The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I’ll manage.” Anna took a slightly deeper breath and, holding the right-hand railing, also lacquered in blue, pulled herself up and into the carriage. As she sat down, more heavily than she intended, she could almost feel the carriage flex.

  Brill stepped up into the carriage and closed the lacquered metal door, sealing the heat in with them. He sat on the side seat opposite Anna, his back to the driver. Without explaining, he hummed for an instant, then sang:

  “Cool this space and chill the air;

  keep us healthy, fresh, and fair …”

  When the sorcerer finished, the heat receded, almost as though the carriage were air-conditioned. He wiped his forehead, and took a deep breath. “That will not last long, but long enough for us to reach my hall. It is a far more suitable place for a lady such as you.” The brown-flecked eyes twinkled as the balding man boldly studied Anna.

  Anna again caught the humorous overtones in the words. “And why might that be, Lord Brill?”

  Brill made a gesture toward the small carriage windows whose perfect glass revealed the sunbaked and cracked ground, the yellow-tinged oak tree at the end of the cottage and the two figures on the porch.

  “Is it not obvious?”

  Anna nodded slowly, but ever since leaving Avery—and before—she had come to distrust the obvious, especially when someone pointed it out.

  “You offer a gesture of agreement, Lady Anna, but not one that is more than perfunctory.”

  “I guess I’m inclined to reserve judgment on many things until I’m more familiar with your world.”

  “Is that why you did not ride off with young Daffyd?” Brill laughed softly. “I do not read thoughts, but he was angry. He wrote the spell that summoned you, and taught it to Jenny, obviously. She is a rote-sorceress, adequate but without much inspiration. Still, it is enough to gain her a house as a woman alone, and that is much in these days. He is talented, but his voice is not good enough to hold spells. His playing is far better than his father’s, and he doesn’t hum that distracting monotone the way Culain did. Young Daffyd still does not understand how often or how deeply his father has jeopardized me. Or how much he jeopardized you.”

  “You turned him into dust for humming?” asked Anna, her voice as emotionless as she could make it.

  “What else could I do? He kept getting worse, and, if I let him go, he’d have been picked up by the dark ones in days, and they’d have the fruits of my works to use against Defalk.”

  Anna’s eyes flicked from the earnest-sounding sorcerer to the windows at the change in the sound of the carriage team’s hoofs. The carriage was headed down a stone-paved street, with a handful of buildings on either side, but both pavement and buildings passed quickly, and the carriage seemed headed away from the town.

  “Here, unlike your world, Lady Anna, sorcery is a dangerous business. The slightest improper inflection, the wrong thought-image of a word, or any distraction can cause a spell to fail—or to have unintended consequences.”

  Anna frowned. Hadn’t Daffyd said that spells either worked or failed? Was Brill lying? The inside of the carriage was getting warmer, and she wanted to rub her forehead.

  “You understand, I see. But young Daffyd does not.” Brill sighed. “I can only hope he will come to understand before it is too late.”

  Anna pursed her lips. None of it made sense. If Brill were so evil, and if he could turn someone into dust, why hadn’t he just turned Daffyd into dust? Or was that because he needed Anna? Was Daffyd what he seemed? But she usually had a good sense of people, and the young man had impressed her as honest—confused, but honest. And what about Daffyd being lucky—or her being lucky? She already had too many questions.

  The carriage started uphill, and the horses’ hoofs clicked once more on stone.

  Anna leaned forward to study the structure. The off-white stone walls were high enough not to be squat, but not high enough to soar either, and the three sides she could see seemed to form a hexagon, with the gate she had glimpsed in Jenny’s mirror centered in the middle section. The walls were not crenelated, and besides the higher towers straddling the gate, there were additional towers—one at each apex of the hexagon. Impressive for something called a hall, she thought.

  The iron-bound gates swung shut behind the carriage with a heavy clunk that sounded as she imagined a prison door would. Anna forced a smile.

  “There,” said the sorcerer with visible relief. “I hope the dark ones didn’t scry you, but, if they did, they won’t know too much.” Brill frowned. “How long were you there in Jenny’s cottage?”

  “Not very long.” It was Anna’s turn to frown. “Why?”

  “It would be better if they didn’t know you were here.”

  “Who? And why?”

  Brill laughed the same amused and soft laugh. “I beg your pardon, Lady Anna. I will explain more when you are refreshed. For now, let me just say that the dark ones would destroy all of Liedwahr, and kill all of its sorcerers, including you and me, in the name of what they call reason. Since you are here, you can help.”

  “Why should I?” Anna’s tone was curious.

  “You could be one of the most powerful sorceresses in Liedwahr, not just Defalk, but you have much to learn,” Brill answered reasonably. “Unless you want to take the risk of dying in fire, you’ll need to learn about Liedwahr. I intend to help you.” The carriage rolled to a gentle stop.

  All Anna could see through the small carriage windows were walls of identical stones, each like marble, each tinted light blue. “I imagine so,” she said sweetly, trying to keep from grinding her teeth.

  “Not for your body, lovely as it appears, but because I would prefer to remain whole and intact, and it will take the power of every sorcerer in Defalk, and all the armsmen Lord Barjim can raise, to stop the dark ones.”

  “Who are the dark ones?”

  “The Dark Monks of Ebra, though their sacred source is in the mountains around Vult.”

  More names that meant nothing, Anna thought.

  “I’ll explain it at dinner,” Brill explained, opening the door, and stepping out. “I imagine you are hungry.” He extended a hand.

  Anna found she didn’t need it, since the carriage had indeed pulled up to what she imagined was a mounting block—or a set of stone steps designed to unload carriages.

  Brill gestured to a diminutive black-haired girl, not even to Anna’s shoulder, who stood in the shadows at the top of the steps by the open oak door. “Florenda, will you escort the lady Anna to the first guest suite?” Brill offered his pleasant smile once more. “We will eat at the first bell.” He turned to Anna. “That will be two glasses before true sunset.”

  Anna guessed that meant something like two hours before sunset, and her eyes flicked toward what she felt was the west, assuming the hazy white sun was in the western sky.

  “You will find some refreshments in your suite, Lady Anna,” Brill added, with another bow. “Until dinner.”

  Florenda bowed. “If you would follow me, lady.”

  Anna wanted to shake her head. The only time she’d ever gotten this kind of bowing and scraping was the time she’d sung the national anthem at the Peach Bowl, and that had been years ago, when Cindy what’s-her-name had canceled less than a day before.

  She grasped her handbag firmly and walked up the half dozen steps to the tall doorway that dwarfed her. Her heels clicked on the hard light-blue stone. Was the entire hall built of the same stone?

  The heat of the day vanished as she stepped into the hall and Florenda closed the doorway. The entry foyer rose nearly three stories, with a glittering brass-and-crystal chandelier centered in the middle of the entry, and perhaps ten feet over her head. The stone floor was comprised of interlocking triangles of black and white, both types of stone polished so smooth that the floor glimmered as though it had been waxed and buffed. The white candles of the chandelier were unlit, and the clear crystal mantels shimmered without a single smudge. Light diffused into the e
ntryway through high translucent skylights—triangular panes of milky blue glass set in the angular trapezoidal cupola that topped the entry foyer.

  Inlaid into the smooth slabs of white stone that comprised the walls were curlicues of polished brass, giving the entry hall a Moorish feel. While the cool was welcome, she had the feeling that in a cold winter, the sorcerer’s hall would be chilly, very chilly. In the entry hall were no woods and no fabrics, just glass and metal and stone.

  Florenda waited as Anna surveyed the area, then said quietly, “The first guest suite is up off the main staircase.”

  “How many guest suites are there?” asked Anna, following the maid through the high arch at the back of the entry hall into another vaulted hall. A stone staircase rose straight before Anna, fully fifteen feet wide. On each side of the open stone-floored area at the foot of the grand staircase was another archway.

  “Five, but none save yours are occupied. That doesn’t count the great lord’s suite.” Florenda lowered her voice. “Few would visit Mencha by choice now, even for comforts like those supplied by Lord Brill.”

  Anna wondered why, if Brill were such a powerful sorcerer, he just didn’t leave the area, since he could clearly build himself a great hall anywhere. She decided to keep the question to herself for the moment.

  “The reception hall is there.” Florenda pointed to the left. “And the grand dining room is there.” She pointed to the right. “Your dinner tonight will be in the salon off the grand dining room.” With that, the maid headed up the stone steps.

  Anna followed more cautiously, her free hand on the stone balustrade, wondering if her heels would slip on the smooth stone, since the steps were neither carpeted nor covered. After reaching the top of the staircase, she faced yet another carved archway that led down a wide hall.

  “This is your key, lady.” Florenda stopped at the first door on the right and offered Anna a shining brass key with an ornately swirled top. The door, framed in golden wood, had eight diamond-shaped panels, each lacquered in dark blue. The keyhole was outlined in the same shining brass.

  “There are gowns and less formal wear in the closets in the wardrobing area, and some should fit you. If you choose to alter some, Lord Brill would not mind.”

  “Thank you.” How was she supposed to alter something? With sorcery?

  Florenda turned the levered door handle and opened the door. “There is also an iron bolt inside. If you need any assistance, you only need summon me with the bellpull.” She bowed again, apparently waiting for Anna to enter the suite.

  Anna reached out and touched the door lever. It moved easily and the door opened inward.

  7

  EAST OF THE SAND PASS, EBRA

  Light seems to bend away from the interior of the tent. Behind the collapsible wooden writing desk is a simple armless stool. On it sits a figure in a pale brown hooded habit. Though his clean-shaven chin is visible in the light that filters in through the tent flap as it moves in the breeze, the remainder of his face is in shadow.

  The figure standing before the writing desk also wears a hooded habit. “Songmaster, Lord Barjim is raising additional defense works to support his forts on Defalk’s side of the Sand Pass.”

  “Much good they will do him.”

  “And a portal to one of the mist worlds has been opened.”

  “Where?” The Songmaster stops writing on the heavy linen-paper scroll.

  “In Defalk.”

  “Defalk? How? A mist portal takes the lyric voice, and none there have the power. Are you sure of this, Brother Burthen?”

  “As sure as we can be. The opening plucked the strings of Erde, and the echoes still whisper on her strings.”

  “Was the portal opened from the mist side?”

  Brother Burthen shook his head. “Discovering it took some time, Songmaster. All we could determine is that a strange blonde woman, in an exotic green gown, went from a cottage in the hamlet of Mencha to Lord Brill’s hall.”

  “A single sorceress will not stop us, even one that has escaped the fires of passage. But how she did …” A shrug follows. “That matters not now.”

  “If she is allied with Brill …”

  “Brill always turns and runs when matters become difficult. Why should this time be any different?”

  “The sorceress might change matters.”

  The hint of a smile crosses the Songmaster’s face, visible only on the unshadowed portion of his mouth. “She would have to be powerful indeed.”

  “His hall is warded,” pointed out Burthen, as if the Songmaster had not smiled at all.

  “Watch it, as you can. We will proceed with the day’s works. Contact the dark chapter in Falcor and see what more they can discover about the portal—and if the woman is a sorceress.”

  “One sorceress cannot prove that great a problem,” suggested Burthen.

  “I would prefer to have no problems.”

  “Yes, Songmaster.”

  The Songmaster continues to write, slowly, on the song scroll before him, long, long after Burthen has left the dimness of the tent.

  8

  Anna stepped into the room—a medieval or Erde-ish version of a presidential suite, more than thirty feet long, and nearly as wide from the door to the windows. On the outside wall, blue-tinted but clear floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panorama of both the walls to Brill’s stronghold, and the cottages and lanes of Mencha downhill and to the north.

  That had to mean that the hall’s walls weren’t that high. Anna frowned, recalling that the hall was on a hilltop. Probably the walls were a lot higher on the outside than the inside.

  The windows were flanked with heavy blue hangings drawn back with thick blue cording. Before the window was an elegant stone table, flanked by a pair of blue-lacquered chairs. The large and high bed was covered with a pale blue spread trimmed in white lace. In the center of the spread was the letter B, in a royal blue.

  On each side of the bed were delicate-appearing stone tables, on each a brass-and-crystal oil lamp.

  “The wardrobing area is through that door,” offered Florenda.

  Anna crossed the room and slipped through the smaller door into a room that contained a raised stone tub that would have fit four of her, a long stone vanity that included a sink, and two walls comprised of open closets half-filled with clothing. Beside the left end of the vanity was a full-length mirror. It showed a bewildered-looking and slightly disheveled singer in a green formal gown, carrying a rumpled raincoat.

  Florenda pointed to a curtained alcove in the outer wall. “The jakes is there.”

  Jakes? The word wasn’t familiar, but Anna understood the idea. There was some form of indoor plumbing, at least for the wealthy, although she certainly was no stranger to an outhouse, not after the summers at Uncle Garven’s Appalachian farm up in the holler beyond Bear Paw.

  “If you need anything,” Florenda repeated, “just use the bellpull in the bedroom or the robing room.” She pointed to a long blue rope beside the stone vanity. Then she bowed. “Unless you have any immediate needs …”

  “No. No. You can go.” Anna just wanted a few minutes to think. Things kept getting more and more confusing. She walked to the door to the corridor, following Florenda. As soon as the maid stepped out, Anna closed the door and threw the iron bolt.

  Wasn’t there something about iron being proof against magic? Or was that a superstition?

  She wandered toward the bed, noting that the frame was beautifully-wrought metal of some sort, again covered with the almost shimmering blue lacquer that seemed everywhere. After laying the coat on the coverlet, gently, she lifted the stiff fabric, noting the stitching wasn’t that much better than her own, and certainly not as good as her mother’s. The bed even felt lumpy, and she frowned again.

  She turned and walked toward the window, still carrying her handbag, looking at the hangings, a sort of velvet, but with a weave that was almost shoddy in comparison to the rest of the room.

  She pulle
d out one of the chairs. Delicate as it looked, it was heavy, as if it were solid iron, and the small cushion on the seat, embroidered with another B, appeared somewhat frayed.

  The brass tray on the table contained a small loaf of bread, what appeared to be slices of dried apple, and a handful of narrow yellow cheese wedges.

  Anna set the green purse on one side of the circular stone table, broke off a corner of the dark bread, and chewed the small morsel. Although slightly tough, the bread offered a good taste, like a cross between pumpernickel and rye. She had another mouthful, then looked at the crystal pitcher and the pair of matching crystal goblets.

  She sniffed the pitcher, but the amber-colored liquid offered a bitter, familiar, but unfamiliar tang, even faintly musty. Gingerly, she poured a small amount into the goblet, and took the smallest of sips.

  “Oooo …” While it might once have passed for wine, the liquid tasted more like vinegar. Anna licked her lips and picked up the clean goblet, carrying it into the robing room.

  There were two levered faucets into the stone tub. Anna picked the left one and turned it. A thin trickle of steaming water flowed out. Hastily she closed the first lever and opened the second. A wider stream of cool water poured from the faucet, and she slipped the goblet under the lukewarm stream for a moment, then turned the lever off.

  Water—but did she dare drink it? She looked at the water in the goblet, thinking about Jenny and the girl’s claim about spelling water. The water looked clean. Still … she wondered.

  She thought about that song Mario used to sing endlessly—he picked it up from an old Frankie Laine album, something about cold, clear, water … .

  “All day I faced the barren waste

  without a taste of cool, clear, water …”

  That wouldn’t do.

  She rummaged through her purse, and finally came up with a stub of a pencil and the envelope that had contained her last paystub. She began to write, not that she was any writer. Avery or Sandy or even Irenia—she shook her head and tightened her lips.