Chapter Eight
The softwood shoots sprang up in abundance during the weeks of summer, their tender green needles flourishing under the light of the twin suns. The ironwood trees, thick and dark, looked heavy and ancient among them.
Now the summer was fading. The faraway disc of the Visitor dropped lower and lower toward the southern horizon, and the air cooled sharply. The steady trickle of summer guests dwindled, and itinerant Singers began to offer their services to those who had stayed late, to ensure their safe journeys home.
It was on one of these last summer days that the Housekeeper Wil bowed to Sira after the quirunha and asked her to come to the Magister’s apartments. “Rhia wishes to see you, Cantrix,” he said, adding with a deprecating smile, “at your convenience, of course.”
Sira nodded, though she doubted her convenience had little to do with the summons. She followed the Housekeeper out of the Cantoris. They were both tall and slender, and they drew many glances as they walked through the corridors. Sira tried to look oblivious, but for once she felt graceful, not awkward, in her great height.
Rhia was waiting for them with tea and a tray of refreshments. Trude was also present, sitting near the window and selecting tidbits from the tray with her plump hand in the manner of one long familiar with her surroundings. It was odd to see the two women together. What a strange relationship they had: Trude, the former Cantrix, mother of the Magister’s son; and Rhia, childless mate of the Magister.
Rhia bowed nicely, and Sira’s answering bow was polite but deliberately shallow. The flash in Rhia’s eyes showed she understood. Still, her attitude remained courteous.
“I won’t keep you long, Cantrix,” Rhia said. “I want to discuss something with you.” She gestured to the refreshments, but Sira shook her head. The Housekeeper stood behind Rhia’s chair, and Sira, watching the older woman sink elegantly into her seat, felt suddenly and distressingly gauche. Rhia’s dark tunic and trousers were simple, but impeccably draped. Sira tried to unobtrusively smooth her own plain tunic. She stopped when she saw Wil’s slight smile. She dropped her hands and composed her face, deciding not to look at him again.
“The Magister will be making a trip to the capital, to Lamdon,” Rhia was saying. “There is to be a meeting of the Magistral Committee. I—that is, we would like you to accompany him. It will be a three-day ride, and he needs a Singer.”
With Trude so close, Sira kept her thoughts low. She could indulge in excitement later. But Lamdon! Lamdon, with its eight Cantors, and people coming to the Cantoris from all over the Continent! She was so delighted she almost forgot an important question. When it occurred to her, her spirits sank as quickly as they had risen.
She blurted, “Why me?”
Rhia smiled, and reached for her teacup. “We would prefer Cantrix Magret to stay here, to sustain the House quiru. Now that Cantor Grigr has retired, we are again shorthanded. Naturally, Cantrix Magret has managed it alone many times. We feel there is less risk that way.”
She did not mention the possibility of hiring an itinerant Singer, and Sira did not want to bring it up. Perhaps they felt an itinerant was not adequate protection for the Magister. Knowing Trude was watching from the window, Sira hid her elation. She felt like a child hiding a sweet.
“In that case,” she said rather stiffly, “I will be happy to travel with the Magister.”
Rhia nodded. “Good.” Her smile was gracious. Sira could hardly reconcile this charming woman with the furious one who had insulted her in the courtyard not many days before. “Thank you, Cantrix. You leave in a week, then, and you’ll be gone eight days. The Magister only expects to stay at Lamdon two nights.”
Sira nodded. Rhia rose, signaling the end of the discussion. Wil and Trude stayed behind as Sira paced back to her own small room, her step and her heart light with anticipation.
Magret found her later in the ubanyix, lazing in the warm, scented water.
“Well, Sira, this is unusual for you, is it not?” Magret smiled at her junior as she hung up her tunic. “Is the water hot enough?”
“It is fine, Cantrix,” Sira said, returning Magret’s smile. Magret eased herself into the warm water with a pleasurable sigh. There were only two other women in the ironwood tub, washing each other’s hair at the far end.
Magret reached for the soap in its carved niche. “What did the Housekeeper want?”
“Rhia wanted to see me.” Sira tried to speak casually. “They want me to go to Lamdon with Magister Shen.”
Magret dropped her eyes. Sira feared she was upset, or perhaps resentful. She opened her mind, hoping for some sharing of Magret’s inner thoughts. She was relieved to feel neither anger nor envy, only a brief moment of concern before her senior shielded her mind.
Sira said in a rush, “It should have been you, should it not? So I said to Rhia.”
The lines around Magret’s mouth deepened. “Perhaps. In another case it might have been I. More likely, they would have hired an itinerant. Perhaps because of your youth . . .” She sighed. “Perhaps they hope the journey will give you experience.”
Sira understood Magret did not believe this. There was something else. She waited for an explanation, but Magret only shook her head. “I do not know, Sira. I do not know what might be in Rhia’s mind.” She glanced at the other women in the ubanyix. “I beg you to be cautious.”
Sira nodded. “I will, Cantrix. Although I do not know what to be cautious about.”
Magret’s chuckle sounded weary. “I do not usually hear any doubts from you. And I cannot tell you exactly what to be on guard against. Perhaps—just be aware of everything.
“You will meet Cantrix Sharn, senior at Lamdon. She is a wonderful Singer, and an old friend. You can give her my regards. And enjoy yourself!”
“I will.” Sira stretched her long arms above her head in joy, pushing away any doubts that might cloud her pleasure. Lamdon! It was a dream come true.
When the day came, the sight of her old friend Rollie in the traveling party added to Sira’s delight. The rider, her tanned face swathed in the yellow-white fur of her hood, came forward to secure Sira’s furs and saddlepacks and to help her mount. Patting the hruss’s heavy neck, she winked at Sira. “So here we go again, young Cantrix!”
Sira grinned. “I am so glad to see you, Rollie.”
A great adventure lay ahead, and here was Rollie to share it. Not even the Magister’s gruff presence could darken Sira’s mood. And unless he chose to freeze to death, he would have to hear her sing, something he had not done in all the months of her sojourn in his House.
The last halfhearted days of summer were a week past. The Visitor had dropped below the southern skyline, and the travelers were in full cold-weather gear. It was a small traveling party, with only two other riders besides Rollie. Big-shouldered men, looking even larger in their furs, rode at the head of the group.
“Alks is the one on your left, Cantrix,” Rollie whispered. “Mike is the other one.” She gave Sira a conspiratorial smile. “Not too sociable, you’ll find.”
Sira loved the feel of the saddle, though she knew that after all these months she would be saddle-sore once again. The cold air was exhilarating, and the prospect of Lamdon filled her with energy. Having Rollie to ride beside her made everything perfect. There would be news of Maestra Lu, also. Lamdon had everything. Sira hummed a little tune as she rode.
As the day wore on and the party climbed steadily upward into the Mariks, snow began to fall. The Magister, boisterously cheerful and clearly in his element here in the mountains, told Alks to make camp as soon as they dropped into Ogre Pass. Sira caught a snowflake on her tongue, then blushed when she realized what she had done. Rollie chuckled, and Sira did, too. She supposed, just for the moment, she could forget the dignity of the Cantoris.
Ogre Pass was in itself exciting to Sira. She had never traveled through it before. In fact, she had never been further north than Bariken. A wide canyon with steep, wooded sides and a flat floor, Ogre Pass wound through the Mariks, south to north. Lamdon and Isenhope were at the northern end. Its southern mouth opened to the Houses on the Frozen Sea. There were no Houses to the east unless, as legend had it in one of Isbel’s songs, the Watchers had a House there. Sira looked eastward to the fierce jagged peaks on the horizon, and doubted anyone could build a House in that terrain.
Alks chose a campsite in a hollow between stands of immense irontrees. Conscious of the Magister listening, Sira created her warmest and swiftest quiru that evening. As the melody in the second mode wafted from her filla, the envelope of warm, brilliant air sprang up around them, as tall and bright as she could make it. Shen gave no sign that he noticed.
Drifts of snowflakes tumbled past the quiru as Rollie and Mike built a cooking fire with softwood from their packs. Everyone’s furs sparkled with tiny, transitory jewels as the snowflakes, dropping through the light, quickly melted. Alks and the Magister were already seated on their bedrolls. Alks pulled a big leather flask from his saddlepack.
Sira saw Rollie roll her eyes at Mike, and she wondered why. But when the hot food and tea were ready, she soon learned that the Magister was more interested in the flask than the food. His face began to flush the dark red she had seen once before.
“Never mind, Cantrix,” Rollie muttered from her place next to Sira. “Alks knows how to handle him. They’ve traveled together many times.”
Mike leaned back against his bedroll, eating in silence. Alks and Shen handed the flask back and forth between them. Rollie finished her meal, and rose. “Magister, more keftet?”
She bent to take his half-empty bowl, and Shen grinned up at her, seizing her legging with his free hand. “You’ve got something I’d like better, Rollie!” He and the other men roared with laughter. Rollie frowned at them, pulling her leg free and nodding pointedly in Sira’s direction.
“Oh, I know,” Shen laughed. “Our very young Cantrix! Too young for my jokes, you think, Alks?” He took another pull on the flask, then held it out to Sira. “Want some? I’ll swear by the Six Stars you never had this at Conservatory!”
Sira had no idea how to respond. She hid her confusion behind a frozen countenance.
Shen bridled. “Too high and mighty? Well—you’re my Singer, aren’t you? Sing, then!”
Sira turned her head to look at Shen. She thought of refusing him. She thought of spilling his wine flask with a burst of careless psi, or tweaking an ember from the fire to land on his boot. Instead, she reached inside her tunic and drew out her filla. Her long fingers caressed its smooth surface even as she kept her gaze on Shen’s face, and she put it to her lips. She turned her eyes away from him only when she began to play.
It was not the way Sira had pictured her first performance for her Magister. In the haven of her quiru, with the snow drifting down around them, she played the merriest tune she could think of, a jaunty fifth-mode melody with a dance rhythm. After the first statement of the tune, she toyed with it. She embellished and modified it into something that fit the mountain campsite with its fluttery curtains of falling snow.
Then, in the middle of the music, Shen abruptly rose and went outside the quiru to relieve himself. He didn’t go far. Alks followed, and Sira, hearing the repulsive sounds they made, stopped playing.
Rollie swore under her breath. Mike kept his face averted, gazing down at the snow slowly melting under his bed of furs. Where Shen had been sitting, the flask lay flat and empty.
Shen reeled back into the quiru a few moments later, brushing roughly past the hruss, who huffed and stamped nervously. “Sing!” he cried loudly. Alks stood behind him, holding his arm as he collapsed, laughing, onto his furs. “You’re my Singer . . . Sing!” He laughed harder, belching, thrusting his booted feet toward the fire.
Sira bowed from her cross-legged position. The more revolting his behavior, the stronger was her sense that she must maintain absolute control of herself. There was a feeling of sympathy around her, and she wondered why. Surely no one could think the behavior of a boor like Shen could hurt her. But then, they could not know.
Sira let her filla rest on her knee, and she began to sing. She did not trouble to disguise the lullaby, one she had learned as a child at Conservatory, and had sung to the little ones as she tucked them into bed. It was a lullaby to soothe the hearts of children weeping for their mothers.
Her voice, so dark and even, rolled over her audience. Rollie’s weathered face relaxed, her frown smoothed away. Both Mike and Alks sat still and silent, watching, listening.
Sira wove a sleep cantrip into her song, delicately and accurately directing it at Shen.
LITTLE ONE, LOST ONE,
SLEEPY ONE, SMALL ONE,
PILLOW YOUR HEAD,
DREAM OF THE STARS,
AND THE SHIP THAT CARRIES YOU HOME.
LITTLE ONE, SWEET ONE,
DROWSY ONE, LOST ONE,
THE NIGHT IS LONG,
THE SNOW IS COLD,
BUT THE SHIP WILL CARRY YOU HOME.
Shen’s eyes grew heavy and his face slack. He nodded quickly into snoring sleep, still sitting fully dressed on his bedfurs.
Sira concluded her song. Alks rolled himself into his furs and turned away from the fire. But Mike watched Sira, his face set as if to resist her, as if it were he she had tried to sing into sleep. It seemed an odd reaction.
Rollie smiled and shook her head, eyes wet with emotion. “Beautiful, Cantrix,” she whispered. “We’ll have peace now. And he’ll never figure out what hit him. Tomorrow I’ll ask you for ‘Rollie’s Tune’.”
“Thank you, Rollie,” Sira said. “I will be glad to play it for you.”
In the quiet, Rollie murmured, “I knew you would do well at Bariken, Cantrix.”
Sira laughed a little. “I am not so sure I have, Rollie. Rhia is not fond of me.”
Rollie glanced at Mike, but he, like Alks, had rolled into his bedfurs and turned his face away. “Rhia’s a disappointed woman,” Rollie said softly. “I came with her when she was mated to the Magister. She grew up thinking she would be Magistrix at Tarus, but a younger brother was born when she already had three summers.”
“Were you born at Tarus, then, Rollie?”
The rider nodded. “It’s very different on the coast. Sometimes whole islands of ice appear overnight. Once one crashed against the cliffs when we were sleeping, and we thought the House was coming down around us.” She shrugged. “Bariken’s been a big change, but after three summers, I’m used to it.”
Their talk dwindled, and Rollie began to yawn. She said good night, and went to bank the fire. Sira crept into her bedfurs. Rollie covered the Magister, then she, too, lay down. As Sira closed her eyes the irontrees creaked, groaning in the deepening cold.
Just before dawn, Sira woke from a vivid dream of being trapped under an icy cliff, with icicles sharp as knives crashing around her. It left her with an overwhelming sense of dread. A warning, she thought. I have had a warning, but of what?
She sat up quickly to assure herself the quiru was holding. It shimmered securely about all of them, undisturbed by any wind. It would stand for hours after they had moved on in the morning. The silent snow continued to fall.
Uneasily, Sira lay down again. She knew the dreams of a Singer were never to be ignored. There was danger somewhere, of some kind. She pondered it, but without success. Eventually the fatigue of her long ride in the fresh air stole over her, and she slept again as the night faded slowly into an icy dawn.
Maestra Lu, six days’ ride to the southwest, could not capture sleep again at all that night. Awakened by the same alarm as Sira, she lay on her cot at Conservatory, trying to fathom what danger hung over her protégée.