntly. “I must apprentice myself to an itinerant, to learn the craft. Singer Iban, will you take me?”

Iban pursed his lips and whistled, a long, low sound. He leaned back in his chair and gazed at Sira for a long moment before he said, “I was certain they would have you back in the Cantoris within a week. I’m still not sure they won’t. How is it that a Conservatory-trained Cantrix wants to work as an itinerant Singer?”

Sira supposed, if Iban was to be her master, it was only fair that he know everything. As she had earlier, she wished she could send her explanation, but she supposed Iban could not hear her thoughts. She spoke aloud, slowly, struggling again for words.

“I was Cantrix at Bariken,” she said. “The first of my class to leave Conservatory.”

“Yes,” Iban answered. “We all know the story. You were the youngest full Cantrix in memory, and we know what happened to you. I’m sorry.”

Sira made a dismissive gesture. “That is not important anymore. It only matters that I learned from it.” She paused, and stroked her scarred eyebrow with her forefinger. “The Gift and its training are not the straightforward things I once believed them to be. It seems . . .” One of Theo’s proverbs came to mind, and with it, a half-smile to Sira’s lips. “It seems the
ferrel
builds more than one nest.”

Iban grinned. “I know that proverb. It’s from the southern Houses.”

“I mean by it that I have learned there is more than one way to cultivate the Gift. I learned that the Gift can be trained outside Conservatory.”

Iban chuckled, and Sira looked at him curiously, not knowing what he was laughing at. Then she realized, with a rush of embarrassment, that this would hardly be a revelation to an itinerant. He had obtained his training–how? Certainly without benefit of Conservatory.

“I am sorry,” she said. “Of course, you—” She opened her hands, expressively, lacking words. Iban smiled without apparent resentment. “Of course you know that already. Please do not be offended, but my experience at Observatory shows that the full realization of the Gift beyond that . . . that usually demonstrated by itinerants . . .” It was not easy to say it all with tact, and Sira cleared her throat and pushed her fingers through her hair, struggling to find words. “It is possible without Conservatory. My concern is the Cantoris.”

“Although you won’t accept one again.”

“I will not. What I need to do is more important.”

“Are you so sure?”

“So I am.” She shrugged. “I must be.”

“What is it you want to do, then?”

She searched his face with her eyes, hoping to find acceptance there. “First, I want to see my friend Isbel, Cantrix Isbel v’Amric. Then I must find one Zakri, son of an itinerant. I will offer him the training I gave Theo. Zakri will be my demonstration to the Committee.”

Iban’s thoughts chased across his face, curiosity, doubt, interest.

“Will you take me?” Sira asked. “As apprentice?”

He considered, looking down at his tunic, smoothing the fabric. He was never still, this man. Sira pulled Theo’s bit of metal from her tunic and held it in her hand as she waited.

At length, Iban sighed and spoke. “Trouble will follow you, Cantrix, like a
caeru
pup follows its dam.”

“I know.”

“There is more danger in your plan than you think,” he went on. His mouth sagged, and Sira sensed he knew something he dared not tell her. She had no feeling of deception, though, only that he bore some knowledge that weighed upon him.

“But,” he went on. “Your skill with the
filla
is worth a little trouble. I know your friend Cantrix Isbel. I’ll tell you the story of our meeting on our first night out. After you call up the
quiru
so I can hear you play again!”

“I thank you, Singer,” Sira said solemnly. Iban put out his hand to seal the agreement, then pulled it back as he remembered who and what she was.

Sira was relieved. She disliked being touched even more than she disliked speaking aloud. They rose, and bowed to each other. “In the morning, then,” Iban said.

“I will be ready.”

*

Iban and Sira departed without ceremony early the next day. Sira had said no farewells, and given no warning. The Visitor had not yet risen above the southeastern horizon, and the lone sun shone in the pale lavender of the morning sky. They left from the stables, something Sira had only done once before. Sira saddled her own
hruss
and tied her gear on by herself, then met Iban in the stableyard, where he was chatting with a Houseman.

“I asked him not to mention our going,” he said to Sira as they turned their mounts to the north and rode away from Lamdon. “Not to lie, just not to mention it until he’s asked. Thought that might be easier for you.”

Sira nodded her thanks. She thought of Niel v’Arren and his anger, and of Cantor Abram’s offended look. It was good to be away from them, to be on her way, breathing the cool morning air and feeling the movement of the
hruss
beneath her thighs. She did not look back at the great House behind her, but forward, past the beast’s drooping ears, which flicked back and forth as it settled into its swinging gait.

Singer Iban, she soon realized, would take his position as her master seriously. As they rode, he called out the names of every large rock, every peak they could see. He pointed to distant cliffs and described the passes that wound below them. He made her repeat the names, and made her look back once in a while, to see their passage from a different perspective.

“Remember your road both ways,” he said, “coming and going. Keep the picture firmly in your mind, because you never know how long it may be before you travel this way again.”

“Do you earn many bits of metal this way?” Sira asked once.

Iban turned to wink at her. “Not one bit this trip,” he said, making her blush. He laughed. “But sometimes I do. It depends on how far the trip is, and how many people. And on the metal.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

He reached into a little purse and brought forth several bits of metal which he cradled in his palm. They gleamed dully in the growing light. “Bits of metal come in different sizes,” he said. “See, this one is a good deal larger than the others. I might take just that one for a whole trip, say between Perl and Filus.”

He held the pieces out to Sira and spilled them carefully into her hand. They were irregularly shaped, lighter than
ferrel
feathers. As she gave them back, she told him, “I have seen a piece of metal that is bigger than all of those put together, many times bigger. As big almost as a
caeru
hide.”

Iban’s quick features spoke doubt as he looked at her. “How is that possible? Are you sure it wasn’t something else?”

“I am very sure. At Observatory they are so poor they must make all their own tools and clothes, yet they have a huge piece of metal hidden away in an upper room. It is like a slab of stone except that it weighs almost nothing. It has marks on it, like this one.” She pulled out Theo’s necklace from her tunic and held it up. “Many more marks than this. Pol, the leader of Observatory, claims it shows the Six Stars. They think it proves the Ship is coming for them.”

Iban still looked doubtful. “I can’t imagine that much metal,” he said. “But I’ve seen lots of bits with marks on them. It’s like the fable, you know, that says the bits come from the Ship.”

“Where do you think they come from?”

Iban shook his head. “No idea. It’s one of the mysteries. I leave such things to my betters.” He tipped up his head to scan the sky. “Ah, there’s the Visitor at last. We’ll be putting off our furs, feeling the suns on our necks. Nothing like a summer day for riding in the Mariks!”

Sira smiled at the wiry Singer riding ahead of her. She appreciated his easy manner. The Spirit must have sent him to her. Short of having Theo at her side, there could hardly be a more pleasant companion for her journey. She turned her own face up to feel the Visitor’s warmth on her cheeks. It would be three days to Amric, Iban had said. She would enjoy those days, she resolved, three simple days to refresh herself for the work ahead.

The
quirunha
at Amric was just over when a Houseman bowed before Cantrix Isbel. “Excuse me, Cantrix. There’s someone in the great room who wants to see you.”

Involuntarily, Isbel glanced at Cantor Ovan, and was relieved to see him in private conversation with Magister Edrus. The
quirunha
had been difficult, labored and slow. Isbel knew Ovan would be angry with her, but Edrus had forestalled his biting comments.

She asked, “Who is it, Houseman?”

The man shook his head. “Only an itinerant. But she insisted I tell you.” He added quickly, “I can speak to the Housekeeper if you don’t want to see her.”

“No, no,” Isbel said hastily. “I will see her.” She tucked her
filhata
under her arm and started out of the Cantoris toward the great room. Her Housewoman, who faithfully attended all the
quirunha
, was nearby, and Isbel handed her the instrument.

“Be sure to wrap it carefully, Yula,” she said, then hurried across the hall to the doors of the great room.

Tears sprang instantly to Isbel’s eyes when she saw her visitor sitting in the window seat. With a wordless cry, she ran across the great room, and in joyous relief fell to her knees beside the traveler. Forgetting all propriety, she sent,
Sira! Sira, my dear, dear friend!

Sira, too, abandoned restraint. She pulled Isbel into a hard embrace.
Isbel . . . how I have missed you!

Other people in the great room stared as the tears of their junior Cantrix soaked the tunic of this tall, lean itinerant. Isbel sensed their curiosity, and it dimmed her joy. Someone was sure to tell Ovan, and she would be censured. Again.

She drew away from Sira’s arms, wiping her eyes, smiling at the same time.
Sira, it is so good to see you . . . to . . . to see you alive!

Sira bowed slightly, ironically. Isbel’s tears started afresh as she took in her friend’s scarred eybrow, slashed through with white. She saw too the beginnings of lines in Sira’s face, though Sira had no more summers than she. She had lived more, Isbel supposed, in the last two summers than most Cantrixes did in their whole lives. But she was smiling now, and Isbel treasured the moment, knowing how rare Sira’s smiles were.

Come and bathe
, she sent.
When did you arrive? And how? We have not heard that you were found! You must tell me everything!

Sira chuckled, and despite the watching eyes, Isbel took her friend’s hand under her arm. They were both full Cantrixes, after all. They at least were entitled to touch, even to embrace if they so wished.

They spent a long time in the
ubanyix
that day, so long that Isbel climbed out twice to warm the water. She hoped Sira did not notice that it took her rather longer than it should have, and she swore to herself she would be better in the future. For now she could hardly take her eyes from Sira’s face. She delighted in sharing her thoughts, keeping her mind open for long periods at a time. She only had to keep certain thoughts separate, pressed down in a part of her mind where no one, not Ovan, not Sira, hardly even she herself, would recognize them.

For hours she and Sira lay in the warm water, idly toying with bars of soap, with the leaves of the herbs that floated around them. They shared their memories of the years they had been apart, and it was a relief to send every idea, every comment, never having to search for the words to speak! Isbel’s forehead tingled with pleasure.

Are you sure you will never take up the Cantoris again?
Isbel asked at last.
Absolutely sure? You are so strong, and our need is so great.

Sira ran her fingers through her cropped hair, making it stand on end. Her dark eyes gleamed, and the bit of metal that hung from her neck shone wetly as she moved.
I know the need. There is something I must do about it, but it will take time, and I cannot do it in a Cantoris.

But never? Never to play the
filhata
again?

Sira’s mind was so open that Isbel could sense the longing that filled her at the mention of the
filhata
.
Yes, that will be hard,
was all she sent. There was another longing, too, that Isbel sensed but Sira did not mention. She supposed it was natural, now that they were both grown, to have secrets. She took no comfort in the idea, because she very much doubted Sira’s secret could be as dangerous as her own.

But I will listen to you play tomorrow
, Sira sent. She put her long hand on Isbel’s plump one.
I look forward to it.

Isbel made a slight face.
Our
quirunha
are not what they were at Conservatory.

Sira laughed aloud.
You should have heard some of mine at Observatory! Maestra Lu would have been furious.

Isbel laughed, too, at the picture Sira sent of swift, efficient
quirunha
in the dank halls of Observatory, but she knew just the same it was not true. Maestra Lu would not have been disappointed in Sira.

She watched as Sira stepped out of the tub and dried herself. She felt certain her friend knew what she was doing, and that it would be just, for herself and for her people. Isbel wished she could be as certain that her own course was the right one.

Chapter Twelve

It was easy for Isbel to follow Cantor Ovan’s lead in their
quirunha
. His musical ideas were as predictable as they were scarce. The problem was not making music, however inferior, with her senior. The problem was with her Gift, and the flawed concentration that had plagued her ever since the news of Sharn’s death.