The Singers of Nevya (57 page)

Now I suppose you will say,
he sent,
that you must not laugh too much in the deep cold, or your lungs will freeze!

Sira looked back to lift her hand to Iban and Erc where they stood in the stableyard, then turned forward to gaze up at the white peaks rising into folds of gray cloud. She rehearsed Iban’s instructions: two days west to the turning of the road, then three or four days’ ride north to Perl, depending upon the weather. From Perl, three days through North Pass to Amric, again contingent upon the weather. It was likely to be to be snowing in the Pass. The deep cold was beginning to release its rigid grasp on the Continent, and the snows of the next season were already falling in the lower elevations. There would be powder, and swirling snow about them as they rode.

The precious
filhata
was tied securely to Sira’s saddle, cushioned by her bedfurs. She reached behind her to reassure herself it was really there.
Your lessons begin tonight
, she sent.

He grinned at her.
My lessons have never ceased since I first laid eyes on you, Singer Sira. Tonight they only grow harder.

Never mind that. You just remember your C, because tonight we tune
. She leaned back against the high cantle and recalled Theo’s first lesson. If Zakri could learn as quickly as Theo, he would be a competent Cantor before the next deep cold season. She shielded this thought, remembering how hard Theo had practiced, how diligently he had applied himself to every problem. It would not be fair to compare the two. Theo had been a grown man, disciplined and experienced. Zakri would have to find his own way, and learn at his own speed.

Despite Zakri’s jokes about Iban’s nagging, he was meticulous in his chores as they made their camp that night. The cold was easing, but nevertheless Zakri played his
filla
with only the end visible from his hood. The music came effortlessly from the circle of
caeru
fur. He indulged in one or two embellishments, but his
quiru
was swift and economical. Sira built and lighted the campfire, and Zakri cooked their evening meal from the supplies paid for with one of their bits of metal. Then, in the long evening, when their
quiru
light was the only bright spot in the blank white landscape, Zakri began to study the
filhata
.

He had grown so much, in every direction it seemed, that his fingers were as long as Sira’s own, and all the strings of the
filhata
were an easy reach, regardless of mode. By the second night of their journey, he played the tuning exercise with a facility that had taken him weeks to acquire on the
filla
. C - G, D - A, E - B, F - C. Sira adjusted the position of his fingers, and tapped his wrist to show him where to release the muscles, where to increase the angle. He played the exercise again, and then, before she could comment, he rearranged it, turning the fifths upside down, plucking the C string in a little ostinato, adding rhythm.

She laughed, and leaned back against her bedfurs.
You have been playing this instrument behind my back!

He grinned. His fine hair was charged by rubbing against his furs all day, and it rose in a tousled nimbus around his head, like a small
quiru
just for his face. His eyes shone with pleasure.
I have not. But it feels as if I have.

Then try this one.
She took the instrument from him and dictated, playing a new exercise once quickly, then very slowly, articulating each note before handing the
filhata
back. He played it awkwardly at first, then more with more fluency. His fingers moved naturally upon the strings, as if indeed he had worked this way before.
Try the same exercise in
Doryu
.

He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, then played the exercise in the new mode without error.
Why is the
filhata
so much easier than the
filla?

It is not,
she answered,
except perhaps for you. But be careful of overconfidence. It requires much practice and concentration. And you must learn to use your voice with it.
A little abashed, she shielded the rush of affection that filled her heart.
We will try your voice tomorrow.

When Zakri’s fingers grew sore from pressing the strings, Sira took the
filhata
into her own lap and played melodies remembered from long-ago hours in the practice room. Her fingers had lost their protective calluses, and she grimaced when, like Zakri’s, they began to hurt too much to continue. Reluctantly, she wrapped the
filhata
and stored it carefully among the saddle packs.
We should be able to turn north tomorrow.

Yes. The two leaning trees are about three hours’ ride away
, Zakri sent. She raised her eyebrows, and he gave her a sly smile.
Iban and I took a party to Perl.

Tomorrow, then, we turn north. Tomorrow night we will play again, and try your voice.

They rolled themselves into their bedfurs, and Sira lay looking up at Zakri’s strong
quiru
. She was proud of him, but she worried whether she pushed him too hard. For the thousandth time, she asked the Spirit of Stars to guide her, to ensure that she chose the right path. She had Zakri’s immense Gift in her hands now. It was too late for doubts.

Their journey took them nine days. They worked on the
filhata
for an hour in the mornings before setting out, and twice as long in the evenings. Before long, their fingers grew less sensitive as pads of callus formed on the tips. Zakri’s voice was easy to work with. If Sira had not been so worried about Isbel, she could have enjoyed their days of riding through the snowy landscape during the hours of light, filling the hours of darkness with music. But dreams of Amric, lying in the dark and cold, plagued Sira. A sense of urgency made her fidget in her saddle and turn many times each night in her bedfurs.

On their last morning before reaching Amric, somthing kept her from leaving their campsite. She sat for a long time with the
filhata
in her lap, reaching ahead as far as she could with her psi. Something was happening at Amric.

Isbel’s heart pounded as she stepped up on the dais and sat next to her senior, holding her
filhata
before her like a shield. The
quiru
looked dim and drab to her frightened eyes, and Cantor Ovan’s fierce gaze pierced her soul.

If you fail today
, he sent,
I will denounce you to the Magister.

She had no answer, but only bowed her head, checking her tuning with trembling fingers. As much as she resented Ovan, he was right. The House
quiru
was failing, and she was at fault.

She had faced the truth. She had told Kai that what had been between them must never happen again. Night after night, she longed for him, weeping tears of sorrow, but she kept her word. She had accepted her duty, and given him up. Yet still her Gift would not respond.

Spirit of Stars, she prayed, help me. I have not enough strength to do this alone.

Ovan began, his lead even less musical than usual. Isbel followed obediently, knowing he must be as frightened as she. Lives depended on them, and the faces looking up to the dais were pale and uneasy. For weeks, Ovan had essentially accomplished the
quirunha
alone, though the House members did not yet know that. Such an effort would exhaust a more competent Cantor than he. He looked tired, and Isbel felt guilt about that as well.

Ovan began a melody, an old and familiar one, many times tried and trustworthy. Isbel joined him. Her voice felt fuller and easier than ever. If only her Gift would flow as easily as her voice, this could be a successful
quirunha
.

She tried. She concentrated, and sent her psi out with her voice. She tried not to force, but to release. She searched for the memory of how that had always felt, before everything had changed. She strove to open herself, to hold nothing back, to offer her Gift as it was meant to be offered, all save that one small corner of herself, that one hidden part she dared not expose.

Perspiration dampened her neck, and trickled between her breasts. She took deep breaths as she sang, and her voice swelled to dominate Ovan’s, but her psi was almost useless. She yearned to feel the warmth sweep out from her. What she felt instead was Ovan’s anger and fear, and her own fright rose in a moment of blinding panic. She grew suddenly dizzy, and her fingers and her voice faltered. Her eyes flew open as she tried to orient herself in the spin of the world around her. She was sure she was about to faint, right there on the dais in front of everyone, and she feared what Kai, standing in the back of the room, might do.

Then, somehow, the shaky thread of her psi steadied. It took on strength and substance. Her dizziness fell away, and she found herself borne up by the music, her psi expanding to a stream, to a river of power. It must be the music. The music was better now . . .

But no, it was not the music. She recognized the psi that flowed beneath her own. She knew that resonance very well. Sira was there, somewhere. Sira was with her.

The House grew warm and bright, and the listeners in the Cantoris smiled in relief. The music went on, with Ovan leading Isbel to every corner of the House, strenghtening, energizing the
quiru
to last through the hours of darkness until the next
quirunha
. She followed him effortlessly now, her psi floating and free, untroubled, borne up on Sira’s great Gift. Only the tears that glistened on her cheeks gave away her feelings. Before Ovan could see them, she dried them on her sleeve.

S
MILE ON US,

O
S
PIRIT OF
S
TARS,

S
END US THE SUMMER TO WARM THE WORLD,

U
NTIL THE SUNS WILL SHINE ALWAYS TOGETHER.

The ending prayer was recited with more than customary fervor. Ovan stepped down from the dais with neither a glance nor a word to Isbel. Contrasted with his angry attacks of the previous weeks, his silence was almost flattering. Isbel faltered as she stepped down from the dais, and she had to support herself with one hand. She felt lightheaded, and her stomach was queasy. Perhaps, she thought, she was ill, and that had been her problem all along.

She dared not send her thanks to Sira now, lest Ovan hear her. Sira seemed very far away, perhaps too far to hear her in any case. Her own reach was not so long. Her friend was not yet in the House, Isbel was certain. Isbel tucked her
filhata
under her arm, and hurried to the refuge of her apartment. Sira would be here soon. All would be well after all.

Chapter Twenty-seven

What is happening to her?
Zakri asked.

Sira sat cross-legged, exhausted, the
filhata
still in her lap. Reaching so far had taken all her energy. Zakri had followed her, their psi wound together like the twining suckers of an ironwood grove. Snow fell steadily and silently around them, thick flakes that melted instantly when they floated into the
quiru
light.
I do not know
, Sira responded,
but I fear for her.

Zakri stood and began to break camp. She sat where she was, regathering her strength.

They had camped in a little hollow of land beneath a huge boulder, in the middle of a ring of great trees. It was a lovely spot, but Sira thought it was not the beauty of the place, but the Gift that had brought her here. She ached for Isbel. Today, Isbel would be all right, but Sira dreaded what she would find when they reached Amric.

Their days in North Pass had been easy despite the continual snow. Zakri’s aptitude for the
filhata
delighted Sira, and his voice had proved sweet and clear. More depth and resonance would come with maturity. The hard physical work he had always done made his breathing easy. She had showed him the source of the voice’s power with one touch of a finger midway between his breastbone and his belly, and his swift comprehension astounded her.

I wonder, Singer Zakri
, she sent once after a long and productive lesson.
We struggled so hard with the
filla.
I do not know why the
filhata
and the voice are so much easier for you.

He grinned.
Better ask the Gift
. He went off humming to settle the
hruss
for the night.

It was as good an answer as any. Who could ever fully understand the Gift? Its complexities were as tangled as the patterns of life on the Continent, and it revealed itself to each Singer in its own time, in its own way. Those who bore the Gift were as much in awe of its power as those who did not.

Now, on the day they would arrive at Amric, Sira had been caught in Isbel’s struggle. It was time now to face, with Isbel, the source of the trouble.

Reluctantly, Sira opened her eyes and got to her feet.

We can go whenever you are ready,
Zakri sent. He waited just inside the
quiru
’s edge with the reins of both
hruss
in his hand.

They mounted and rode away from the campsite, leaving the empty
quiru
glowing softly behind a curtain of falling snow. Sira pulled her hood forward to keep the snow from her eyes. In silence, they rode from the northern mouth of the pass down the long, gentle slope that led to Amric. The descent took more than four hours. The
hruss
set their broad hooves with care in the slippery powder, and they wore mantles of snow on their rumps and withers by the time they rode into the courtyard. Sira and Zakri pushed back their hoods and looked up at the House. Isbel, muffled in thick yellow-white furs, stood all alone on the steps, waiting for them.

Housekeeper Cael had Sira’s things carried directly to Isbel’s apartment, saying the Cantrix wished Sira to be her own guest. He installed Zakri in an itinerant’s room. Zakri reported gleefully that it was right next to the kitchens. Sira was grateful for Amric’s hospitality. They would need it.

I thank you with all my heart
, Isbel sent to her when at last they were alone in her rooms.
I do not understand why my Gift is failing, but it is getting worse.