The Singers of Nevya Read Free

Cantrix,” Rollie said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. “Does it have a name?”
    “I was improvising,” Sira said shyly. “I am glad if you liked it.”
    “It should have a name so we can hear it again.”
    “I will name it, then,” Sira said. A new melody was an important thing, something tangible, with its own meaning. “It is ‘Rollie’s Tune.’”
    Rollie grinned around the circle. “Now, isn’t that a nice thing to happen to an old mountain rider?” Her chuckle was comfortable, and one or two of the others ventured to nod to Sira. It was a moment like those Sira had dreamed of during the long years of her training. She tucked her filla back into her tunic, enjoying the sudden sense of belonging. If this was being a Cantrix, she thought, she would like it. She would like it very much.
    Chapter Two

    servatory. They were as different as they could be, Isbel plump and pretty, with auburn hair and flashing dimples, and Sira tall, thin, and solemn.
    Isbel sought out Maestra Lu after Sira had been gone from Conservatory for three days. She found her in the great room, in a rare moment of idleness, seeking the warmth of the sun as it filtered through the thick green windows.
    “Excuse me, Maestra?” Isbel asked aloud. A student never sent thoughts to a teacher without invitation.
    Maestra Lu did not turn, but she smiled up into the weak sunshine. Good morning, Isbel .
    Isbel bowed. Good morning . Lu indicated a place on the bench next to her, only turning when Isbel sat down.
    The Maestra looked more frail than ever, her pale, papery skin nearly translucent over the sharp bones of her face. Isbel thought her own ruddy, freckled skin seemed extravagantly healthy next to Lu’s. But she kept these thoughts low in her mind, not wishing to offend her teacher.
    Maestra, I was wondering if you are following Sira.
    Lu looked at her sharply. And how could I be following Sira?
    Isbel dimpled, and the Maestra’s lips twitched gently. Maestra, we all know you have the longest reach of anyone. Maybe the longest ever.
    Maestra Lu sighed a little. And how do you all know that?
    We have heard the stories!
    Maestra Lu turned to gaze out the window. For a moment Isbel thought she had forgotten her presence. The look of memory was on the old Singer’s face. Surely Maestra Lu, who had twelve summers, must have many memories. Isbel waited until she turned back to her.
    Sira is fine , Lu sent. That is all I can sense, but it is enough, is it not?
    Isbel nodded, content. She will be a wonderful Cantrix.
    Indeed, I hope so.
    Do you remember her first quirunha?
    Very well.
    Isbel leaned against the cool glass of the great window. The others were jealous.
    Lu raised her eyebrows, though this was hardly a revelation.
    Yes, Isbel went on. It was two years earlier than any of the rest of us could perform the quirunha. They teased her that day at breakfast.
    Tell me about it, Isbel.
    Isbel loved stories, her own or anyone else’s. No one knew more of them, or invented more, than Isbel. Sira had loved to listen to her tales, especially when the two girls lounged together in the ubanyix , floating lazily in the scented warm water. Now Isbel straightened, ready to make a story of Sira’s first quirunha .
    She was only fourteen.
    Maestra Lu nodded. Individual birthdays were put aside when the Gifted children entered Conservatory. Each summer, a class came from the Houses across the Continent, Gifted children of six and seven, sometimes eight, delivered by their families. From then on, they shared the same birthday, the anniversary of their first day.
    In the great room, the students tormented her. One in particular — Isbel looked sideways at her teacher, not wishing to cause trouble for one of her classmates. Lu seemed not to notice.
    One was asking her if she was nervous, going on and on about how the whole House would be there, and listing all the things could go wrong. Sira was trying to eat — you always tell us to eat