Chapter Nine
Shen woke the next morning complaining of a headache. The party could not break camp until Sira had treated him.
“Do whatever it is Grigr used to do,” the Magister growled. His breath was sour with wine, his beard and hair uncombed. Sira pressed her lips together, but she brought out her filla despite her revulsion. He was her magister, but she wondered what Maestro Nikei would think about this use of her Gift. Mike and Alks and Rollie squatted around the camp, while Shen lay on his furs and Sira knelt beside him with her filla.
It was a simple enough thing Sira played, a straightforward melody in the third mode. She directed her psi to relieve the constriction of the tiny channels that carried blood around the body and into the head. For once she added no refinements to her music. Her playing and her healing were unsubtle.
The Magister grunted as the pain eased and the blood flow grew easier. Sira heard him, and gooseflesh rose on her arms. As she put down her filla, she felt the disdainful curl of her lip, but Shen did not notice.
“You’re a handy one, Cantrix,” he said jovially, sitting up and running his fingers through his unkempt hair. “That’s a useful skill!”
Sitting close to him, Sira saw the broken red lines in his cheeks and nose, and knew why his face grew so dark when he was excited. “You should not indulge so much in wine, Magister. Your health will suffer.”
“Hear that, Mike? We should not indulge so much! Ha! We should be like those fancy Cantors, no mating, no wine, no hunting!” Mike joined in his laughter as Sira rose from her kneeling position.
“You should have known my father, Cantrix!” Shen called as she turned her back on him and went to tie on her saddlepack. “He drank twice as much as I do, and never suffered for it!”
Rollie came to help Sira, and whispered across the hruss’s back, “His father never saw twelve summers.” Alks and Mike and Shen were laughing together as they mounted up.
They rode out of camp with the rumps of the hruss draped with bedding furs, wet from melted snow, to allow them to dry in the cold air. Mike and Alks rode ahead, large and stolid as hruss themselves. The Magister followed. Sira and Rollie brought up the rear, their hoods pulled well forward to hold in warmth. Snow fell intermittently all day, frosting their furs with white, freezing on the open bedfurs in lacy patterns. Ogre Pass was cruelly cold, even in daylight. The hruss’s big hooves made little sound as they plodded through the soft powder.
They stopped just before dark to make their second camp. The season was one of long days and short nights, and they had ridden far. They were so close to Lamdon they could see the glow of its quiru on the mountain slope ahead, a distance of about four hours’ ride. The snow-bleached sky and the pale peaks melded into one indistinguishable landscape at this hour, and the circle of Lamdon’s warm light seemed to float in the air, as if suspended above the ground. As their own quiru grew around them, the larger one sparkled vividly beyond and through it like the first star of evening.
Alks’s wine flask had been emptied the night before, and the camp was quiet this night. Sira lay on her furs wondering what Lamdon would be like, and listening to the Magister reminisce with Alks and Mike about their boyhood years. Several stories included Shen’s father, usually with Shen on the receiving end of some rough joke.
Sira thought of her own father, the familiar smell of him when she was tiny, the odors of softwood smoke and snow that clung to his furs. She fell asleep trying to remember his face, and woke in the morning grateful there had been no more night terrors.
It was the following midday when the travelers rode into the great courtyard of the capital House. The hruss’s hooves clattered on clean-swept paving stones, a startling sound after three days of snow-muffled hoofbeats. Sira sat straight in her saddle, trying to see everything at once. Lamdon was even larger than Conservatory, perhaps twice again as big. Its great doors looked as if four people would be required to open them. Its lavish quiru sparkled and gleamed, coruscating in the snowy setting.
Their approach had been noted, and a formal welcoming party was assembled on the broad front steps. Hruss and saddlepacks neatly disappeared into the hands of several Housemen, and a bewildering variety of people were introduced. Sira was grateful when a small man with a merry expression bowed, and seemed ready to take charge of her.
“Greetings, Cantrix,” he said, his voice surprisingly deep for a person of small stature. “I am Cantor Rico. Welcome to Lamdon.”
Sira bowed in return, a deeper bow to honor a senior Cantor. Rico gestured to the enormous doors. “Please come in and meet the other Singers who have gathered. They are all in our senior Cantrix’s apartment at the moment, talking Conservatory, I should think.”
“Thank you, Cantor Rico,” Sira said. The riders were going off toward the back of the House. Magister Shen had been formally received by some Committee official. Sira followed Rico, stumbling once on the steps as she gazed up in wonder at this largest House on the Continent. Its quiru was so warm that people were wearing sleeveless tunics, and no fur at all indoors, not even on their feet. Sira had never seen a sleeveless tunic before. The unaccustomed heat made her feel breathless.
As Rico led her down a long hall, she caught a glimpse of the great room to her left, and the Cantoris to her right. It was much, much larger than any she had ever seen, and she had to tear her eyes away from it in order not to lose sight of Cantor Rico. He led her to the north wing, and down another long corridor to a large apartment.
There were eight Singers for Lamdon’s Cantoris, Sira knew. The senior Cantrix was a person of significant influence, second only on the Continent to the Magister of Conservatory, or so Sira had been taught. The senior Cantrix at Lamdon served as advisor to the Magistral Committee and was also liaison between Conservatory and Lamdon. If a Cantor or Cantrix was recalled, it would be by her order. If one was reassigned, the decision was made jointly by her and Magister Mkel. Such issues were grave responsibilities, matters of life and death, and the shortage of the Gift was their most vital concern.
Cantrix Sharn’s apartment was crowded with at least twenty Singers, of all ages and sizes, and it was absolutely silent.
Cantor Rico, please take Cantrix Sira’s furs for her; she will be so uncomfortably warm.
Sira turned to see a slender white-haired woman of about twelve summers. Rico helped her with her furs, then introduced her. Cantrix Sharn, this is Cantrix Sira v’Bariken.
Sira bowed deeply. Cantrix Sharn, I am to give you my senior’s greetings.
Sharn smiled warmly at Sira. I have greetings for you as well. From your teacher. For a moment, the image of Maestra Lu, created by their joined memories, filled Sira’s mind with an intensity that made her close her eyes.
Sharn waited until the moment passed, then indicated two chairs close together. They sat down, and Sira looked around the room.
The apartment was almost as bare as Sira’s own, though there was more furniture. It looked like a room one could practice in, Sira thought. When she looked back at the senior Cantrix, Sharn was smiling again.
Indeed it is, my dear, and I do it every day, even now.
Sharn gestured to a passing Housewoman, who carried a tray of refreshments. Sira took a piece of dried fruit containing a kind of nut she didn’t recognize, and she sipped thirstily at a cup of tea. Sharn helped herself to a tidbit, and Sira noticed her long, slim fingers. Good hands for the filhata. She hoped she would have the chance to hear Cantrix Sharn play.
Again Sharn heard her idle thought. Actually, Sira, I was hoping you would play for us.
Sira nodded, though the thought caused her a thrill of nerves to run through her.
Rico returned, and stood by her elbow. We are all very curious, Cantrix Sira, to hear how things are at Bariken.
All is well there, I think, Sira responded carefully. She kept her mind as clear of doubts as she could.
And how do you find working for Magister Shen? Rico pressed.
Sira was disconcerted when she realized all the other Singers in the room were listening for her answer. She took a moment to collect herself before she nodded politely to Rico. The Cantoris is a good one, with Cantrix Magret as senior. She is very helpful.
Rico surprised her by chuckling aloud. He patted her shoulder lightly with a small pale hand. A diplomatic answer, friends! Our young colleague should be a great success! There was general friendly laughter, and several Singers sent warm wishes to Sira.
Shr turned to Sharn, uncertain what Rico had meant. Sharn was smiling, too. Do not let Rico’s teasing disturb you. He is searching for crumbs of gossip to offer round at dinner. There was more laughter.
We all knew of your early assignment, offered a middle-aged Cantor. We have been thinking of you.
Sira was touched. She bowed to him, and sent, That is very kind, Cantor. She was relieved when the conversation turned to other topics.
The Singers were especially concerned with the reason for the Magistral Committee’s meeting that had brought so many visitors to Lamdon. The Committee was to discuss the shortage of Cantors and Cantrixes, and in particular the failure of many families to dedicate their Gifted children to Conservatory. Penalties had been proposed.
Magister Shen, Sira thought privately, would have little interest in such a discussion. He was not concerned about Singers or Conservatory, or anything except his own pleasure. It was a disloyal thought, and she shielded it well.
A young Singer of about five summers nodded to Sira from across the room. She recognized him. He had been a third-level student when she was in her second level. She basked in the glow of their mutual history. When Sharn’s attention returned to her, Sira sent, I would like to send a message to Maestra Lu.
Yes, you should do that.
I have no metal at all. Will it matter?
Sharn shook her head. I will see to it for you. Now, I will tell you all the news I have from Conservatory, and you tell me all about Magret, and anything else interesting!
In Sira’s guest room there were several nursery flowers gathered into a little stone vase. At Conservatory, herbs were grown, but no flowers. Bariken grew flowers, but they were for scenting cakes of soap or sweetening bath water. Using them strictly for decoration seemed an extravagance worthy only of Lamdon.
After a brief bath in the enormous ubanyix, Sira rested, waiting for the evening, and thought about Cantix Sharn. The older woman’s charm had drawn more from Sira than she had offered to anyone in a long time. Still, Sira had been careful. For all their strangeness, Magister Shen and Rhia were her employers, and she did not wish to be disloyal. She had told the senior Cantrix about Shen’s drinking and her treatment of its aftermath, however.
Sharn had not seemed surprised. We were not really trained for that, were we, my dear? she sent, then gracefully turned their conversation to lighter subjects.
Sira drew her spare tunic over her face to shut out the brilliance of Lamdon’s light, hoping to sleep for a little while. In a short time, she would observe the quirunha, and this evening there would be a concert given by Lamdon’s own Singers. She was part of it all, one of them, the Singers of Nevya. How satisfying it all was! She wished Rhia and Wil and Trude could have seen her in private conversation with the senior Cantrix of Lamdon. They could hardly laugh at her then.
The quirunha at Lamdon was elegant and polished. Cantrix Sharn presided. A Cantrix named Becca led, with a fluting soprano and small, quick fingers on the filhata. Two Cantors assisted her, one of them particularly skilled in the use of harmonics, pressing his fingers lightly against the strings of the filhata to make sympathetic overtones ring out an octave and more above the melody. The walls and ceiling of the Cantoris resounded until the room itself became a musical instrument. The Cantoris had such a live acoustic, in truth, that without the audience’s presence to soak up some of the vibrations, it might have been overwhelming.
Cantor Rico, escorting Sira to the Cantoris, noticed the flush on her cheeks, and assured her someone would lend her cooler clothes. It is our little conceit, he sent. Abundant warmth.
But now Sira floated on the tide of music and psi, sitting as straight as if she were on the dais herself. She forgot how warm she was. She thought of nothing but music for the space of the quirunha. Her fingers lifted and danced in her lap, following Becca’s leads.
When the prayer had been said and the quirunha was complete, Sira sent to Cantrix Sharn, Everything was beautiful.
Sharn smiled. Thank you. I have an idea that a compliment from you is an honor.
Sira blushed, hoping she had not been effusive. She had been sincere. Indeed, she was always sincere, and that could be considered a fault. She could only hope these sophisticates would not find her naive.
Rico, true to his promise, sent a Housewoman to Sira’s room with a cooler tunic. The Housewoman held it out to her, a lovely thing, deep brown, embroidered in green and yellow thread. It had no sleeves.
“I am not sure I can wear this,” Sira said.
The Housewoman tilted her head to one side, regarding her. “Oh, yes, Cantrix, I think it will be fine. May I help you?” She waited for Sira’s nod of permission before reaching out to help her remove her heavy tunic and replace it with the lighter one. She smoothed it down over Sira’s trousers. “I’m sorry we have no cooler leggings for you. Your legs are so very long.”
Sira looked down at herself. “I know.”
“No matter.” The Housewoman pulled a brush from her pocket, waiting again for Sira’s consent before she began to brush and rebind her hair. Having someone else dress her hair felt as strange to Sira as wearing a sleeveless tunic. Her bare arms made her self-conscious, and she kept them pressed to her sides.
The Housewoman bowed deeply when she left. Sira stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, not sure what would happen next. It was a relief when Cantor Rico came to fetch her.
The meal in Lamdon’s great room was a wonder of fresh vegetables and abundant grain in a keftet also dotted with spiced fruit. Afterward, everyone gathered in the Cantoris for the formal recital. All of the Magistral Committee were there, along with many of the House members. The Cantoris was full. Even for Lamdon, it seemed, this was an event of note.
She was enchanted. She sat on a bench between Rico and a Cantrix from Tarus. The audience preened itself. Sira noticed people looking at her and whispering to each other. She lifted her head, pretending not to see. It would seem everyone knew who she was, the youngest full Cantrix on the Continent, and she didn’t mind that at all.
When the music began, Sira was ready to immerse herself in it, as she had done in the quirunha. But with an ear meticulously trained by Maestra Lu, she found there were faults. Surely that cadence was a little rushed, and one of Lamdon’s Cantrixes had a tendency to sharp on rising melodic lines. The harmonies were not particularly inventive, either. After the concert, her compliments to the performers were modest. Fortunately, no one seemed to notice. Other members of the audience were generous in their praise.
During the refreshment period afterward, Sharn joined her. “How did you like the music?” Sira had noticed that Sharn usually spoke aloud when non-Singers were present.
“I enjoyed it very much,” Sira said truthfully.
Sharn’s smile told her that the senior Cantrix understood. “Yes,” she said blandly. “There were some nice moments.” And then, “I would be very pleased if you would play for us while you are here.”
A fresh thrill of nerves tingled beneath Sira’s borrowed, embroidered tunic. She bowed politely. “I will if you would like me to, of course, Cantrix.”
“May I lend you my filhata?”
“Thank you. I am sure I will play better on your instrument than on my own.”
Sharn nodded approval of this formal courtesy. “Perhaps after the evening meal tomorrow. Will that suit you?”
Sira murmured assent, glad of the day to practice. Sharn signaled to a Housewoman, and took from her a filhata beautifully wrapped in a piece of Perl’s best fabric. Sira accepted it from her hands with another bow. “Would it be rude of me to excuse myself now?”
Sharn shook her head. “Of course not. I am sure you are tired. Let me call Rico.”
Sira allowed her to do that, not sure she could have found her way back alone. She did not correct Sharn, but she felt sure Sharn knew it was not fatigue that sent her to her room. She wanted to play.
She cradled the borrowed filhata under her arm as she walked next to Rico, trying to listen to his social chatter. The instrument felt warm and heavy and full of history, and she could hardly wait to feel its strings under her fingers.
Sira had no appetite for the delicacies offered at the evening meal the next night. She had not felt so nervous since her very first quirunha. She let the feeling flow over her, experiencing the quiver in her stomach and the tremble of her fingers. It was better to allow the nerves to have their moment than to pretend they didn’t exist. Cantor Rico smiled in understanding.
Cantrix Sharn had invited all the Singers in the House, except the itinerants, to her apartment after dinner. There were more than thirty of them. When they had all been served a cup of tea, Sharn beckoned to her.
Sira paced the length of the room, already concentrating on the music she had in mind, oblivious to the faces that smiled at her as she passed. She did her best to carry herself with poise. She tried to forget that she felt too tall and too young. She felt the critical eye of her former schoolmate, and was aware of a tingle of resentment coming from him, but she was accustomed to this. It was so familiar a feeling as to be almost comforting. She thrust it aside as she always had; she could not help others being envious. She must think only of the music.
Her anxiety disappeared as if it had never been the moment she took up the filhata. She sat quietly for a long moment, shaping the first phrase in her mind, breathing in its mood and the attitude of her listeners, and then she began.
It was a piece she knew very, very well. She had studied and polished it with Maestra Lu herself. It began slowly, with an instrumental line. When the voice entered, the meter changed, then changed again, without marring the fluid legato. She had chosen a nostalgic text, and its appropriateness for this audience was in itself a triumph:
SING THE LIGHT,
SING THE WARMTH,
RECEIVE AND BECOME THE GIFT, O SINGERS.
THE WARMTH AND THE LIGHT ARE IN YOU.
Her dark, even voice rose and fell, embellishing and modifying the melody. Three times she sang the verse, and the music was different, deeper, broader, with each repetition. She ended with a recapitulation of all of the motives of the music in a graceful coda. When she finished, there was a long silence, which she extended by keeping her gaze down, her hand flat on the strings. When she looked up at last, she saw several Singers with glistening eyes. One gray-haired Cantor covered his face with his hand.
Sharn rose and came to her, holding out both her hands. Thank you, Cantrix Sira, she sent, her eyes glowing. Each of her many summers seemed imprinted on her face at that moment. I think I may speak for all of us. If you are representative of the students coming out of Conservatory in these difficult times, we are all honored. Bariken is most fortunate in their newest Cantrix.
Sira kept her face as still as she could, tempering her elation, but she knew it had gone well. She bowed to Sharn, and handed back the filhata with careful thanks. There was a wave of approbation from the company, and she bowed to them all.
It was only later that Sira had time to wonder why, as the Cantors and Cantrixes clustered around her, Sharn’s smile faded as she resumed her seat. Her mouth set in hard lines and her eyes were distant. She looked angry.
In celebration of their time together, the Cantors and Cantrixes retired to bathe before beginning their journeys home. In the ubanyix, Sira marveled at the Singer energies it must take to keep the water warm. Forty people could recline in this tub at one time, though now there were just eight Cantrixes. Sira folded her long form on the bench next to Sharn, tucking her legs under her. Dried flowers floated on the water that lapped gently about her shoulders.
Sharn opened her mind. Sira, I must tell you of our concerns about your assignment.
Sira watched her, wide-eyed.
We at Lamdon feel that something political may be happening at Bariken.
Sira shook her head slightly. I have heard nothing, Cantrix.
I know Rhia, Sharn went on. I have sensed her desire to rule Bariken.
She already does in many ways, Sira ventured.
Sharn nodded. Yes. So I understand. But I believe she does not find it satisfying. She leaned back against the side of the tub and closed her eyes. She wants to be Magistrix.
Sira gazed into the gently rolling clouds of steam that floated from the surface of the water to the ironwood ceiling high above. Sharn had broken their psi connection, but Sira understood what she had been told. Sharn had trespassed on Rhia’s thoughts. Sira could guess that Rhia had accompanied Shen to Lamdon on some occasion, bringing her into Sharn’s range. Perhaps Sharn had even done so under instruction from her own Magister.
Sharn was warning Sira, and Sira had already had a warning from her own instinctive mind. Should she tell Sharn of her dream? But what could it mean? And how, Sira wondered finally, could any of these circumstances be a threat to her, a Singer?
Sharn’s eyes were still closed, her lashes as pale and delicate as the rest of her body. She sent, very faintly, Your first responsibility is to protect yourself, whatever happens. Nevya needs its Singers. It is possible for some to forget that.
Sira felt a sudden chill, and she rubbed her cold shoulders.
Come, Sira you are getting cold. Let us get something hot to drink. As if their enigmatic conversation had never taken place, Sharn led Sira to the stack of linens, and they dried and dressed themselves.
Later, as they said good night, Sharn appeared as serene as always. Sira moved away from her down the hall, tired after an exciting day, preoccupied. She didn’t mean to listen to Sharn’s private thoughts, but she caught the echo of them as she turned toward her room. Sharn was regretting the need for a Singer so young to bear the burdens of a troubled world.