The Singers of Nevya (49 page)

Thank the spirit for
hruss
, or he might as well have died that same day. He dried his eyes on his sleeve, and swore for the hundredth time not to shed any more childish tears. He carried the
caeru
bristle brush and the ironwood curry comb back to the tack room and put them neatly on their shelf. His fingers lingered a moment on the comb, and his anger threatened to rise again. At least his father could have sent him to Soren! He could have learned to guide an
obis
knife with his psi. Perhaps someone there could have taught him to control his wild Gift, this cursed talent that had cost him everything.

But it was too late for any of that now. He needed only to be left alone.

He remembered Sira well from that summer after his mother’s death. He remembered her standing in the Cantoris at Bariken, tall and straight and sure, demanding to know why he had not been sent to Conservatory. His father had been barely civil to the young Cantrix.

He remembered her playing, too, that magical, liquid sound she brought from the
filla
, and her agility on the strings of the
filhata
. He could not risk hurting such a person, nor could he bear to shame himself further in front of her.

Zakri went to the door of the stables to look up at the night sky and sniff the sharpening cold in the air. He wondered if it was too late in the season to travel without a
quiru
. He could run—again—find another House that would let him work with
hruss
, work at night when no one could bother him, and when he could bother no one else. He watched the dense icy fog roll slowly in from the sea. It was too late, but he was tempted to go anyway. Who would care if one crazy stableman from Tarus froze to death in the Timberlands?

Tears started up again, and he turned away from the door, blinking and stumbling. The
hruss
behind him were unaffected by his emotions, thank the Spirit. Even among the unGifted, his moods seemed to spill over onto those around him. Angry now, at himself and his father, at his memories, he seized an ironwood shovel and began to scrape at the floor of a stall.

He made too much racket to hear her approach. It was in his mind that he heard her, a gentle, almost a diffident call.

Zakri? Would you speak to me for just a moment? I am sorry I disturbed you last night.

Her sending was so clear, so precise, that he understood almost all of it. His forehead tingled, and the urge to respond in kind was almost irresistible. He bit his lip as the old envy surged over him. She would know, she would sense it, but he couldn’t control it.

“I can’t!” he called. “Go away!” As strong as his envy was his fear that he would hurt her in some way. He couldn’t imagine anything worse.

From a distance, he felt her refusal to leave. She was as stubborn as a
hruss
refusing to leave its warm stable for the cold outside. His admiration swelled as he thought of the stories he had heard about her. He believed every word. He tried to close his mind to her.

Zakri. Will you not forgive me for upsetting you?

Fear made him furious. Hardly knowing he did it, he threw the shovel to the stone floor with a clang, making the
hruss
jump. He leapt to the door of the stables. The heavy tools on their pegs shivered with his emotion. If she came too close—it just wasn’t safe.

“You have to go away!” he cried in desperation. His voice cracked, a harsh and ugly sound. “Leave me alone!”

The mist swirled outside, obscuring the cliffs and the sea. He wanted to immerse himself in it, lose himself, as the trees were even now disappearing in its gray folds.

She wouldn’t give up, he could tell. Three nights now she had come here, tempting him. If only he could risk it, and let her try to help him . . . but she was Cantrix Sira, and far too important to put at risk for one ruined Gift and one miserable stableman. If he hurt her, what would they say about him then?

Zakri opened the stable door and dashed out into the fog.

Sira stepped cautiously into the stables, watching for things that could fall or fly through the air. Nothing was moving, and as she made her way past the stalls, listening, she began to worry. Where was he?

In one of the loose boxes, she recognized her
hruss
. Its coat was smooth and shining, its tail combed to silk. Even its drooping ears had been brushed. She gazed at it for a long moment. An angry, cruel boy would not take such pains over an animal. A sorrowing, lonely one would.

Sira searched the entire stables without finding Zakri. Her heart beat faster when she saw the door left open in back, especially when she saw that his furs, the silver-on-gray
urbear
furs worn by so many of the Tarus House members, still hung on the wall. She hurried to the door and looked out into the heavy fog that blanketed the ground.
Zakri! It is too cold for you.

When she received no answer, she sent her thought out into the grayness, searching for him. He was there, certainly, but she could not tell where. She called his name aloud, once, then seized his furs from their peg and pulled them on. They were far too short, but they would protect her for the moment.

Gingerly, she stepped out into the mist. The stones of the stableyard were slippery with damp, and she could see only a short distance in front of her. She stretched out her arms like a blind woman, hoping not to run into a tree or a boulder. The
quiru
light made the fog muddy and strange, somehow more dense than if there had been no light at all. The cliff was not far off.

Zakri, where are you?
She took a few more steps, cautiously, and stopped. The fog was cold, and she pulled the furs tighter. Soon, she supposed, this mist would hold crystals of ice, and even this short venture into the darkness would be perilous. Even now, with the furs around her, she felt the lethal fingers of the deep cold reach for her throat, for her lungs.
Zakri!

Taking small blind steps, she reached the edge of the
quiru
. Beyond it the fog roiled and curled, obscuring the stars. The sea roared its unceasing song off to her left, and she was afraid to step out into the dark.

But Zakri must have. If a frightened boy could risk the darkness and the cold, how could she do less? Cautiously she stepped forward. The warmth drained away from her as she passed out of the
quiru
and into the grayness. She could see her feet, but nothing more. The sound of the sea filled her ears.
Zakri!

Zakri wished he had seized his furs on his headlong rush into the cold and dark. He knew the terrain behind the House, so the fog only slowed him a bit, but the deepening cold numbed his fingers almost immediately. He crossed his arms and thrust his hands into his armpits, hunching his shoulders. Her call was clear and persistent. He leaned against an ironwood tree, shivering. He would freeze to death, he told himself, before he would let her get close to him.

But a sudden sharp cry, wordless and in full voice, sent the blood racing in his body. He stood straight, trembling, his ears straining into the darkness. No more sending tickled in his mind, and he heard only the sounds of the sea with his ears. For many moments he stood, frozen in an agony of doubt.

His fears were realized. She had fallen, he was sure of it. She was so stubborn, so set on her own purpose, that she, who knew nothing of the ground out here, had followed him into the fog, and had fallen. O Spirit, what if she had slipped over the edge of the cliff?

He called out, “Cantrix!” He heard no answer, neither with his ears nor his mind. “Cantrix Sira!” he called again. Only the sea answered. “By the Six Stars,” he swore, “if she is dead, I will throw myself over, too.”

Cautiously, he stepped from behind his tree. The fog was so thick he had found his way mostly by feel. How would he find her in it? He could wander all night until he froze and still not know where she had fallen.

Experimentally, he took a few steps toward the House, still listening, but hearing nothing. He turned toward the cliff, but that was useless. There were a dozen places where a mistaken footstep would cast a person over to fall on the rocks or into the ice-laden water. He would have to search with his mind, open himself. He would have to risk everything.

When he was a little boy, Zakri had played games with his mother. As an itinerant, her skills had been limited, but the two of them had been close. They had played guessing and finding games without the others in the family knowing. In a way, that had made it worse for Zakri when she died. His mind had been open and exercised in a fashion few itinerants experienced. At this terrible moment, though, he was grateful.

He had to relax his mental shielding to try, and there was danger in that. He knelt where he was, oblivious now to the cold, and concentrated. He had not truly opened his mind in years. He feared it was a dam that would burst apart when he removed the first stone, that a horrifying flood of psi woud be released. But he saw no choice. He had to try.

Carefully, he began, letting his mind open little by little. He allowed his thoughts to run free, first one at a time, then several. He felt his lack of skill in the feelings and fears spilling out of him like streams of water from a melting snowbank. But he also felt Sira’s presence, off to his right. She was alive.

Zakri, with a sense of surrender, allowed his mind to touch hers. Or perhaps it was her mind that found his. Either way, there was warmth in the contact. Her Gift was as powerful as his own unruly one, but perfect in its discipline. He turned his face in her direction. Though he was unable to send words, he sent his question, and received a laughing reply.

Indeed, I am unhurt
, she sent.
I have not fallen, nor have I taken injury from your Gift.

Zakri got to his feet and went to her, stepping carefully on the fog-slicked stones. She emerged from the mist, wearing his own
urbear
furs, looking as tall as a softwood treeling.

She smiled a little as she looked down at him. “I am sorry to have deceived you. I could think of no other way.”

Tears welled afresh in Zakri’s eyes. He looked down at his feet, away from the kindness in her face. He sobbed once, then pushed his knuckles against his mouth to stop the sound.

She didn’t move away, or speak. Where others had wept, too, or railed at the discomfort he caused them, Cantrix Sira only waited for him to regain some control.

The cold was becoming intense. “We’d better get inside,” he whispered. Sira followed as he led the way back into the light of the
quiru
and then into the fragrant warmth of the stables.

Sira took off his furs and put them around his shaking shoulders. They were still warm from her own body, and Zakri felt awe that she should share her warmth with him. He stared at his boots. “What do you want with me?” he asked hoarsely.

“I am going to teach you.”

“No one can teach me. My Gift is ruined.”

She closed the stable door and put her back to it, gazing at him. In his mind he heard clearly,
Your Gift is intact, Zakri, and so, thank the Spirit, are you.

He brought his gaze up to hers.
“You think you can make me into a Singer after all?”

Cantrix Sira smiled down at him, and he saw her scarred eyebrow for the first time. It had not been there when he met her at Bariken.
From now on you will send me your thoughts. You need the practice.

Zakri shook his head. “It’s not safe. When I open my mind, things happen.”

It is perfectly safe with me. Begin now, please.

A little flame of hope began to burn in his breast.
I will try
, he sent hesitantly.

She nodded.
Good. Then I will see you tomorrow night.

She bowed to him, and he stood amazed as she left the stables. O Spirit, he thought. What will happen to me now?

Chapter Eighteen

Sira was heavy-eyed and weary at the next morning’s meal. Iban sat across from her, eyebrows dancing as he examined her face. “Not sleeping well, apprentice?” he asked.

“I hardly slept at all,” Sira said. “But Zakri and I finally came to terms last night.”

“He’s like a
ferrel
, is he, only out in the dark?” Iban laughed. “Everyone at Tarus knows about him, though they never see him. They’re just as pleased to have it that way.”

“Are they?” Sira leaned her cheek on the heel of her hand, and stifled a yawn. “That is a very sad thing. Do they know he is only a boy?”

“They know he’s a boy who’s all trouble. But wonderful with
hruss
.”

The
keftet
was excellent at Tarus, flavored with vegetables tart with brine and with the rich taste of fresh fish brought in by the fishermen in their little
kikyu
. Sira ate it with appreciation, despite her sleepiness. She hoped the Housekeeper would give them some dried fish when they left, and she said so. Iban’s face creased in a swift frown, and Sira’s psi prickled. “What is the matter?”

“I hardly know how to tell it,” Iban said. “But the Housekeeper has made it clear to me that we have no invitation to stay long.”

“They want us to leave already?”

“She didn’t say exactly that. But there is something . . .” Iban shrugged and laughed. “The name of the great Cantrix Sira seems to hold no special powers here. Rather the opposite. It seems Magister Kenth is in haste to have you gone.”

“How odd,” Sira murmured. She looked over her shoulder at the Magister’s table, but he was not there. The Housekeeper Aleen was, her head bent to listen to something the Magister’s mate was saying. When she looked up, she caught Sira’s eye and glanced quickly away. Too quickly, Sira thought. Why should that be?

“We cannot leave yet,” she told Iban. “I have only begun to work with Zakri, and I do not think we can take him with us until he is in better control.”

Iban made a mock bow. “I thank you for that, apprentice. From what I hear, the lad leaves smashed belongings and weeping faces wherever he goes.”

“What can we do?”

“We can stall, saying we need a traveling party. We could offer metal for our keep, though that’s not usually done.”