The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  She crossed the chamber and peered into the robing room, noting the spare sets of riding gear. She could use them.

  As she crossed back into the main chamber, she heard steps through the open door.

  “Lady Anna?” Hanfor peered inside. “Oh …”

  “This is my room. Does the Prophet intend to dispossess me here?” As she spoke, Anna wished she hadn’t been quite so sharp. Hanfor had been more than fair. “I’m sorry.”

  “Ah … I think you are entitled to your own room.” Hanfor stepped inside and shut the door. “More than entitled. A sorceress of your statute certainly ranks with senior officers.” The weathered face offered a tight smile. “I will note that this is yours. There are more than enough rooms for the Prophet and the overcaptains.” He grinned. “One of the chores of the senior overcaptain is quarters—because senior officers listen to no one lower.”

  “Brill’s suite is at the end of the corridor,” she offered. “It would be appropriate for the Prophet.”

  “Most appropriate,” Hanfor agreed. “Thank you.”

  Anna inclined her head. “Thank you.”

  Hanfor paused, then added, “Do not get too comfortable.”

  “You don’t think I should stay here?” Anna asked. “I suppose I’m as much Brill’s heir as anyone these days.”

  “The Prophet has already claimed the hall,” Hanfor noted dryly. “He wishes it were in Falcor, instead of the liedburg. We will be leaving for Falcor tomorrow or the next day.”

  Anna frowned.

  “The lady Cyndyth is there already. She has requested the Prophet’s presence, and yours. Since her sire is the Liedfuhr of Mansuur, Lord Behlem is most cautious.”

  “I take it Mansuur is powerful.”

  “Perhaps mightier than Nordwei.” Hanfor nodded. “I must finish my survey and chamber assignments. My duty—to avoid further difficulties.” He bowed again.

  After Hanfor left, Anna walked around the room, too hot really, but she decided against trying her cooling spell yet. She still had the vestiges of a headache, and she needed to save her ability to spellcast, especially with Behlem—and possibly his consort—out to get her.

  She slumped into the chair and looked at the blue-tinted windows.

  There came another rap on the door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Daffyd.”

  “Come in.”

  The player slumped into the room, pausing to close the heavy door.

  Anna blotted her forehead, glancing at the empty pitcher on the table before her. She needed more water. She always needed water.

  “They killed her,” Daffyd said slowly, as he walked toward Anna.

  “Killed who?” Will it never stop? “Sit down and tell me.” Anna gestured to the other chair. Her legs hurt.

  “Jenny.” Daffyd dropped into the heavy blue ironframed chair.

  The sorceress frowned, then lowered her voice. “Why would Behlem—”

  “It happened weeks ago. No one knows who. It could have been the dark ones. There were two strange riders—that was what Lisbey told me. Some say they rode horses with brass on the harnesses.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the dark ones.” Anna rubbed her forehead.

  “The Norweians use brass that way.” The young player shook his head. “But why? Why Jenny?”

  In the pit of her stomach, Anna knew. Jenny had proved she could summon a sorceress from the mist worlds, and someone wanted no more sorceresses that powerful.

  Anna wanted to laugh, an urge almost hysterical. Were they after her? Who in this godforsaken world wasn’t?

  Lord! It never ended. Never.

  “I’m sorry,” she offered. “You liked her.”

  “I liked her well enough. But she didn’t do anything. She didn’t do anything.”

  “Except fetch me,” Anna said.

  Daffyd’s mouth opened. “They would kill her for that?”

  “No. Someone killed her because they did not want another sorceress in Liedwahr or Defalk.”

  “But you’re already here.”

  “I can be killed, Daffyd. People have already tried. If Jenny could bring more … .”

  “I never thought …” The dark-haired young man looked down. “I wanted Brill dead,’cause of what he did to Da. Brill’s dead, and things are worse than ever.”

  Anna nodded. Both she and Daffyd had gotten ill-chosen wishes, and she had effectively lost her family, while he had lost his father, perhaps his sister because of Anna’s spell on Madell, and now a close friend.

  95

  The morning sun beat down on her back, and the shadows of the banners borne behind her flickered across her and Daffyd. Three rows of horse ahead, Behlem rode with Hanfor to his right and Zealor to his left.

  Anna couldn’t believe that she was riding back across Defalk once again. Still, she’d appreciated two nights’ sleep on a bed, and the chance to think about spells. From what Hanfor said, she’d need them.

  The whole time at Loiseau, Behlem had dined alone, and basically avoided her, and the rest of the senior captains. He had merely left word that he had “matters to consider.” Matters to consider? Anna almost snorted out loud as she rode. He couldn’t eat with his senior captains and exclude Anna without seeming ungrateful. So he was conveying, indirectly, the message that the power that had delivered him was not to be trusted.

  She patted Farinelli on the neck and reached for the water bottle, having to reach under the thin cloth bag that held her green recital dress. Why she had brought it, she wasn’t sure, only that her feelings said she should. Was that her unwillingness to abandon good clothes? She didn’t think so.

  “All you do is drink,” said Daffyd.

  “Mayhap that is what is necessary for her spells.” Spirda, on her left, pushed back a lock of blond hair. “I would drink the entire Saris River if it gave me even half her powers.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “This Defalk is hot for harvest time.”

  “Most of the harvest is in now,” Daffyd noted. “Except for that … .” His eyes strayed to the north, across the Chean River, whose waters were both thinner and more reddish brown than ever.

  Anna understood. Her efforts against the Ebrans had created the unintended side effect of washing out many of the lower-lying fields—although the worst of the damage had been confined to the area within a day’s ride of the ford and where poor Sorprat had once stood.

  Now the river ran with even less water, although Anna wasn’t quite sure why. Had she messed up the groundwater, or was her sinkhole lake draining off some of the flow?

  “Then it is hotter than it should be,” said Spirda. “Why have the rains not returned if you defeated the Ebrans, Lady Anna?”

  “Their forces are gone, not their sorcery,” Anna pointed out.

  “Then what is to prevent them from rebuilding?” Spirda scratched the back of his neck, then wiped his sweating forehead again. “Must we destroy their entire land?”

  “I don’t know,” Anna admitted. “I’m a stranger here, remember, and I don’t know exactly why the Ebrans do what they do.” Inside, she was all too afraid she did, that they were like all the other tyrants in her own earth’s history who continued until they were destroyed. Was there really something to the obsolete idea of a national character? Some countries just changed tyrants, without changing anything else. Was Ebra like that? Or were all people like that deep inside, wanting whatever people would let them take? Here she was, using enormous powers she’d never dreamed possible. Some would have said she was already abusing those powers. Would she do even worse? She shivered, even as she perspired, and sweat and road dust mixed on her forehead.

  “They will try again,” Daffyd predicted dourly.

  Anna looked forward toward where the Prophet was riding. Hanfor had pulled away from the Prophet and was turning his horse, probably for one of his periodic inspections up and down the column. In his absence, Zealor had drawn his mount closer to that of the Prophet, and be
nt closer to Behlem.

  The sorceress didn’t like Zealor’s whole body position, particularly his drawing closer to Behlem so soon after Hanfor had ridden away. Zealor, she felt, was Delor with more brains, and with Behlem wary of her already …

  Was she getting paranoid? Had she always been paranoid, but not recognized it?

  She shook her head.

  “Is something wrong, Lady Anna?” asked Daffyd.

  “No, nothing,” she lied, knowing there was nothing the young player could do. “Nothing.”

  96

  Anna shifted her weight in the saddle and readjusted her soggy hat. Then she glanced over her shoulder. The dust raised by the horses and the supply wagons not only reached back to Zechis, but was probably choking the armsmen on foot, enough that some might have wished to be among those few who had been left to garrison Loiseau and to rebuild and garrison the Sand Pass fortifications.

  “Lady Anna?”

  The sorceress turned in the saddle as the wiry Alvar eased his mount into the moving column. Spirda held back his horse, and let the dark-bearded senior captain ride in beside Anna.

  “Captain Alvar. How are you?”

  After a glance ten yards farther up the road, where Behlem rode with the overcaptains, followed by his personal guards and armsmen bearing cream-and-blue Neserean banners, Alvar offered a guarded grin. “Right well, lady. Unlike some, I am uninterested in fighting when it can be avoided. And unlike others, I do not mind if someone else garners the credit.” He paused, then added, “In your case, it may not entirely be a credit.”

  Anna smiled, but bristled inside momentarily before realizing that Alvar’s words were not meant exactly as spoken. “So you think destroying the Ebrans did me little credit.” She tried to warm her smile.

  “For me, I would give you great credit.” He shrugged, a hand brushing the black beard. “There are those who find a victory without arms and offered by a … sorceress … less than desirable.”

  “In short, they find a woman’s solution degrading to their honor. Were you assigned to support my efforts because of your ‘practicality’?” asked Anna, lowering her voice slightly.

  “Overcaptain Hanfor understands,” answered Alvar.

  “But the Prophet and some of the others do not?”

  “Like as I said, Lady Anna, the overcaptain and I, we see things much alike.”

  “I like your viewpoint,” the sorceress answered. “But it doesn’t seem that common here.”

  Alvar glanced down at his mount’s mane.

  Anna wondered, then spoke, “For what it’s worth, I appreciate your support. And I’d like you to know that … what I did … it wasn’t easy for me, and I did it because there didn’t seem to be a better way. But,” she was the one to look down, “most of the Ebrans were people like us, I think.”

  “That is what makes war hard,” Alvar said, black eyes somber.

  “Who’s that?” asked Daffyd, gesturing toward a rider on the road ahead.

  Anna turned.

  “Someone is riding hard,” observed Alvar, standing in his stirrups. “It’s one of our messengers. From Falcor, I would wager.” He snorted. “The lady Cyndyth has stubbed her toe. Or wants to execute the cook for mispreparing fish.”

  “Lord Behlem! Lord Behlem!” The rider, apparently smeared with what seemed to be dried mud, reined up short of the Prophet, barred from nearing more by Zealor and Behlem’s guards. The messenger’s mount was lathered and clearly almost run into the ground.

  Anna peered over the crowded mass, trying to hear the messenger.

  “A wall of water—a torrent—never so much—the entire Fal River—half of Falcor is no more. The liedburg is whole, but water covered the courtyard knee-deep. The lady Cyndyth bid me find you.”

  “Our men?” asked Hanfor.

  “All are safe, save one squad on patrol.”

  Behlem turned in the saddle and motioned to Anna. She rode forward slowly, reining up short of the Prophet, aware that the entire column was slowing behind her.

  “I am told that a great river flood has destroyed much of Falcor. What do you know of this?” Behlem fingered his beard.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why not?” Behlem gestured vaguely over his shoulder. “Your … work … devastated the crops east of Pamr. Yet you know nothing about the river torrents that have struck Falcor?” The calculated irony of his tone was loud enough to carry to the captains around him.

  “Lord Behlem,” Anna said carefully, “I spent all my power defeating the Ebran forces. I couldn’t have detected anything afterwards.” She paused, then added, “You can see that my use of the rivers only went a day’s ride.”

  “That is true,” offered Hanfor.

  Zealor’s eyes slitted.

  Behlem’s eyes went to Anna. “Yet you did not warn me?”

  “I did not know. I cannot be everywhere.”

  “You are a sorceress.”

  “You are a Prophet, Lord Behlem, yet you did not know.”

  Behlem stiffened in the saddle, and his eyes blazed. After a moment of silence, he said, harshly. “Go, sorceress … . I must think.”

  Anna eased Farinelli out to the shoulder of the road, letting the Prophet’s imperial party resume their ride, before she edged back to Alvar, Daffyd, and Spirda.

  Before they had covered another dek, a tall officer in Neserean blue rode along the shoulder studying faces. Then he motioned. “Lady Anna.”

  “Hanfor.”

  The overcaptain turned his horse so that it matched steps with Farinelli, and Spirda and Alvar nodded and dropped back.

  “I could not help but overhear. It took me a bit to persuade Lord Behlem that I needed to check with my officers.” He shook his head slowly. “Never has a ruler been delivered a triumph so absolute.”

  “He does not seem pleased,” Anna pointed out.

  “Those in power, they fear power,” Hanfor said. “You are powerful.”

  “And a woman,” Anna said dryly.

  “He was most wroth when you pointed out his limitations.”

  “I shouldn’t have, but he’s trying to devalue me every chance he gets.”

  “Half his guards snickered. While your words were true …” Hanfor shrugged, concern mirrored on the weathered countenance.

  “I know.” Again … more politics. Those in power wanted to fault her for not saving them from one disaster when she’d been busy doing what they wanted somewhere else—like department chairs who wanted her to perform and teach full loads and then complained that she hadn’t published enough or warned them that some instrumental professor was dissatisfied and had left with no notice—as if she had anything to do with it.

  Hanfor gave a quick smile and eased his mount out of the column, heading rearward.

  At least, Anna reflected, a few people respected her. There were always a few, but they never seemed wellplaced enough, or powerful enough, to save her from her own straightforwardness.

  Farinelli whuffed, and she patted his shoulder. “Easy there, big fellow. Too bad more men don’t have your soul.”

  She could sense Daffyd raising his eyebrows, but she didn’t care, not at the moment.

  97

  WEI, NORDWEI

  “Did you personally scry what she did to the dark ones?” Ashtaar glances toward the dark agate shape on the wood surface before her, but her hands remain on table, fingers steepled.

  “She buried most of Eladdrin’s forces in liquid mud, and then she cast a flood over the rest. Perhaps two-score survived.” Gretslen shudders. “The woman is a monster.”

  “Do you think she must be killed, then?” The spymistress winces ever so slightly at the barrage of hammers and metal-working that the wind carries up from the harbor, where the rebuilding continues.

  “Is there any question, honored Ashtaar? Can we allow that sort of twisting of Erde’s chords?”

  A frown momentarily flickers across the dark-haired woman’s face, followed by a bland smile.

>   “You think we can?” asks the blonde.

  “You question whether we should allow her that power and, yet, by suggesting that we curtail her use of it—does that not suggest equal arrogance on our part?” The spymistress’s fingers reach out for the black agate oval.

  “We seek but harmony …”

  “For our tune,” answers Ashtaar. “Let me ask you a question, Gretslen. What happens if we try—and fail?” She smiles brittlely. “And a second question. How comfortable will the Prophet be with such power at his elbow?”

  “Neither he nor his consort will be happy … if they survive.”

  “Do we care?”

  “But she is a monster, and you do not care. I see now the wisdom of the strictures. How could anyone bury armsmen in liquid mud?”

  “You are young, and still innocent in some ways. Most died more quickly than from blade wounds. Is it more glorious to kill a man with a blade? Why? Is he any less dead?”

  Gretslen’s eyes harden, but she does not speak.

  “No,” Ashtaar continues. “Let others draw her wrath, and they will. The Evult has already visited his devastation upon Elhi and Falcor, and he is taking steps to rebuild.”

  “The floods? The Evult? Kendr said nothing.”

  “I bid her keep silent. When he saw the destruction of his armies, he released all the heat under the Ostfels west of Vult, and caused the storms to gather.”

  “Monsters to the south of us, wherever we look,” mutters the blond.

  “Each of them would say something similar about those to the north of them,” notes Ashtaar. “Your job is to scry, and to report. To communicate and to follow orders.”

  “Yes, Ashtaar.”

  “You do not have to face the Council. Be thankful you don’t.” Ashtaar smiles self-deprecatingly. “And try to remember this conversation before you have to.”

  Gretslen glances at the polished floor.

  “Now … send word to your ‘influence’ in Falcor that the dark ones killed the travel sorceress.”