The Singers of Nevya (67 page)

The light and warmth swelled from the dais, a wave of energy that broke only on the barrier of deep cold beyond the House. Theo’s psi was joined to theirs, but he stayed behind, beneath, there only to encourage Trisa should she falter.

Sira could no longer count the
quirunha
she and Theo had peformed together. She often felt they were as one person, she and Theo, two halves that were whole only when their psi was joined. She had healed her wounds, here at Observatory with Theo; and she dreaded being alone again, even for a short time.

The
quiru
was secure, the
quirunha
complete. Trisa stilled her
filhata
with the palm of her hand laid flat on the strings, and waited for a moment, eyes still closed, listening to the last notes fade against the high ceiling. When she opened her eyes, she looked first to her teacher.

Well done, Singer Trisa,
Sira sent.
Your first modulation was a bit hurried, but all in all, a fine
quirunha. She stood and bowed formally to the new Singer.

For years Trisa had been working toward this moment. She bowed in return, carefully proper, but her eyes shone and her smile stretched so wide Sira thought it must hurt. She turned out into the Cantoris to find her mother. Brnwen’s cheeks were wet, and she leaned happily toward Kai, her mate, whispering to him as she watched her daughter accept the bows of the Housemen and women.

Everyone present chanted together:

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 moment the formal prayer was finished, Trisa leaped off the dais, fourteen-year-old dignity forgotten, and danced up the aisle to her parents. Sira saw, though, that although the girl chattered excitedly to Brnwen, they did not touch. That discipline, at least, she had absorbed at Conservatory. She would not be a full Cantrix for some time yet—there was still much for her to learn—but she was officially Singer Trisa from this moment. There were formalities associated with her new title, and Sira approved of her observance of them. It set a good example.

Theo came to Sira as she stepped down from the dais.
Congratulations
, he sent.

And to you
, she answered. The people swirled around them, the parents of Yve and Arry and Jule coming to fetch them, bowing respectfully to Sira and Theo. Only Mreen stood alone, a tiny figure encircled by light.

Theo nodded toward the new Singer where she stood surrounded by well-wishers. He grinned at Sira.
Well, it seems the two of you will manage perfectly without me.

Sira touched his hand very lightly, a brief and fleeting contact. She felt an urge to smooth back his thick curls, a thing she would never dream of actually doing.
We will manage,
she told him,
but never perfectly. We will miss you greatly.

Then I had better hurry back
. He winked at Mreen.
But this one is in a terrific hurry, are you not, little one?

So I am, Cantor Theo!

Theo chuckled.
The
ferrel
chick can hardly wait to tumble from its mother’s nest.

The three of them turned to go up the aisle. Kai waited a few steps away, and Mreen went to him, reaching up to take his hand. Kai looked down at his little daughter with a sad pride. He was not troubled by the faint glow that always surrounded her; it was her silence that disturbed him, although he had stopped asking about it. Mreen was all he had left of Isbel, and now Mreen would leave him, too, very probably never to return. Sira thanked the Spirit that he had Brnwen and Trisa to comfort him.

And Mreen—Mreen would have Conservatory. Sira was surprised to feel a tiny flame of envy flicker in her heart. Despite all that had happened, she still missed it. At her farewell ceremony—how long ago? Three summers?—Magister Mkel had said that every Singer’s true home was Conservatory. Perhaps, she thought, in her deepest heart she believed him.

Pol stepped forward to meet them. His bow was stiff and awkward still, but most definitely a bow. “Congratulations, Cantrix Sira,” he said gruffly, “and Cantor Theo. A fine debut for your student. A fine day for Observatory.”

Theo bowed too, in the elegant way of a big man who is also graceful. “So it is,” he said. “Your Cantoris is multiplying like a softwood grove in the summer, Pol!”

“Just don’t forget that it still needs you, Cantor Theo,” Pol growled.

Theo’s eyes were on Sira as he spoke. “I will not forget.” His eyes were the deep blue of summer, the rare and precious summer when both suns rose to wheel across Nevya’s skies. “This is my home.”

When Theo spoke the word, home, Sira felt a whisper of premonition tickle in her mind. She bit her lip. She knew better than to ignore the call of her Gift. But what could this be, this slight breath of warning? What did it mean? Surely, before summer came, they would both be here again, together. Home.

All the supplies necessary for travel were laid out on the floor and on the long workbench in Observatory’s stables. Morys, the guide, pointed them out to Theo, who handled each one, making sure everything was in good repair and sturdy enough for the long journey. Mreen stood on tiptoe beside him, trying to see what was on the workbench. There were two saddles only, since Mreen would ride behind Theo. The saddlepacks were clean and ready to be filled with grain and dried meat and herbs for the
keftet
. There was an ironwood cooking pot, much dented and black with many summers of use, but whole; and carved ironwood cups, bowls and spoons, three of each. A bundle of softwood, gathered from the slopes of Observatory’s mountain and then dried and cut into lengths for the cookfire, filled the room with a summery fragrance. Yellow-white bedfurs had been neatly rolled and tied. And, at the end of the table, a tiny
caeru
-leather pouch, set aside especially for this journey.

Morys pointed to the pouch. Theo picked it up and poured its contents into his hand.

“We’ve been saving that,” Morys said proudly, as if it had come from his own cupboards. “Not much metal at Observatory, but this should be enough for supplies to get us home.”

Mreen reached out her hand, and Theo dropped one of the bits into her palm. It shone, catching the light, and Mreen gasped.

What is this, Cantor Theo?
she sent with intensity.

It is only a bit of metal, Mreen
, he answered.
It is what I used to be paid, when I was an itinerant Singer. It has been quite some time since I saw any.

She stared at the metal for long moments. As she looked at the metal, her eyes grew glazed and glassy. Theo frowned and stepped closer.

I see . . . I see so many hands
, she sent.
Hands, and then more hands . .
. The light around her dimmed and rippled. Theo touched her shoulder, then knelt beside her. Her small body was tense, her face strained and white. She seemed to be struggling with some idea, some concept, too big for her.

So many hands, and . . . something . . . .

What is it, Mreen?
Theo asked. Her hand, holding the bit of metal, trembled now. Gently, he uncurled her fingers and took the metal away. Her eyes focused again, and her color returned, but her little
quiru
was still faded.

What a strange thing
, she sent to him.
I do not understand what I saw, Cantor Theo!

Theo smiled at her, and she leaned against his shoulder.
I do not know, Mreen. I do not see the pictures as you do.

She stared at him.
But you have been a Singer all your life! Why am I different?

You will have to ask the Spirit that one,
Theo sent, and he chuckled.
I have eight summers, but I have few answers!

Mreen smiled suddenly, making her dimples flash.
You are so old, Cantor Theo!

Indeed
.

What does it feel like to be so old?

Theo laughed aloud.
Like one of those ironwood trees down the mountain,
he told her.
Tall and broad and hard, and like I can see a long way.

Then I am like a softwood tree?

A good comparison. You are certainly soft!
He tousled her red hair, and she giggled without making a sound.

How many summers do I have, Cantor Theo?

Theo got to his feet and looked down at her. He was almost as tall as Sira herself, and Mreen had to tip her head far back to see into his face.

You are an unusual case, Mreen
.
You were born just before the summer, so you already have one, but it hardly counts!

And how long until I have two?

Until the Visitor comes.

How long until the Visitor comes?

One more year. Five years between summers, remember?

I remember that! It is easy! Much easier than remembering how to modulate from
Aiodu
to
Doryu
!

So it is, Mreen, so it is
. Theo turned back to Morys and their preparations. When he chanced to look down again, he saw Mreen’s eyes fixed upon the little leather pouch, and her curiosity was like a fire burning under a cooking pot, bright and hot.

Cantor Theo
, she sent.
Where does the metal come from?

I do not have the answer to that, either.

“I don’t see the point of this,” Pol rasped, but he stood back, holding the door, and Sira bowed slightly and stepped in to his apartment. Theo followed behind, with Mreen at his side.

The room was large, dominated by a long, polished table and a number of chairs arranged around it. Pol ran his House differently from any Magister Sira had known. In his rooms, all sorts of work took place. Cupboards lined the walls, and here and there some unfinished task waited, an open ledger book or a stack of arrows needing furring. Otherwise the apartment was austere and bare. In truth, there were very few objects anywhere at Observatory that were anything but functional. Sira thought of the lovely bits of
obis
-carving she had seen in her travels. Perhaps when Theo returned, he might bring just one example, some small bit of art like those from Soren, where the
obis
-carvers lived and worked. Not for herself alone, but for the House members to appreciate.

The three Singers sat at one end of the table, and Pol, still standing, regarded Mreen intently. She looked back at him with a clear and innocent gaze, the air around her faintly but clearly brighter than the rest of the room.

“Don’t talk, do you?” Pol said abruptly.

Mreen shook her head slowly. Sira saw Theo put his fingers over his lips to hide a smile. “But you want to see our metal?” Pol went on. “Do you understand what it is?”

Mreen shook her head again.

“When we told her of it, she asked to touch it,” Sira said, “to try to understand. In the stables, she held a bit of metal in her hand—”

“Metal generously provided by you for our journey,” Theo put in.

Pol waved his hand rather grandly. “Observatory is proud to send one of our Gifted children to Conservatory.”

Theo grinned. “Even the Glacier itself can change direction,” he murmured.

Pol shot him a hard look. “It will not hurt the Houses of the Continent to be reminded of what we have here,” he said. He stuck out his chin as if he faced the Magister of Lamdon himself. “It has been many summers since the Committee has had real news of Observatory.”

May I see it now?
Mreen sent.

Sira lifted her scarred eyebrow at Pol. “Mreen is ready.” she said. Years before, a lifetime of experience before, as it seemed, she had seen this treasured artifact, once and once only. She had been unable to understand its nature. Pol, of course, believed he understood it perfectly. He was fanatic about it, in fact. Sira resisted such unsupported beliefs. Indeed, despite her years at Observatory, she resisted virtually all of their philosophy, but she admitted to a vague hope that Mreen’s odd ability might dispel this one mystery.

Pol moved deliberately, in the manner of performing a ritual. He walked to a tall cupboard at the end of the room and opened it. It was empty except for one long, slender, heavily wrapped object, which he bore with much care to the table. He laid it on the polished wood and carefully, layer by layer, put back the folds of soft leather.

Sira became aware of Theo’s tension beside her, and realized that he had never seen this. It had perhaps not been laid open to the light since Pol had shown it to her to settle their argument years before.

They had never resolved the argument. Nor were they likely to do so, Sira thought. But she caught her breath again as the smooth, shining surface of the great metal slab was revealed.

Incredible . . .
. Theo’s sending was almost involuntary. He bent far forward, to touch with one finger the black, glazed piece that lay before them. Its markings were strangely carved into it, shining up from below the surface as if from below some thick, dark, but translucent ice. Its edges were uneven, looking almost torn, but smoothly surfaced, as if they had melted away.
I have never seen anything like it. Surely such a large piece cannot be metal!

But what else could it be?
Sira asked. Theo shook his head. Pol stood over the artifact, triumphant in the silence.
He believes it is evidence, proof of their beliefs,
Sira added.
He says it is the reason they Watch.

Mreen left her chair, and came closer to the object. She put her hands on the edge of the table, to lift herself up enough to see clearly. She waited for the space of a heartbeat, then reached out one small hand to lay it on the shining surface of the strange thing. She squeezed her eyes shut. Sira closed her own eyes and followed her.

I am here with you, Mreen
, she sent reassuringly.
Right here.

I am fine, Cantrix Sira. I—

Mreen broke off, and Sira felt as if in herself the trembling of Mreen’s hand on the metal, the waves of sensation that came through her fingers and into her mind. There was an impression of spinning, and of speed, a feeling so intense that Sira gripped the arms of her own chair to keep from falling. Everything around her—around Mreen—was a deep, empty blackness, with pinpoints of light—stars, perhaps?—in strange and unfamiliar patterns. It was profoundly beautiful, spacious and peaceful until, with a suddenness that snatched Sira’s breath from her lungs, terror filled the emptiness, and there was a flood of fear and grief. The speed became a dreadful thing, an overwhelming sensation of falling, of impending impact, as if she had tumbled from the cliff road and were plunging into the chasm below.