The Singers of Nevya (89 page)

Berk urged his
hruss
forward a step. “I’m Berk, courier for Amric,” he said, letting his gruff voice carry over the snow to reach to the rest of the Lamdon party. “Why don’t you take my respects to your Magister, and we can all make our camp together. I’ve had some experience with Soren myself, and I’d like to hear what’s happening there.”

“But first,” Theo put in, “tell us who else is riding with you. Other Singers? Anyone from Soren?”

The man shook his head. “No one from Soren, that’s for sure, though we tried. Two other Singers besides Cantor Abram, but one’s hurt, pretty badly, they say. He looks all right to me, but he can’t speak, can’t ride.”

It was told matter-of-factly, and the cold horror of it turned Sira’s stomach. She looked ahead to the riders coming on, the litter scraping over rocks and snow behind them.

The rider said, “Strange business, that. All our Cantors look like they’ve seen an
urbear
in their bedfurs. Scared half to death.”

“Do they?” Theo answered. “We will hear the whole story at the cookfire, no doubt.”

The rider nodded assent, and turned his mount, thumping its flanks with his heels until it resumed its heavy-footed trot back toward Magister Gowan. Theo pointed to a broadening of the road that lay between the two parties. “We can make camp there,” he said. “There should be room enough.”

Berk still stared up the road, watching as the rider bowed to Gowan, pointed back at their own troupe, bowed again. “We’ll hear no good news this day,” he said. “But I’d guess we’ve nothing to fear with this lot. It might be best if they know who and what we are. We could use some authority behind us when we settle this little matter.”

The Singers agreed. They followed Theo to the spot he had chosen, and by the time the Lamdon party reached it Zakri had raised a substantial
quiru
and Berk’s cookfire was crackling nicely. They stood in formal ranks to meet Magister Gowan and Cantor Abram. Mreen hid behind Sira and Theo, peeking from behind their legs. Sira sent to Zakri,
I hope this will not be unpleasant. My last encounter with Abram was not even civil.

He laughed under his breath.
Mine was downright offensive. I undid his hair for him.

Theo cast them both a wry glance.
Wonderful
.
He will be so pleased to see you both.

Two Housemen helped Gowan from his
hruss
. It was no easy task to provide him with a dignified descent from the high saddle. His great weight made them grunt and stumble, but soon enough he was standing on his own feet, his furs draping generously around his massive figure. Abram dismounted with slightly less fuss, and both dignitaries came forward on saddle-stiff legs to meet the newcomers.

It was evident immediately that Abram was a changed man. He bowed, and when he straightened, his eyes were shadowed and dull, with deep lines graven around them. Sira doubted the lines came only from the weathering of this journey.

“Cantrix Sira,” he said heavily. “And Cantor Zakri v’Amric. Is this coincidence?”

Their answer was forestalled as a Houseman lugged a chair forward for Magister Gowan and helped him into it, arranging his furs, setting a carved footstool beneath his boots. Gowan eyed their group with eyes reddened by snow glare. His white hair looked oily, and he seemed shrunken, as if his abundant flesh had diminished, leaving his pale skin to lie in limp folds about his neck and chin. He did not speak.

“Cantor Abram,” Sira said, “you will have guessed our purpose in being here. We will explain everything, but first I would like to present to you . . .”

She turned to Theo, ready to introduce him as Cantor for the first time outside Observatory. She saw his eyes crinkle and his lips twitch, ready to grin at Lamdon’s reaction. Her own mood suddenly lightened, and the weight of her worries lifted. So much of her work she had done alone, but now they were together, she and Theo, and that meant they were stronger, more resourceful, more able than either of them could be on their own. Beside her stood her other student, Zakri, young and fine and capable. She was proud of them both, and proud of her work with them. Nothing Abram or Gowan might say could change any of that. Whatever challenge was to come, they would meet it together. She turned back to Abram.

“Cantor Abram, Magister Gowan. This is Cantor Theo v’Observatory. He has served in the Cantoris there these six years.”

Theo bowed. Abram stared at him, then at Sira, saying nothing for a long, painful moment. When he spoke, his plump features barely moved. He said only, “Greetings, Cantor.”

Sira’s scarred eyebrow lifted. She had been prepared for criticism, denial, objections, not this drab acceptance, this colorless acquiescence. The senior Cantor’s confidence, his self-assurance, were gone. She experienced an unwilling surge of sympathy for him, which she pressed down quickly. Surely nothing could be more humiliating to him than pity.

Mreen edged between Sira and Theo then, taking their hands in hers and gazing up at the dark man and the pale fat one. Abram caught sight of her and exclaimed, “In the name of the Spirit! What is this?”

I am Mreen
, the child sent immediately.

Abram frowned deeply at her. Before he could remonstrate, Sira said, “Mreen is a Conservatory student. She sends because she cannot speak.”

“Not at all?” They were Gowan’s first words. “Is she always silent?”

“Always,” Theo said with a chuckle. “A mixed blessing.”

“And that—that light around her?” Gowan demanded. His voice was thin and querulous, and his jowls wavered as he looked from one face to another.

Sira said only, “Mreen’s Gift is intense,” and left them to make of it what they could.

Abram still frowned, but he bent his head to look more closely at Mreen. “How did she come to be this way?”

“She was born so,” Sira answered. “As best we can tell. She has never uttered a sound.”

The senior Cantor straightened and lifted his head. With a hint of his old arrogance, he asked, “Why is the child not with her class then, where she belongs?”

Berk stepped up beside Sira and bowed briefly. “We’d best tell you everything from the beginning,” he said. His shrewd eyes assessed the Lamdon party. “I’d guess you have a story for us as well.”

Once again the animation left Abram’s face. “Indeed,” he sighed. His shoulders bent as he turned away to signal to his Housemen. Zakri sent privately to Sira,
He wants to forget it all.

She flashed him a look.
Suppose you wait for him to tell us about it before you eavesdrop on his private thoughts?
He smirked at her, and she shook her head in exasperation.

There were eight of the Lamdon Housemen, and they worked with speed and efficiency. In moments they transformed the campsite into a creditable simulation of a Magistral apartment, with chairs and stools ranged around a table, cups laid out, and meal preparations begun. Berk, Gowan, and all the Gifted but one had seats facing one another. Mreen climbed into Theo’s lap and sat with one finger between her lips, watching the strangers. The light around her sparkled faintly. Abram moved uncomfortably in his chair as she turned her green gaze on him.

Zakri nodded toward the litter. “Someone is injured,” he observed. The Housemen had laid the litter on a pad of furs near the cookfire. Its occupant was still, his head turned away, eyes staring blankly out into the dusk gathering over the Southern Timberlands.

Sira felt Zakri reach to touch the man’s mind, and then withdraw. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug.

“He was attacked.” Abram’s voice cracked as he spoke. “At Soren.”

Magister Gowan leaned to one side, resting on the arm of his chair as if he had not the strength to support his own weight. His pale eyes flickered from one face to another. “They have no respect for me,” he quavered. “Nor for the Committee. They wouldn’t talk to my courier, and then . . . “

Lamdon’s courier stepped up to the table. He alone looked energized, angered by what they had seen. “Have you been to Soren?” he demanded. “Do you know what they’re doing?”

Zakri’s answer was mild. “We did try to tell you,” he reminded Gowan and Abram.

Gowan’s folds of flesh trembled. “They locked her out,” he whined. “In the cold.”

They looked at him, mystified. “Who?” Theo asked. Gowan ran on without hearing him.

“I sent my Houseman to help her, but then my Singers . . . he was hurting my Singers! What could I do? I told him, I ordered him to stop, to let her come in, but he wouldn’t listen!”

“Who was it?” Zakri asked sharply. “Who did they lock out?”

Abram lifted one shoulder. “I do not know her name . . . a cook, I think.”

Zakri’s face blanched white, then flamed. “Old? Young?” he snapped.

Abram shrugged again. “I have no idea. Have you felt what that man can do?”

“Yes,” Zakri said shortly. His clenched fists were motionless on the table. Flashes of light glinted on his cheeks and hair.

Sira asked, “Will your Cantor recover, do you think?”

Abram shook his head wearily. “I do not know. How did you know he was a Cantor?”

Zakri struck the table a sharp blow with one fist, and the glimmers around him intensified. “We told you! There are no itinerants left outside of Soren!” He took a shuddering breath, and Sira felt his struggle to control his emotions. He was angry, but even more, he was afraid, not for himself, but for someone else. Abram and Gowan stared at him. When he had quelled his outbreak of light, he spoke more quietly. “Cho did the same thing to Cantor Izak. Izak is recovering, at Conservatory.”

Abram’s eyes brightened. “Recovering? Completely recovering?”

“He can talk, and he can walk. But his Gift, no. At least I do not think so. Cantrix Jana and I did all we could.”

“Poor Jana—is she all right? Is she with him?”

“She is fine,” Sira told him. She felt Theo’s wry glance at her. She hesitated, then plunged in. “Cantrix Jana is at Observatory,” she said bluntly.

“What? What?” Abram sputtered. He glared at her, at all of them.

Gowan’s courier broke in, his voice loud, almost frantic. “How is this possible, any of it? You are Conservatory, all of you! How can a mere Carver—a weak Gift, half-trained Gift—how can he have such power over you?”

“What is Cantrix Jana doing at Observatory?” Abram burst out. “She should be—”

Gowan moaned, “Everything is coming apart, I have no control. No one will listen, no one has any respect . . .”

Sira laid a hand on the table, palm down. Everyone fell silent, looking at it, then at her face. She spoke first to the courier, keeping her voice even. “You should never refer to the Gift in that way,” she said. “Mistakes have been made, perhaps in testing Cho’s Gift. But his training has been thorough, and it is exactly that which he is using against us.”

“I do not understand you!” Abram cried. “He has no training!”

Sira glanced at him. “But he does,” she said. “He is trained to guide an
obis
knife with his Gift. It is as precise a skill as raising a
quiru
.”

Zakri said levelly, “It is the perfect weapon against the Gifted. He assaults minds the way he wields an
obis
knife, and you may thank the Spirit for our own training, that makes it possible for us to protect ourselves.”

“But Jana?” Abram asked.

“Cantrix Jana is serving in Observatory’s Cantoris,” Theo said. “It was her choice to—”

“Her choice! Hers? It is my duty to assign Cantrixes!” Cantor Abram’s face grew red, and his eyes shone as if he would weep.

“There was no other way we could be free to come here,” Theo said calmly.

Sira spoke again. “We intend to put an end to this, now. In our own way. We could not wait for Lamdon to make these decisions. People are suffering. We mean no disrespect.”

Gowan whispered, “They locked her out. She sat on the steps and died. Froze to death in the cold, and we had to sit and watch . . .”

Next to Sira, Zakri took a deep, shuddering breath.

“We will do all we can,” Sira said.

The Housemen began setting bowls of fragrant
caeru
stew before them. They laid platters of nutbread and dried fruit in the center of the table, and served wine to Gowan and Berk. There was a spicy brown tea for the Gifted. Sira sat with her chin in her hand, watching the elaborate service.

Might as well enjoy it,
Theo sent to her privately.
Gowan certainly is.

It was true. Only the Magister’s appetite, it seemed, was unaffected by his experience.

More to the point,
she answered Theo,
we will need all our strength.
But still she did not pick up her spoon. She glanced across the fire at the fallen Singer on his litter, and she felt the terrible emptiness where his Gift should have been. She looked at tiny, shining Mreen, perched on Theo’s knee. Both Theo and Mreen met her eyes.

Sira, eat,
Theo commanded.

It is good, Cantrix Sira,
Mreen urged.
Try it.

Sira smiled a little at them, and looked to her left, to Zakri. He joined in, forcing a smile to his own lips.
Eat, Maestra!

She did as she was bid.

Mreen was right. The food was delicious. It was the ugliness of what had happened, and what was yet to come, that spoiled her taste for Lamdon’s riches.

Chapter Twenty-two

Sook was kneeling in the window seat when they rode over the rise above Soren. She saw a tall, lean woman who sat her
hruss
easily, leaning back in her saddle and scanning the House from the crest of the hill. Her
hruss
turned its broad head back and forth, ears working, while the woman stared at Soren as if she could see right through its thick walls and into its troubled heart. Sook cupped her hands against the glass to shut out the glare, and squinted against the light, but she couldn’t make out the woman’s features inside the muffling circle of her
caeru
hood.

It was mid-day, and a tray rested untouched on the table behind Sook. She had heard the bolt secured after Bree left. Cho and his itinerants—and the carvers who had changed allegiance and now were at Cho’s side every moment—had gone to the great room for their meal.