The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The hot air of twilight reminded her of Brill. She'd been able to duplicate some of his spells—cooling her room, seeing Elizabetta in the mirror, lighting candles—but so many she had not. Anna laughed, a sound both soft and harsh. How many spells had he created about which no one knew? Were they still there at Loiseau, somewhere in his notes? Would one be able to return her to Ames? Or anywhere on earth?

  Anna shook her head.

  She couldn't hope that, not now, not with the Ebrans gathering their forces. What could she do to stop them? Eladdrin, according to Menares, was almost ready to move westward, and more of the darksingers, younger ones, were arriving daily from the training stronghold in Vult to replace those Anna had destroyed.

  Water? Could she do something with water? Brill had said that water was hard to handle, and perhaps they wouldn't expect that. There was a place where the main road crossed the small river—the Chean—near Pamr. The whole curved section of the river valley there was low. The irrigation ditches proved that.

  The sorceress pulled at her chin. What could she adapt? And how? She gazed out at the small city—or town—then stopped and turned.

  A girl stood on the last step leading out onto the tower, almost frozen as Anna moved toward her.

  "You can come up," Anna said, stepping toward the thin-faced young woman who clutched something to her chest.

  "I didn't know anyone was here. I'd… better go." The dark-haired girl started to turn.

  "Please don't go. I'm Anna."

  "I… know… Lady Anna. I am Garreth. Birke warned me, but he didn't think you'd be up here."

  "Warned, Garreth? I'm not a monster." Anna didn't have to force a smile. "Please come up." She paused, looking at the drawing board that the girl held tightly. "Do you draw?"

  Garreth glanced around. "I'm not supposed to, not now. The lady Essan says that drawing girls and singing boys will come to no good end."

  "I don't know," Anna mused. "I used to draw, but I sang better than I drew, and there wasn't time for both. Do you like to draw?" She stepped back, afraid that she was crowding Garreth, and motioned for her to step onto the stones of the tower.

  "Oh… sometimes." The brunette stepped out of the stairwell, but at an angle to avoid nearing the sorceress.

  Anna shook her head and laughed, gently. "You'll have to do better than that to hide it. That's what I would tell my teachers, and the whole time I was saying inside that I liked singing more than anything."

  "You're truly, truly a sorceress." Garreth tilted her head as if trying to see Anna in a different light.

  "That's not sorcery," the sorceress explained. "I was young once, and I remember."

  "Birke said that you were old. You do not look old." Garreth's deep-set green eyes narrowed slightly in the red light of sunset.

  "I am older than I look," Anna admitted. "It wasn't my idea. It happened in the battle for the Sand Pass." Her eyes fell to the drawing board. "I won't press you, but could I see what you're working on?" She shook her head. "Around here, it seems no one has time for beauty."

  "It's not beautiful. It's awful."

  "I doubt that. Could I? I won't say anything."

  "Birke did say you keep your word. He said you would die before you would break it. That be important to him."

  "I know."

  Garreth slowly lowered the board. A single sheet of paper lay there, held in place by leather triangles glued to each of the four corners of the wood. On the paper was a half-completed view of Falcor, as seen from the north side of the tower. Anna took a quick breath. "It is lovely. You are an artist."

  "It be not my best."

  Anna smiled, even more warmly. "Your best must be very good."

  Garreth blushed, ever so slightly.

  "What do you do here?" Anna asked. "Are you a page?"

  "Dissonance, no, lady. My mother was the maid to Lord Donjim, and I help Lady Essan. I am too young to be a proper maid, and the lady needs but one. Yet she tells Lord Behlem that she needs us both. Synondra is her real maid. She be quiet."

  Anna studied the girl, noting the deep-set and hooded eyes. Had Barjim's uncle had those eyes?

  "Everyone says I have his eyes, those of Lord Donjim. Lady Essan has been good to me. Elsewise… I would have nowhere to go."

  Anna nodded, a glimmer of an idea in her mind. She would have to see, and it might take time.

  The evening bell rang, reminding her that she was expected for dinner with the Prophet and his senior captains and overcaptains. Why on some nights and not others? Or was it that the Prophet didn't offer full dinners to everyone every night? She didn't know, only that Birke had brought her the invitation—or summons.

  Her eyes flicked eastward, catching the dim red spot that was the moon Darksong—hanging just above the horizon. Darksong… she hoped it wasn't too much of an omen. "Garreth… I must go. I enjoyed talking with you, and I hope I'll see you again."

  "You eat with the Prophet?"

  "Sometimes. Tonight is one of those times."

  After hurrying back down to her room, Anna briefly enjoyed the cool while she washed and donned the dressier tunic and trousers she had created for meeting with Lady Essan. Somehow, she felt the time for gowns was past, at least for now.

  Then she used the bellpull to summon a page—Birke this time.

  "You are ready, lady?" gasped the youth as she stood waiting for him on the landing.

  "Sometimes I can be early, Birke." She nodded to the steps, and added, "I've decided that I should dine in more… functional clothes."

  "Yes, lady." The redhead started back down the tower steps.

  "I noticed that more armsmen in Neserean colors have been arriving," she said, ignoring his unvoiced disapproval of her garb.

  "They have had to quarter some of them outside the liedburg. That's how many have arrived. Are we going riding tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow? Probably." After that, who knows? I really need to go back to Pamr and study the river, and I'll have to argue with Menares about it, tomorrow, since it's not something to be done publicly.

  "I'm glad I can ride again. Did I tell you that they even let me send a scroll to my sire?"

  "You told me the other day. I'm glad." She paused. "Are you the oldest, Birke?"

  "The oldest son? Of course. I need be here so my sire would not declare fealty to Ranuak or Neserea. But Wasle is only two years younger."

  "I see."

  None of the lamps in the wall sconces were lit in the corridor leading to the middle hall, and they walked through the gloom almost silently.

  "We're here," announced Birke, to both Anna and to the guard at the door.

  "The lady Anna," announced Giellum after opening the door to the middle hall.

  Anna smiled back at Birke, then stepped into the gloom of the middle hall. She'd refrained from lighting the chandeliers since the first dinner, especially given the late-summer heat. This time, she had arrived before Behlem, and the senior armsmen stood in groups around the table. Nitron, the dashing captain of the Prophet's Guard with the sweeping mustaches, stood in a corner with some of the captains Anna had not met.

  The sorceress nodded politely to Hanfor and to Zealor, who stood together near the middle of the single long table. Both shifted their weight from side to side, uneasily. That bothered Anna, since neither had seemed that nervous at previous dinners. Hanfor inclined his head slightly more than a perfunctory nod, while the sad-faced Zealor offered a bow. Anna smiled briefly.

  "Lady Anna?"

  Near the head of the table, and Behlem's vacant high-backed chair that was not quite a throne, a wiry man with graying hair stood beside Menares. The counselor beckoned to Anna, and the sorceress walked toward the pair.

  "Lord Vyarl, this is the lady Anna," offered Menares. "She is the sorceress from the mist worlds that Lord Behlem had mentioned."

  "From the mist worlds? Are they all as young and beautiful?" asked Vyarl.

  Anna was slightly taller than Vyarl, and she smiled her p
rofessional smile before answering. "While I appreciate the compliment, I am rather older than I look. My people are like yours—good-looking and not-so-good-looking." After the briefest pause, she added, "I am a stranger here, and I'm not familiar with you, or your lands."

  "Lord Vyarl is the Rider of Heinene," explained Menares. "He holds the grasslands to the east of the Mittfels and north of Denguic—the counterpart, in a way, of the High Grasslands of Neserea."

  "Except we do not suffer raiders to use ours as refuge." Vyarl's voice bore a hint of anger and humor.

  "The lady Anna rides one of the raider beasts," Menares said smoothly.

  "Oh?"

  "Farinelli's a palomino gelding. They say he was a raider mount, but I wouldn't know."

  "Can anyone else ride him?" asked Vyarl, almost intently.

  "He won't let anyone else in his stall," Anna admitted.

  "And he is tall?"

  "The tallest mount in the stables, I think," Anna answered, wondering why Vyarl was so interested in Farinelli.

  Vyarl pursed his lips, but only momentarily, then inclined his head. "You are most fortunate, lady. He sounds superb."

  "He is. I hadn't ridden for years, but riding him has gotten to be a pleasure."

  Another frown crossed Vyari's face and vanished.

  "You have not worn a gown this evening, I see, Lady Anna," offered Delor, gliding up, almost snakelike. "I had taken you briefly for a Ranuan… envoy."

  Anna could feel the words contained double connotations, but had no ready answer. "The time for finery has passed," she finally said.

  "Ah, you are announcing that you are a warrior…with real weapons." Delor's eyes glittered.

  "I'm not one for announcements, overcaptain."

  "But I am," declared Behlem, striding in to stand by the head of the table. "It is past time to dine!" The Prophet gestured to the place at his right. "Lady Anna." Then he gestured to the seat to his right. "Lord Vyarl."

  Even as they sat, servers were appearing around the Prophet, with platters containing slabs of meat smothered in a cream sauce and baskets of bread.

  Vyarl looked from Behlem to Anna, then pulled on his chin. He said nothing, but broke off a chunk of bread and served himself two large slices of meat. Anna followed his example, except she didn't bother with politeness, and took three, then watched as Hanfor, to her right, filled her pewter goblet.

  "Thank you, overcaptain."

  "My pleasure, Lady Anna." The faintest twinkle appeared in the green eyes, although Hanfor's weathered face bore no smile.

  "Lord Vyarl," the sorceress began, "as I am sure you know, I am new to Liedwahr. What can you tell me about your lands?"

  Vyarl's lips curled into a smile; then he laughed. "You know not what you ask when you offer a rider that much of a chance to boast. Still… you did ask." He moistened his lips with the dark red wine in his goblet. "The grasses in Heinene are the deepest in all of Liedwahr—or they were until the dark ones began to meddle with the weather, but they remain tall, and they stretch from just north of Dubaria to the Nordbergs. A sea of grass, designed for long-legged mounts and their riders. The gazelles slip through the grass so silently and so swiftly that only the sharpest of ear and the fleetest of horses can seek them."

  "What about the grass snakes?" asked Menares.

  "They are large, also, but they avoid riders, unless one is stupid enough to ride over one."

  "How large?" asked Anna.

  "I have one skin that is five yards long, but Fiesar swears that he has seen a snake twice as large." Vyarl offered a wry grin. "If he had, we would have few gazelles, and less of all game."

  "Has fire become a problem?" mused Anna.

  "In the south, near Dubaria, but the taller grass does not burn easily. The weeds do. So fire is our friend. So far."

  Anna understood. Even the toughest grasses needed some rain.

  "How is your research faring, lady?" asked Menares.

  "I'd like to see you tomorrow after my ride."

  "Good," said Behlem. "The last of the Ebran reinforcements are gathering in Synek."

  "Now that the Ebrans are moving.'.. you had said the time had passed for finery, Lady Anna," interjected Delor, his fingers toying with the base of the pewter goblet. "Yet women have so many weapons… and even finery can be a weapon."

  Anna eased the smallest of sips of the wine past her lips. "I rather doubt that the cut of your uniform, Captain Delor, or whether I might wear a gown, would impress the dark ones—or slow their advance an instant."

  A guffaw came from the foot of the table, and Delor's face darkened for an instant before he answered. "Finery has doubtless created many delays."

  "It probably has," Anna admitted, "but not for the winning side."

  The guffaw was louder, followed by a hissed, "Best you cease while you can, Delor."

  Anna took another sip of the dark red wine, ensuring that it was small, much as she felt like gulping it. The idea of riding to Pamr didn't sound that bad at all, not at all.

  68

  Mencha, Defalk

  The harp strums from the middle of the pool, and Eladdrin nods to himself.

  "Songmaster? I see you have made the sorcerer's work yours." The pool shows a hooded and shadowed figure in a dark room, seated behind a small table beside a pool larger than the one Eladdrin has turned to his own use.

  "Not exactly."

  "What of the sorceress?"

  "She is in Falcor, under Behlem's protection in the liedburg," admits the Songmaster. "She intended to return here, for she left her gown."

  "A gown? Why does that concern us?"

  "It is unlike anything I have seen. Even the material is otherworldly."

  "You have no doubts she is from the mist worlds?"

  "None. That concerns me."

  "You are in control. Do what you must." There is a pause. "What of the travel-sorceress?"

  "She is dead, but…"

  "What?" The words are chill, yet sing.

  "She was killed before we reached her—it had to be the Norweians." Eladdrin looks down at the dusty tile floor of the domed building.

  "Who killed her matters not, not this time. The other sorcerers and sorceresses in Defalk would not try such a spell, if they knew it, and the strange sorceress will not try to bring another."

  "You think not, honored Evult?"

  "If she has ethics, she cannot bring another until she knows more. If she has no ethics, she will not bring another to share her power, not until she is secure in it." The harp offers a discordant whisper of tones, a parody of a stringed laugh.

  "She meets with the Prophet, and she has the freedom of Falcor."

  "She has freedom until she defeats us or falls to us. You will ensure the latter. While you finish your preparations for the attack on Falcor, send a detachment of archers and horse to shadow her, to kill her if they can. Perhaps they will succeed. If not, they will worry her—and that arrogant Prophet."

  "What of the Norweians?"

  "I will send a flood down their River Ost as a warning. That will occupy them for a time. Do not worry about that. Worry about destroying the Prophet and adding Defalk to our domains."

  "Yes, Evult."

  After the strings have ceased their whispers and the images have left the waters of the pool, Eladdrin walks from the dusty workroom out into the twilight. For a time, he studies the lifeless hall that had once belonged to a sorcerer, a hall Eladdrin has yet to fully fathom or to return to functioning as it once had.

  69

  Whhhnnnn! Anna paused, short of Farinelli's stall, then jumped back as she saw a shadowy figure, and a hand slammed across her mouth.

  She staggered back, dropping the lutar case as her own right hand grabbed for the dagger, her left pushing the arm and hand back away from her. She swallowed, trying to sing the repulsion spell, but she couldn't. As the knife finally cleared the sheathe, she kept backing up, swallowing and trying to get enough saliva to sing.

  The
bigger figure lunged again.

  Anna choked out the words of the spell, and the armsman staggered, but kept moving toward her, thrusting a hand toward her mouth again.

  Whhhnnnnn!

  As she vaguely remembered, she brought the dagger up and toward the biggest target she knew—the diaphragm, right under the ribs—and thrust as hard as she could.

  "Oooffff... " Even with the deep thrust and the knife in his guts, the armsman's right hand pinned her left, and his hot acrid breath cascaded across her face.

  She twisted and yanked the knife more, and managed to bring up one knee into the man's groin. With a stunned look, the attacker staggered back.

  Instinctively, Anna held tight to the knife, watching as the unfamiliar blond and bearded armsman clutched at his guts, before crumpling, his hand grasping toward the stall wall as his feet slid out from under him. After a moment, he lay face-up, his mouth moving with a low series of moans, his feet twitching.

  "Get her!"

  Anna cleared her throat, and turned, keeping her back to Farinelli, and this time, she sang the burning song, on tune. Both soldiers went up in flame. She slashed the forearm of the one in front, the dark-haired one, to keep him from clutching her even as he burned. Then she danced back, her stomach turning.

  The straw on the floor began to smolder under the burning bodies, and she tried the water song, visualizing water spilling across the corpses and straw.

  The words were enough to stop the flames and convert the straw into a sodden mess—and the odor of manure, charred meat, and burned straw was enough to turn Anna's legs nearly to jelly. For several moments she just stood, one hand holding the stall wall.

  "What… ?" Tirsik came trotting from the far end of the stable. He looked at Anna, then at the three bodies— two charcoaled bundles, and one lying face-up, still moaning. Tirsik's eyes went to Anna and the bloody knife. His mouth opened and closed.

  Whhhnnnnnn! offered the gelding, from behind her. Anna thought that horses didn't whinny except to other horses, but it sounded like one. She wondered why she was thinking that, even as she half turned, looking down at the bloody knife almost as though she had not seen it before. "Mmmmm!" A muffled sound stopped both the stable-master and the sorceress.