Free The Singers of Nevya by Louise Marley Page A

she had felt someone’s touch. “I am not angry with you, Sira,” Magret said. “It has not been so long since I was a junior Cantrix, you remember.”
    “So I do, Cantrix,” Sira said. “And you are generous with me.”
    Magret shook her head, as if that were not important. Sira marveled at the older Singer’s ease with her Gift. She appeared tranquil, content, while in Sira’s own breast the fire of ambition burned hotly. Sira wanted applause; she wanted to be presented in concert, as Maestra Lu so often had been, simply for the sake of her beautiful music. She cared what her listeners thought of her work. Cantrix Magret evidently cared only for the work itself.
    From the first hint of the Visitor’s arrival, the summer came on quickly. In a very few days, Magret’s prediction came true, and the children were playing outside in the courtyard, with a few Housemen and women watching over them, and enjoying the suns on their own faces.
    Sira was lingering over the morning meal, watching the courtyard, when she saw a man she recognized ride up, two long-legged boys on hruss beside him. It was Devid, the man her traveling party had encountered on the last day of her journey to Bariken. The boys were so like him, hair and eyes and build, that she had no doubt they were his sons. She pressed against the casement to watch them, putting her forehead to the cool glass. They all dismounted, and Devid sent the taller boy around back to the stables with the hruss while he and the other boy turned into the entrance.
    After the quirunha that day, Sira saw the younger son once again. He sat in the back of Cantoris, on the bench furthest from the dais. His eyes were intent on the two Cantrixes as they stepped down. Sira tucked her filhata under her arm and strolled toward him.
    He rose as she approached, brown eyes shining up at her in awe.
    “You are Devid’s son?” Sira asked.
    He nodded, and a flood of feeling swept out of him and over Sira as he stammered his compliments. “It was a beautiful quirunha , Cantrix. Wonderful! Your voice—and your melodies— Do you change them? I don’t know that many modes, but—”
    Sira, almost laughing, put up her hand to hush him. His thin cheeks flushed red and he stopped talking, but the tides of emotion did not recede. There was elation, and pleasure, and a spate of longing that was unmistakable.
    “What is your name?”
    “Zakri, Cantrix.” He ran nervous fingers through his brush of brown hair, and made her a clumsy bow.
    “Your father did not mention to me that one of his sons is Gifted.”
    He gaped at her. “Can you tell? How did you know?”
    “Zakri, your thoughts flow out of you like spilled water, going in all directions at once.”
    He blushed again. “I’m sorry, Cantrix! My mother was trying to help me with that—but she died. She was a Singer.” The last he said with youthful pride and sorrow.
    “Yes. I am very sorry about your mother.” Sira looked about her. The Cantoris had emptied. “Zakri, how old are you?”
    “This summer makes three.”
    “But in years, how old?”
    He frowned, concentrating. “I—I think I am twelve.”
    “You should have been at Conservatory long ago!” Sira spoke without thinking, and she knew she had blundered when tears welled in the boy’s eyes. He dropped his head, not answering, and Sira wished her words unspoken.
    Devid’s bulky form appeared behind him. “Zakri, your brother needs your help in the stables.” The boy looked up at his father, and his eyes flashed. Devid stepped back suddenly, holding up a warning hand.
    Zakri took a ragged breath, then bowed stiffly to Sira and rushed out of the Cantoris. It made Sira’s heart ache to watch his thin back as he hurried away. Undisciplined emotions poured from him, even after he was out of her sight.
    She turned to Devid. He bowed, and was on the point of leaving.
    “Your son needs training.” She spoke as a full Cantrix, with the authority of her