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Authors: Louise Marley
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gardener stepped out between them and bowed deeply to Isbel. She bowed in return.
“We have more fruit trees even than Lamdon.” She pointed to the southeast corner where small trees in raised boxes stood against the outer wall. The kitchens were on the other side of the same wall, so that no breath of the deep cold should penetrate into the gardens and harm the fragile trees or their fruit.
There were benches here and there, and Isbel chose one. They sat, the itinerant keeping a careful distance. “It’s wonderful here,” he said. “I rarely see this part of the Houses I visit.”
“What House are you from?”
“No House.” Sensitive Isbel heard pain in his voice again.
She said gently, “How is that possible, Singer? Who on Nevya has no House?”
He chuckled. “The son of two itinerant Singers has no House.”
“But other itinerant Singers have Houses,” she protested. “I know a story about one, Tarik v’Manrus. Every Nevyan should have a House.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Isbel. But not everyone does.”
“I never knew that.”
“So there are some things they don’t teach you at Conservatory!” Theo laughed. He lifted the thong that held the bit of metal around his neck and showed it to her. It was strangely marked, and she could not read it.
“This belonged to my mother, and her father before that,” he told her. “We come from a line of Singers past remembering. Healers, cutters, itinerants. Perhaps this makes up, in some way, for having no House.”
“I have only seen metal once before,” Isbel said. “Do you earn great amounts of it?”
Theo laughed again. “There is no great amount of it on the whole Continent! I earn enough to keep me supplied. A few bits for each traveler, a few more for healing. It’s enough.”
Isbel felt suddenly weary. She was unused to so much speaking aloud, and the quiet of the nursery gardens made her aware of how late it must be.
Theo seemed to sense her feeling. “It’s very late,” he said quietly. “You should surely be in your bed by now.”
She nodded to him. Evidently his Gift was intact, though apparently he could not send. “You are right, Singer. I must go up.” They rose and walked back through the gardens, down the deserted corridor to the stairwell for the students’ wing.
“Will you wait here at Conservatory for Arn?” Isbel asked before turning to the stairs.
“No. Magister Mkel has arranged a party for me to Arren.”
Isbel’s eyes widened. “So far,” she breathed. “All the way to the Southern Timberlands.”
He grinned at her. His eyes were ice-blue, like a cloudless sky above a snowfield. “It’s my specialty,” he said. “I know the southern Houses better than anyone.”
“Sometime you must tell me about them.” Isbel stifled a yawn with her hand.
He bowed. “With pleasure. Sometime when you’re awake!”
She dimpled, and bowed too. Experimentally, as she started up the steps, she sent, Good night, Singer . But although he waited politely as she climbed the stairs, he made no response.
Chapter Seven
The long-awaited summer was beginning at last. The distant speck of the Visitor, the wandering sun, glimmered above the southern horizon. Children who had never been out of doors in their lives scrambled over each other to peer through the rippled window glass, hoping for a glimpse. The firn began to diminish on the lower slopes of the Mariks, and the snow that seemed eternal now dropped from the trees in large, mushy chunks.
Sira, who had seen only three summers herself, was no less excited than the little ones at the coming season. She came into the great room before Cantoris hours and watched them at the window for a few moments before sitting down to her meal. Several House members bowed to her from a distance.
Sira would have liked to crowd into the window seat with the children to watch the changes outside, but she knew if she did, they would pull back, keep their distance, be careful not to
“We have more fruit trees even than Lamdon.” She pointed to the southeast corner where small trees in raised boxes stood against the outer wall. The kitchens were on the other side of the same wall, so that no breath of the deep cold should penetrate into the gardens and harm the fragile trees or their fruit.
There were benches here and there, and Isbel chose one. They sat, the itinerant keeping a careful distance. “It’s wonderful here,” he said. “I rarely see this part of the Houses I visit.”
“What House are you from?”
“No House.” Sensitive Isbel heard pain in his voice again.
She said gently, “How is that possible, Singer? Who on Nevya has no House?”
He chuckled. “The son of two itinerant Singers has no House.”
“But other itinerant Singers have Houses,” she protested. “I know a story about one, Tarik v’Manrus. Every Nevyan should have a House.”
“Perhaps you’re right, Isbel. But not everyone does.”
“I never knew that.”
“So there are some things they don’t teach you at Conservatory!” Theo laughed. He lifted the thong that held the bit of metal around his neck and showed it to her. It was strangely marked, and she could not read it.
“This belonged to my mother, and her father before that,” he told her. “We come from a line of Singers past remembering. Healers, cutters, itinerants. Perhaps this makes up, in some way, for having no House.”
“I have only seen metal once before,” Isbel said. “Do you earn great amounts of it?”
Theo laughed again. “There is no great amount of it on the whole Continent! I earn enough to keep me supplied. A few bits for each traveler, a few more for healing. It’s enough.”
Isbel felt suddenly weary. She was unused to so much speaking aloud, and the quiet of the nursery gardens made her aware of how late it must be.
Theo seemed to sense her feeling. “It’s very late,” he said quietly. “You should surely be in your bed by now.”
She nodded to him. Evidently his Gift was intact, though apparently he could not send. “You are right, Singer. I must go up.” They rose and walked back through the gardens, down the deserted corridor to the stairwell for the students’ wing.
“Will you wait here at Conservatory for Arn?” Isbel asked before turning to the stairs.
“No. Magister Mkel has arranged a party for me to Arren.”
Isbel’s eyes widened. “So far,” she breathed. “All the way to the Southern Timberlands.”
He grinned at her. His eyes were ice-blue, like a cloudless sky above a snowfield. “It’s my specialty,” he said. “I know the southern Houses better than anyone.”
“Sometime you must tell me about them.” Isbel stifled a yawn with her hand.
He bowed. “With pleasure. Sometime when you’re awake!”
She dimpled, and bowed too. Experimentally, as she started up the steps, she sent, Good night, Singer . But although he waited politely as she climbed the stairs, he made no response.
Chapter Seven
The long-awaited summer was beginning at last. The distant speck of the Visitor, the wandering sun, glimmered above the southern horizon. Children who had never been out of doors in their lives scrambled over each other to peer through the rippled window glass, hoping for a glimpse. The firn began to diminish on the lower slopes of the Mariks, and the snow that seemed eternal now dropped from the trees in large, mushy chunks.
Sira, who had seen only three summers herself, was no less excited than the little ones at the coming season. She came into the great room before Cantoris hours and watched them at the window for a few moments before sitting down to her meal. Several House members bowed to her from a distance.
Sira would have liked to crowd into the window seat with the children to watch the changes outside, but she knew if she did, they would pull back, keep their distance, be careful not to
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