The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Which discord, Matriarch?” The black-haired woman at the other long end of the oval ebony table pours her own mulled cider. “Between the Evult, his Songmaster, Lord Brill, and the constant scrying of the Norweians, there have been more than a few incidences of discord.”

  “You could say that,” adds the silver-haired man on the short side of the table. “I’d even call it dissonance.” He adds another pinch of cinnamon to his cup, then twists the end of his silvered handlebar mustache. “Then, there has been more discord since the effects of ill harmony were discovered. Too bad that we could not have the Prophet and the Evult sing together.”

  “Father …” protests Veria.

  “Do not be vulgar, Ulgar,” suggests the Matriarch.

  “Accuracy, my dear, accuracy. Not a silver for vulgarity, but golds for accuracy. Isn’t that what the counting houses say?” He lifts the cup and slurps his cider. “Too hot. Like Defalk.”

  “You make no sense, Father. It is warmer here,” says Veria.

  “The warm damp is good for the bones. The dry heat of Defalk turns you into a mummy.”

  Mother and daughter exchange glances.

  “Counting houses, dissonance, Lord Barjim—it all be linked with the silver chains of harmony,” continues Ulgar.

  “You do not have to be obscure, dear.” The Matriarch adjusts one of the wooden clips that keeps her iron-gray hair neatly in its bun. “We all know the links.”

  “I don’t,” protests Veria.

  Ulgar lifts one silvered eyebrow and looks to his consort.

  “We lent Lord Barjim the golds he requested so that he could buy enough supplies from us to move his forces from Denguic and Falcor to the Sand Pass. He will use his sole sorcerer—”

  “That was it, Mother—Matriarch,” Veria corrects herself and continues. “He has two sorcerers. Or rather, Lord Brill has a sorceress. That was the disharmony. Someone opened a weltsperre—”

  “Call it a ‘worldgate,’ daughter. Pretention does not become you,” suggests Ulgar, putting yet another pinch of spice into his cup.

  “Yes, Father.” The slightest edge tinges her words.

  “Someone opened a worldgate and brought her through. She is blonde, a soprano sorceress, I think.”

  “You think?”

  “Ulgar … let her finish.”

  Veria drops her head, then continues. “The dark ones have set their assassins on her, but they have not reached Mencha.”

  “I said it was all linked,” points out Ulgar.

  The Matriarch smiles, still cherubic. “She must be a strong sorceress to have created such discord.”

  “The scriers do not know her strength, but Eladdrin, the spymistress of the north, and Lord Behlem all use their mirrored waters to watch her.”

  “The better to keep them occupied.”

  “Matriarch?” asks Veria. “What will you tell the others about the shifting of the sands?”

  “What I have said before. Matters balance, and they will again. The Evult has strained the chords of Liedwahr, and they will redress the harmonies, and before too long.”

  “Then why did you agree to lend Barjim two thousand golds? He cannot repay them.”

  Ulgar slurps his tea, and both women wince.

  “Sometimes, one must buy time while the harmonies regroup.” The Matriarch smiles and stands.

  19

  Anna’s fingers struggled with the key-harp as she tried to keep the words of the aria in mind.

  “Donde lieta usci al tuo grido d’amore,

  torna solo Mimi al solitario nido

  Ritorna un’altra volta a intesser finiti

  fior!”

  Paper flowers! Love! All the arias she’d learned were useless! And she didn’t know Italian well enough to make most of them meaningful in the crazy world that was Erde. Or enough German. French she knew better, but she wondered if the French melodies would work that well in a Teutonic-musicked world.

  Anna wanted to scream and crumple the heavy paper up into a ball. Instead, she refilled the goblet with water, and slowly drank it all. Then she stood and walked from the workroom.

  Once in the entry hall, she glanced toward Brill’s workroom, but the door was closed, and Gero was nowhere in sight. She slipped out through the front door, her boots heavy on the stone, and into the mid-afternoon heat.

  “I’m going to ride down to the orchards,” she announced, checking the water bottle fastened to Farinelli’s saddle. She had to keep reminding herself to drink in the dry heat.

  “More than a few folks on the road, lady,” offered Wiltur. “Some even stopped under the trees down there.” “Don’t see them anymore,” added Frideric.

  Anna patted Farinelli on the shoulder, then mounted. It seemed easier, but she’d had some practice over the days. She eased the gelding out of the shade and into the sun, adjusting the floppy-brimmed hat as she did.

  Wiltur glanced at Frideric, then mounted with a fluid grace that Anna envied.

  “Do I really need guards?” Anna asked.

  “You more than most, Lady Anna,” answered Wiltur.

  “You’re beautiful and a sorceress, and that’s enough to have a lot of folks after you.” The guard with the silvered hair and graying stubbly beard smiled, not that the smile improved his appearance much, not with the long scar across his left cheek.

  “You’re kind,” laughed Anna, “but my son’s as old as Frideric.”

  From his position by the dome building’s door, Frideric looked quickly toward her, and then away.

  “You must have been young,” replied Wiltur. “Very young.”

  “Young enough,” Anna said, her fingers going to the truncheon at the left side of her belt, and then to the knife, before she flicked the reins, and Farinelli started down the winding trail toward the orchard below.

  Wiltur edged his mount up beside Anna’s. “Hottest day of the year so far.”

  “It feels that way.”

  “Is it this hot where you come from?”

  “In some places, Wiltur. It’s not as dry.”

  “When I was a young fellow, it wasn’t this way. My folks had a small holding out on the Synope road, ran sheep.” The guard coughed. “My brother Uthor got the place. Thought he was the lucky one. All the grass went, and Falinya died when the heat fever came three years ago. His boy died too. She was a pretty one, Falinya was, and Eber looked like her.”

  “What happened to your brother?”

  “Sold the place for a handful of coppers—no water—and he left to go to Falcor. Been more than a year, and haven’t had any word.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Thought he was the lucky one. Me and Biel, least we got a solid cot below the hall, and enough food for us and the girls. Brill’s not a bad lord, leastwise, long as you keep your mouth shut. Doesn’t take the girls the way they say his sire did, and the ones that like him, well, they say he treats’em well. Strange, though, seeing as he’s never taken a consort, and none of the girls have children.” Wiltur coughed again, looking back toward the hall.

  “You’re trying to tell me that Lord Brill’s a good sort, especially compared to a lot of lords?” Anna asked.

  “I’ve not seen many lords, but, after a while you get to hear. Know other lords’ guards like to come with their lords when they visit.” The grizzled guard cleared his throat.

  Anna looked to the hills in the east, distorted by the heat lines that wavered across the plains all the way to the horizon. She eased Farinelli to the edge of the trail to avoid a dust-filled hole. Her nose itched, and she rubbed it gently. “I take it some of the other lords are best avoided?”

  “Avoided, aye, if you can. They say that Lord Genrica beds every maid on his lands’fore she can have another. That’s not as bad as old Jylot, though. Lord Barjim had to have his hall pulled down around him.” Wiltur shook his head. “He had dungeons, and they smelled like a renderer’s, and it weren’t from sheep nor cows.”

  Anna winced, then unfa
stened the water bottle and forced herself to take a drink. As Farinelli carried her down and around the curve in the road, she could see the empty irrigation pond. This time, even the bottom of the pond was dry and cracked from the heat.

  “Are there others as good as Brill?”

  “Some … so they say. Lord Jecks—his hall’s on the big hill above Elhi. Peddlers say he’s fair, and he even gives each maid raised on his holding a dower.” Wiltur laughed. “Without tryin’’em, so to speak. His levies, they say he’s good, and that means he doesn’t mess with their women, and takes only his fair share of the harvests.”

  Even from beside the empty pond, Anna could see the fine dust on the small leaves of the apple trees, and on the cracked branches of the dead trees. Almost a third of the orchard seemed to be dead or dying, despite Brill’s sorcery to bring water to the trees.

  Downhill, at the end of the row of trees that the Brill’s road paralleled on its course down to the main road, Anna thought she saw another pond, then realized the image was some sort of mirage.

  “Quiet, here,” said Wiltur.

  As Farinelli stepped past the beginning of the trees, Anna could feel the hair on the nape of her neck prickling, and she turned in the saddle, looking west past the dusty apple trees, squinting against the afternoon sun. She could see nothing, and she scanned the apparently empty orchard.

  Farinelli whuffed and side-stepped, his hoofs raising dust. Anna’s nose itched, but she fought the urge.

  “Lady—” began Wiltur.

  Although she couldn’t say why, Anna threw up her free arm—and fire slashed across it. Another line of pain slammed into her shoulder. Dumbly, she looked down at the shaft in her upper arm.

  “Guards!” Wiltur yelled, as he spurred his horse away from her and toward two figures that began to run between the gnarled trees. “Frideric!”

  Somehow, Anna clung to the gelding’s mane with her uninjured hand as Farinelli side-stepped, and she turned him uphill. She had to get help.

  Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a horn, and the damned thing kept blowing and blowing, horribly off key. She wanted to laugh at herself for thinking about it when her shoulder hurt so much.

  Wave after wave of pain slammed through her, but she kept riding, kept hanging on as Farinelli plodded up the trail back toward the hall. Behind her, the horn sounded again, and somewhere there were horses, lots of horses, but she was afraid to look, afraid that she would lose her balance on Farinelli as the gelding carried her back to the hall.

  The last thing she recalled was looking at the front entry of the hall, wondering how she could dismount with an arrow through her shoulder, and watching the door open.

  20

  Anna stood on the stage, looking down at the dusty riding clothes she wore. What had happened to her gown? She couldn’t sing in front of the Founders’ Dinner in riding clothes, not dusty and sweaty. Why, that alone would kill her chances for tenure. As Music Chair, Dieshr would see to that. How had this happened? Had her injury thrown her back to earth?

  She tried to open her mouth, but found she couldn’t, and only a croaking groan issued forth. Then, she turned to walk off the platform, but her feet would not move.

  When Anna finally shook herself awake, her back hurt as well as her shoulder. And her hand hurt. She could feel the sweat and dust matted into her hair. As her eyes opened fully, Florenda stood by the bed, a goblet in her hand. She was still on Erde, and her eyes burned.

  “You must drink, lady.”

  Anna drank. Whatever it was tasted like vinegar laced with used crankcase oil and spiced with extra-soapy cilantro.

  “More,” insisted Florenda.

  Anna forced herself to take another deep swallow, then closed her eyes for what seemed a moment.

  When she woke again, Florenda sat on a chair, sewing.

  “I’m thirsty,” Anna announced.

  But she got more of the oily wine, first, before Florenda let her have water.

  “I must get Liende and Lord Brill.” With that the serving girl scuttled from the bedchamber.

  Anna wanted to shake her head, but she had the feeling that her head might not remain on her neck if she did. How could one arrow do so much? And hurt so badly? Bullets … she understood the damage that high-powered guns could cause, but arrows?

  As she reflected, the door reopened, and the woodwind player with the red hair streaked with white entered, followed by Brill and Florenda.

  “You are awake,” said the older woman. “Good.”

  “I’m afraid … don’t know your name,” Anna said slowly.

  “I am Liende. Lord Brill asked me to … assist. I had some little training as a healer years ago.” The clarinetist offered a warm but crooked smile.

  “How do you feel, lady?” asked Brill. The circles under his eyes were deeper yet.

  “I’ll live.” Anna looked at the dressing across her upper arm and shoulder and the rough stitches in her palm.

  “I’d trust so,” he said ironically.

  “You helped heal some of this?” she asked.

  “Some. As I could. Liende’s skill helped also.”

  Anna frowned. “There was just one arrow. How could it …?”

  Liende laughed gently. “It was a war arrow, and no one thought you would live.”

  “I’m glad … to prove them wrong.”

  A silence fell across the chamber.

  “I don’t understand,” Anna finally said. “What did I do? I haven’t lifted a hand against anyone.”

  “You are here,” answered Liende. “You came from the mist worlds, and that’d be the one place that the dark ones fear.”

  “But why?” Anna shook her head. She felt so stupid. All she’d been doing was trying to improve her riding and learn something about Erde, and people were trying to kill her. On earth, they wanted to destroy your career or take your job, but most people she knew weren’t killers. “I haven’t cast a single spell against them … against anyone.”

  “I did not think the dark ones would try to strike so soon,” Brill answered. “They fear you, and they want you dead before you realize your powers. Wiltur and Frideric killed all three of them, but they wore the dark robes. They cast a glamour and hid there, waiting for you. For the dark ones to send three so far from Ebra—that is a tribute to your powers.”

  Powers? Anna wanted to laugh, but that would have hurt. All she’d done was shatter a goblet, light a few candles, turn a few pieces of wood to ashes. Yet some people were telling her she was powerful, and others were trying to kill her.

  Her lips tightened, even as she sank back against the lumpy pillows.

  Erde was no dream. It was different, though, a place where sixty miles was considered a far way, and where arrows could kill.

  She was going to have to learn to be a sorceress, a real one. If she didn’t, sooner or later Brill would turn against her or just abandon her; or the dark ones, for whatever reason, would kill her—or both.

  She tightened her lips. She had a lot of memorysearching to do—a lot. Her breath hissed between her lips.

  Except she had to get better, first. Except that she was so tired. Her eyes closed.

  21

  WEI, NORDWEI

  The woman with the close-cropped golden hair steps into the well-lit room whose single wide window overlooks the harbor piers that mark the well-dredged juncture of the River Nord with the Vereisen Bay.

  The dark-haired woman behind the table, her back to the window, speaks, though her lips barely move. “Sit down, Gretslen.”

  The golden-haired Gretslen slips into the armless wooden chair. “You sent for me, Ashtaar?”

  “I did. How are matters going in Esaria?” Ashtaar raises a hand to the short dark hair, then pauses, her fingers going to the polished black wooden oval on the desk.

  “Well enough. Young Behlem is poised to march, once Barjim reinforces his troops to stop the dark ones.”

  “How soon?”

  “The da
rk ones are marshaling in the Sand Pass now, and Barjim has called for his levies. He must wait for Lord Jecks’ forces, and it will take more than two weeks for them to be gathered and march the distance from Ehli, say three weeks or more before Barjim gathers east of Mencha.”

  “The dark ones could move into Defalk long before that.”

  “Eladdrin won’t. Then he’d have to chase the lords’ forces all over Defalk.” Gretslen offers a brief smile. “He’ll let Barjim mass his forces—and then destroy them.”

  “What about the rumors of this sorceress? The one who supposedly was summoned from the mist worlds?” Ashtaar laughs. “Mist worlds, indeed.”

  “She is reputed to be powerful enough to frighten the dark ones. They sacrificed some of their agents in Defalk to attack her.” Gretslen moistens her lips ever so slightly. “No one has seen her before … anywhere.”

  “You really don’t believe that song sorcery can cross worlds, do you?”

  “I only know that she appeared from nowhere.”

  “Are you sure?” presses Ashtaar.

  “We’re sure.”

  “Kendr said she will die.”

  “Kendr is a good seer, but the sorceress is not dead, and she is safe within Brill’s hall.” The goldep-haired woman adds sardonically, “The attack was enough to drive Brill back to darksong to save her.”

  “Because it shows her value?”

  “Exactly. Brill was already extremely deferential to her, extremely deferential. That alone indicates that she is more than beautiful, and this attack would confirm it.” Gretslen shakes her head.

  “The dark ones are sometimes so stupid.”

  “They are powerful, though,” answers the blonde one.

  “So is a cyclone, or a tidal wave, and one should fear both, but not because they are smart.” Ashtaar’s eyes focus on Gretslen. “What if Brill should want another such sorceress?”

  “We have taken steps to stop that.”

  “Good.” Ashtaar leans back in her chair. “Who else knows of this strange sorceress, or whatever she may be?”

  Gretslen laughs. “Everyone knows, except Barjim. But no one knows anything except that she is an exotic beauty who some claim came through a portal from one of the mist worlds.”