The Singers of Nevya (46 page)

“Ah, there’s my apprentice,” he said. “At last. Ready to ride, are you?”

“So I am. Do you wish to leave now?”

“The morning will be soon enough.” Iban’s eyebrows did their merry dance. “Unless my apprentice has other plans?”

“That is for my master to decide,” Sira answered.

Iban chuckled. “Commendable obedience. In the morning, then. We might as well cadge one or two more excellent Amric meals before we leave. And a nice long bath as well.”

They turned toward the
ubanyor
and
ubanyix
, Sira with her new possessions bundled under her arm. It would be nice to feel fresh new linens against her skin. She could not recall the last time she had known such luxury.

“Excuse me, Singers?”

They looked back to see a young man coming in the door behind them, a big fellow with short-cropped curly hair and an open face. He bowed to them. “Cantrix Isbel asked me to see that you have everything you need.”

Iban bowed in return. “Thank you.” He gestured to Sira. “This is my new apprentice, the Singer Sira v’—” He paused. “Well. I guess she’s Sira v’Observatory.”

Sira nodded to the man. Her scalp prickled as she looked at him, as if someone were drawing a
ferrel
feather across her neck.

Iban went on, “Kai, isn’t it? Well, Houseman, Amric has been generous and efficient. Your House deserves its fine reputation.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing more I can do?” Kai pressed. “Your
hruss
are groomed?” Sira gazed at him, wondering why her Gift was warning her about this fresh-faced young man.

“Our
hruss
are in fine condition,” Iban replied. “You’re a hunter, aren’t you? Not a stableman.”

Kai stood a bit straighter. He was even taller than Sira, muscled and proud. “My brothers and I are hunters, it’s true. But I’m always happy to do errands for Cantrix Isbel.”

“And where is she now?” Sira asked. Her psi still vibrated with warning. She saw the shining of the hunter’s eyes, the slight swell of his chest as he spoke Isbel’s name.

“I believe she has gone with her Housewoman to the
ubanyix
,” he said. “You could find her there.”

“So I will,” Sira answered. She saw Iban watching her from the corner of his eye, his lips pursed in question, but she walked away from the two men without apology. She would bathe with Isbel one more time, and she would say nothing to her about this Kai. But Sira had a suspicion now of what was wrong here at Amric, and why Isbel was struggling with her Gift.

Each Cantor or Cantrix had to meet this challenge in his or her own way. Conservatory had been right in this, as in so many things. Sira remembered Maestra Lu’s instruction on the subject, a stern and uncompromising discussion, given once and then never again, as if once were enough to dispose of the temptation and the sacrifice for a lifetime. Sira remembered also the long line of examples set by the Cantors and Cantrixes she had known, the ones who sang at Arren, where she was born, her teachers at Conservatory, her senior at Bariken, and all those she had since met in her travels. Only one she knew had failed this test, and her life had never been the same after. Sira had no doubts what Isbel’s course must be. She only wished her friend’s challenge did not come in such an appealing and eager form as the young hunter she had just met.

Sira and Iban left Amric early on a bright morning. The Visitor rolled above the horizon, and the light of the suns picked out the mountain peaks in crisp green and soft distant purple. Isbel, standing alone on the steps of Amric, made a small ceremony of farewell for them. She looked small and forlorn beneath the tall peaks of the roof.
Come back as soon as you can, my friend. You are always welcome.

I will, I promise.
Sira touched her heart with her hand.
I thank you for your generosity.

Sira’s saddle leather creaked beneath her and the
hruss
whuffed impatiently, energized by the fresh air. These were the familiar sounds of travel, and Sira was surprised by the eagerness she felt to be on the road.

Iban bowed to Isbel, and lifted his hand in farewell as he turned his
hruss
. Sira tugged at the left rein of her mount to turn its head, but she watched Isbel over her shoulder as they clattered away over the cobblestones.

Goodbye
. Longing permeated Isbel’s sending.
Be careful, Sira, please. Goodbye.

Worry dimmed the beauty of the day for Sira. She tried to sweep it away, to convince herself that Isbel’s training would carry her through, as her own had. It was hard to leave her to face her troubles alone. But her master was riding steadily away from Amric, and she followed him. It was time to go, to continue her search. She could only pray to the Spirit of Stars for strength for Isbel.

The only House on the Continent farther away from Tarus than Amric was Isenhope, at the mouth of Forgotten Pass. From Amric they would ride west through North Pass to Perl, then turn south through the mountains to Clare, in the heart of the Southern Timberlands, where the irontrees grew so thickly in places that
hruss
could not pass through, and the huge suckers crowded out even the softwood shoots of summer. From Clare they would have an easy trek to Tarus, but the entire trip, even in these warm days when they could ride long into the twilight, required at least fourteen days.

Iban said Amric had assured they could eat every one of those days. It was a good thing, he laughed, because although many liked to travel during these weeks of summer, having a Singer in each party was not a necessity. They would ask at Perl, and again at Clare, on the off chance of earning some metal as they made their way south. There were many people fearful of traveling without a Singer, despite the clement season.

Sira was content just to be riding through a new part of the Continent. As they went, she asked Iban the names of the peaks that speared the sky to the south. He pointed out smaller landmarkes for her to remember. Before they stopped to rest the night, they were already four hours’ ride into North Pass, with icy breezes from the Great Glacier chilling their backs.

Iban watched as Sira wielded the flint and stone, starting the cookfire with considerably greater dexterity than the last time she had tried. As apprentice, she was also required to unsaddle the
hruss
and assemble the cooking pot, the bowls and spoons and
keftet
ingredients. At that point Iban took over, not wanting, as he said, to spoil Amric’s fine meat and grain with a clumsy hand. He chuckled as he said it, and Sira yielded gladly.

She sat back against a rock she had learned was called a
caeru
rock, because of its smooth, mounded shape, and watched the suns set in a glory of lavender and pink streaks. First the Visitor rolled gradually down into the purple mountaintops to the northwest. The sun, bigger and brighter, sank slowly out of sight in the western sky. For long moments after they both disappeared their light lingered, giving shape to the shadowy trees and rocks around the campsite. Sira sighed in appreciation.

“No
quiru
, apprentice?” Iban asked over his shoulder. He was bent over the little fire, carefully stirring their meal.

“Do we need one?”

“Perhaps not. But it serves to keep the
ferrel
away, and the odd
tkir.
We are not far from the Glacier, remember, and those beasts love to hunt on the ice.”

Sira reached inside her tunic for her
filla
. As there was no urgency, she played in
Lidya
, for pleasure, and the
quiru
came into being languidly, a leisurely and gradual brightening. Yellow light bloomed slowly, like one of Lamdon’s exotic flowers opening its petals one by one. When it was finished, she saw Iban sitting still, listening, having pulled the pot out of the fire. He looked up as the last echoes of Sira’s melody sounded from the trees and rocks around them.

“I’ve never heard anyone, itinerant or Cantor, play the way you do,” he said. “I wonder that Conservatory didn’t send you directly to Lamdon when you completed your studies.”

Sira pondered the thought. Suppose she had been assigned to Lamdon? She would have been proud, no doubt unsufferably arrogant, at such an early fulfillment of her ambitions. She would never have suffered the shock of the attack on her in Ogre Pass. She would never have met Zakri, or begun to understand the problems inherent in the Gift. She would have enjoyed a long and illustrious career at the capital House, playing and singing for an erudite and insular audience. And she would never have met Theo.

She smiled at Iban. “I thank you. I suppose the Spirit of Stars had other plans for me.”

“And for me as well.” Iban pushed the pot back into the fire. “In the normal course of things, I would now be instructing an apprentice in the
filla
. What can I teach Singer Sira?”

Sira looked about her at the night shadows, and above her at the stars that appeared in small clusters to glimmer softly through the light of her
quiru
. “I hope you will teach me the Continent,” she murmured. “All the big and small things I need toknow about being a traveling Singer. When I find Zakri, I need to be ready.”

“What will you do when you find him?”

“I will teach him to be a Singer. He will be my example. My demonstration.”

Iban’s brows waggled a question. “Suppose your Zakri doesn’t want to be a Singer?”

Sira stared at him in surprise. The possibility had never occurred to her. She remembered Zakri when she had met him at twelve or thirteen years old, when he had craved Conservatory so much that tears welled in his eyes. Zakri’s Gift had gone unattended after the death of his mother, and when she had offered him her
filla
one day, a ball at his feet had rolled away, propelled by the strength of his emotions.

“He does want to be a Singer,” she said. And after a doubtful pause, “He must.”

Iban shrugged, handing her a bowl of
keftet
, and they turned their attention to the meal. Sira found it wonderful, both the ingredients and the satisfaction of her fresh-air appetite. “How do you make it so tender?”

“You must soak the dried meat before you cook the grain,” Iban explained. He held up the pot to show her. “Soak it well, then stew the grain in the same water. “These—” On his palm he displayed some green leaves, and pointed to them. “These you cook with the grain, while these others you add at the last moment. And don’t overcook!” he cautioned.

Sira nodded. “I will try it tomorrow,” she said, and at his chuckle, she added, “with your permission, master.”

His eyebrows all but disappeared under his fringe of hair. “We’ll see, apprentice,” he said, and laughed. “We’ll see.”

Chapter Fifteen

The days of travel from Amric to Tarus were long and pleasant. At Perl, Sira and Iban rested only one night, and picked up a small group of travelers there, three traders from Soren who carried sewn-leather cases of
obix
-carved ironwood implements for trading. The men had acquired long rolls of felted cloth at Perl which they packed in a
pukuru
drawn behind a spare
hruss
. At Clare they would barter for paper, and add that to the load in the sled. They were experienced travelers, but even in summer they preferred the reassurance of a
quiru
about them each night. They were in no great hurry. Gossip, news, and storytelling occupied their days as they waited contentedly for an itinerant Singer to come along and guide them House to House.

The three traders paid little attention to Iban’s apprentice during their first day, but when Sira played her
filla
at their first campsite, they stopped what they were doing and listened with surprised attention. After the
quiru
had risen, strong and bright and tall, they pressed Sira with questions. When she shrugged and did not answer, they turned to Iban.

Sira’s story was well known on the Continent. Even at Perl, when the stableman had learned her name, he told his Housekeeper, and soon Sira was asked to the Cantoris to see her old classmate, Cantor Arn v’Perl. Arn behaved grandly, pleased to feel superior to Sira at last. Now, when Iban admitted who she was to the traders, she became Cantrix Sira once again, and they would neither touch her nor speak to her from that time forward unless she spoke to them first. They were uncomfortable being served by her, and Sira had to allow Iban to hand them their
keftet
and tea. She insisted, though, on doing her share of campsite chores.

Sira had grown adept at the fire-starting, and even at using the little axe Iban carried in his saddlepack. In North Pass, which was little-traveled, there had been plenty of deadfall for their cooking fire, and they did not need the supply of softwood they carried with them. Sira made
keftet
, with Iban watching over her shoulder, and she scoured the ironwood groves for lingering patches of snow to melt for tea.

On their third day out from Perl, Iban pointed to a cluster of
caeru
rocks beneath two ironwood trees growing together from one root. The smaller tree leaned to the south, and the larger to the west. “There’s the landmark for the road to Conservatory,” he told Sira. “The path doesn’t look like much here, but as you work your way west it opens up. Look back at it, too.”

They rode a few more minutes, and Sira turned to look over the
hruss
’s rump. The landmark looked different from the new perspective, the leaning trees framing the cluster of rocks as if guarding them. “Remember that,” Iban said. Sira nodded. She would remember.

She did not look back again, but her mind took that path to the west, traversing the Mariks to the courtyard of Conservatory. She saw herself going in the doors, passing under the ancient plaque:

S
ING THE LIGHT,

S
ING THE WARMTH,

R
ECEIVE AND BECOME THE GIFT,
O
S
INGERS,

T
HE WARMTH AND THE LIGHT ARE IN YOU.

In Sira’s imaginary visit, Maestra Lu was still there, and Isbel, and the others. Studies went on as they always had in those best of all days, when the future was assured, and no doubts marred the pattern of Cantoris life.