The Singers of Nevya by Louise Marley Page A

Cantrix.”
    “How many summers is that?”
    “It will soon be four.” She met his eyes steadily, and after a moment he turned his gaze away.
    “Well, young Cantrix,” he said. “I need peace in my House. I don’t want these women coming to me with their problems. Listen to Rhia. Don’t cross Trude. That’s all.”
    “Is that all?” Sira said quietly. Her temper rose like a softwood blaze, and the air around her began to glow. He had not met her, had not bothered to hear her sing, and yet he called her here . . . ordered her here, just to scold her! Was she supposed to respect a man like this?
    She put her hands behind her back to hide their clenching. “Do you suggest, Magister, that your mate should supervise your Cantrixes?”
    Shen’s face darkened. “Now, listen,” he began.
    Rhia forestalled his answer, walking gracefully into the room. “Magister,” she said, giving the title an odd, exaggerated inflection that made Sira’s psi tingle. “I didn’t know you had met our young Cantrix.”
    “Trude complained about her,” was his curt answer.
    Sira saw a flash of triumph brighten Rhia’s face, then die away as her fine features resumed their usual icy composure. “Trude interrupted Cantoris hours,” she said smoothly. “I think Cantrix Sira handled the situation very well.”
    “Wouldn’t hurt Magret to go see Denis,” Shen said.
    “Cantrix Magret is senior now,” said Rhia. “Cantrix Sira was perfectly able to take care of Denis.”
    “Denis was not seriously ill,” Sira offered. She had meant it to be a reassuring remark, but she saw with alarm that the Magister’s face flushed a dark red. Dulsy stood watching with her arms folded, eyes bright with enjoyment. Rhia noticed her, too, and waved a dismissive hand. Dulsy obeyed without ceremony, banging the door shut behind her.
    At the sound, Shen’s temper snapped. He smacked his fist against the arm of his chair, and shouted, “By the Six Stars, Rhia! Can’t you keep this women’s business out of my hair?”
    “House business,” Rhia said, her voice low and even. She touched her glossy hair, briefly hiding her eyes with her hand.
    “I’ll take care of House business,” the Magister roared. “Trude, and her boy . . . you take care of them! And these silly Cantrixes!’
    Sira sucked in her breath as if she had been slapped. Her own temper made the air around her glitter with power. She struggled to control it, lest some ornament shatter under its force.
    Shen, oblivious, sprang from his chair, his muscular vitality out of place in the ornate surroundings. He stamped out of the room, and another door banged shut.
    Rhia stood frozen in her graceful posture. Her face was still, but when she lifted her eyes to Sira, they gleamed. “The Magister—” she began, then stopped. Sira watched her take control of her emotion, rein it in as if it were a rebellious hruss .
    Rhia began a second time. “Magister Shen has no patience.”
    Sira’s own temper subsided as she watched the other woman.
    “He has no idea that he insulted you,” Rhia said. “Other things occupy his mind.”
    The atmosphere in the apartment was charged with emotion. Sira felt it like waves of heat and freezing cold. Rhia’s words sounded as if they were meant to protect her mate, and yet beneath them there was something else, some perverse pleasure in the scene Shen had created. Sira’s disappointment at the Magister’s reaction to her was overridden by her wonderment at the strange relationships these people had.
    “You may go now,” Rhia said.
    Sira eyed her, wondering if Rhia realized her curtness was nearly as rude as the Magister’s careless insult. She asked, “And Trude?”
    “I can handle Trude.” Rhia turned away. “You’ll find I am the one who handles it all.”
    Sira folded her hands together, and bowed.
    “I’ll call someone to show you back to your room,” Rhia said.
    “It is not necessary. I know the way.”
    Rhia nodded, and