Chapter Fourteen
Theo admired the pale remnants of his quiru in the brilliant morning sun. Look at that, he thought. Still holding, and no one to admire it except three old hruss.
It had been a long night, full of nervous wakings and odd sounds exaggerated by solitude. The wound in his belly ached, and he felt weak as a newborn caeru pup. But he was alive, and he was warm.
He wondered about the young Cantrix, ten years younger than he, alone in the Mariks for at least three nights. Itinerants thought of Conservatory Singers as delicate, protected, their esoteric Gifts nurtured and pampered like nursery flowers. His own career had seasoned him early, but an eighteen-year-old Cantrix . . .
In truth, he didn’t expect to meet Sira v’Conservatory alive.
He tried sitting up, but feeling a fresh wash of blood into his bandages, gave it up after the first attempt. It seemed he would have to lie here, helpless as a babe, until someone came for him. His filla was close at hand, and a flask of water. He couldn’t have eaten even if he had food. There was nothing to do but lie still and wait.
From time to time through the day and then through the second night, Theo played his filla just enough to keep his quiru steady. Deep breaths sent blazing pain through his belly, so he kept his quiru just big enough for himself and the hruss, who crowded close to him. The legs of a corpse stretched inside the envelope of light, with the upper body abandoned to the darkness, made a surreal and chilling sight. As there was nothing Theo could do about it, he tried to remember not to look in that direction.
To pass the time, he tried listening with his mind, searching for the reflex that had responded to Cantrix Sira’s mental call. Something he thought suppressed since childhood had come alive in that moment of need. But now, he heard nothing but the wind stirring the branches of the ironwood trees. He remembered how strict his mother had been about shielding his mind, how many times she had scolded him for hearing her thoughts before she spoke them. She had been convinced–and had convinced him–that hearing others’ thoughts would only drive him mad. But now, dozing on and off, he wondered.
On the second morning, he drifted out of sleep to find hruss and riders emerging from the forest into his clearing. When he was sure he wasn’t dreaming, he grinned crookedly at the welcome sight of Gram, who leaped from his mount and hurried to bend over him.
“Hello, again,” Theo said. His voice was hoarse with disuse. “Back so soon?”
Gram gave a huge smile, gripping his shoulder. “Thank the Spirit! No more lives lost.”
Another man, slight and pale, knelt by Theo, and gently folded back his bedfurs. “I’m Cantor Rico v’Lamdon,” he said. “We were horrified to hear what happened.” He peeled back Gram’s hasty bandages, and scowled at the wound. “You’ve stopped bleeding,” he said. “Though I don’t know how you managed that. But you’ll have to ride in a pukuru.”
“Just so I don’t have to stay here another day,” Theo said. “I’m tired of the view.”
Cantor Rico pulled a square of cloth from his pocket, and began to rebandage Theo’s belly. “You did well, Singer,” he said. Theo knew it was anger that made the Cantor’s voice shake. “You will want to know that Cantrix Sira reached Lamdon safely. She and Jane will meet us on our way.”
“Good news,” said Theo. Then, wearied by the brief conversation, he let his eyes close. He was glad to know the young Cantrix was safe. And now perhaps he could rest for a time.
Rico finished with his bandage, wrapping strips of felt around Theo’s waist to hold it in place. He sat back on his heels then, and played a healing Doryu melody on his filla. Theo’s flesh responded to Rico’s psi with a warm, prickly sensation that left the injured area tingling when it was over. Theo had often healed such wounds in others; it was a strange feeling to be the recipient rather than the giver. Rico finished by playing another melody in the first mode, and Theo promptly fell into a sound sleep.
He woke as they lifted him, bedfurs and all, and laid him in the pukuru, then slept again. When he woke a second time they already were on their way, the pukuru lashed behind one of the hruss. The bone runners glided over the snow with hardly a bump. Rico saw he was awake, and gave him a draught of some herb-flavored drink. He drank, then slept again.
When the party stopped for the night, they unhitched his pukuru, and he woke. The mountain peaks were already disappearing in the folds of night. He was reaching for his filla to call up a quiru when he heard someone else begin to play. He remembered he was not the only Singer in the party. It was a beautiful sound, sweet and clear in the gathering dusk. He listened to the precise intonation, the liquid phrasing, and in his weakened state, tears formed behind his eyelids. He blinked them away as the light swelled around him, a quiru not of his making.
It flared up into the twilight with startling swiftness. He tried to twist his head to see who was playing. Gram saw this, and turned the pukuru, sliding it sideways on the snow so Theo could look into the circle of people around the crackling campfire, and find the Singer.
It was a girl, a tall, lean young woman with a bandage over one eye. She needed no introduction. When she lowered her filla, he regretted the end of her melody.
She felt his gaze, and looked across the fire at him. “I owe you thanks, Singer.” Her voice was deep, and it sounded tired, too old a sound to be coming from such a young person.
“No thanks are necessary, Cantrix Sira,” Theo said. His own voice sounded weak and thready. “I am glad to see you . . . well.” He had been going to say “alive,” but felt it was perhaps not tactful.
“Yes, I am quite well,” she said dryly. Theo understood she was aware of what he had almost said. He grinned at her, and though she did not smile, she nodded acknowledgment.
There was a flash of psi around the circle, drawing Theo’s attention to Cantor Rico’s grim face. Theo supposed he was sending something to Sira. He gritted his teeth in frustration at being unable to follow.
Sira gave no indication that she heard anything. Her lips were set firmly together. The yellow light of the quiru gleamed dully on her bandage, and her face looked sallow, with deep lines etched in the youthful skin.
I am not the only one who needs to heal, Theo thought. But my wound is only of the body.
He was surprised to find his old friend envy supplanted by a wave of pity. He stirred restlessly, trying to ease the pull of his belly wound.
Rico pulled his bedfurs close to the pukuru. “May I help you sleep, Singer?”
Theo hesitated, hating his weakness, then acquiesced. He closed his eyes as Rico began, in an oddly deep voice for such a small man, a short cantrip. It was easy to let the focused psi of the cantrip into his mind, and drop down into sleep, but it made Theo, who had been a Singer on his own for three summers, feel more like a child than the man he had been for so long.
Hours later, with the quiru still strong in the blackness of the night, Theo woke again. He looked about the circle of sleeping forms. Only Sira was sitting up, her bedfurs pulled around her shoulders. She was very still, gazing into the graying embers of the fire.
Sensing Theo’s wakefulness, she glanced across at him. He raised one eyebrow in silent question, not wanting to disturb the other sleepers. Sira gave the slightest shake of her head and turned her eyes back to the fire.
Something fine has been destroyed in this misadventure, Theo thought. Though he had never met this young woman before, and though he could not hear her thoughts, he could feel that something in her had shattered. He doubted she would ever be the same again.
What a pity, he mused, as he began drifting into sleep again. What a waste.