Anna repressed a shudder, although she’d seen Mario do the same thing all too often. She chewed her small slice—tough despite a marinated sauce that was sweet and acidic simultaneously. If what the sorcerer was putting in front of her happened to be good food, she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out what the common folk ate.
“Because of the dark ones?”
“It appears that way. Ebra is getting good rains, and the Ebrans are selling melons and grains to the Ranuans and the Norweians. Before they took over, the weather was spotty there.” The sorcerer cut another slice off his slab of meat and stuffed it into his mouth, wiping his fingers on the necessarily large napkin, then breaking off a chunk of bread. After that he took and ate another enormous chunk of meat.
“Why are they doing it?” asked Anna, not quite sure what she was asking. “What do you think?” She followed Brill’s example and took a corner of the bread. A mouthful convinced her that it was far better than the meat.
“Does what I think matter? I wish I knew. Oh, I can summon images that show what they do, and that’s clear enough. They spell-move the Whispering Sands south and west, uncovering once fertile ground, and covering the groves and grasslands of Ranuak.” Brill sipped from the goblet. “The Ranuans insist that the sands move naturally, but they must know better. The sand-moving gives better crops to the Ebrans, who thank the dark ones, and weakens the Ranuans. Beyond that, I can see that this prosperity allows them to equip and feed better and more troops. I can only guess at the planned use of those troops. The water mirrors do not read intent, as you know.”
“And you guess what?” Anna took a sip of water and another mouthful of bread.
“They will invade Defalk, sooner or later—before harvest this year, or no later than next.” He shrugged. “That is but a guess.”
Anna lifted the deep spoon and tried the whitish green mess—which turned out to be something like tart and unsweetened fried apples. She had another bite.
“After seeing how you preferred water, I thought you might like the sour apples.”
“They are good,” Anna said, “but I can’t live on fruit alone. The dark bread is quite good, too.” She followed her second spoonful of apples with another thin slice of the tough beef. The brown sauce helped, but the apples and the bread helped more.
“What will you do to stop them—the dark ones?” Anna asked after several bites.
The sorcerer finished yet another large mouthful of beef before he spoke. “I have helped Lord Barjim build walls on Defalk’s side of the Sand Pass, but they will only slow the armies of the dark ones.” He frowned. “I had not meant to speak of it, but I had wondered whether you might have some special magic, such as the mighty weapons of your world.”
Anna thought. She didn’t want to admit she was essentially clueless, but how could she answer him? Finally, she spoke. “Our world is different, and the way our technology works requires many technicians. Each adds something. I am only one person.”
“What is a ‘technician’?”
“A technician is like a player, I’d say, except technicians work with special tools and magic boxes called computers.” Anna cleared her throat. “Everything works differently here and there.”
“Yet Daffyd’s spell brought you,” Brill pointed out.
“I may be able to help,” Anna said, “but I need to learn more about Erde.”
“Can you even do spells here, lady?” asked Brill coolly.
“Yes,” Anna answered truthfully, glad that she had tried the water spell, “but I made a large mess out of one of your goblets.”
“You broke one of them with a spell?” The frown was so momentary that Anna would have missed it had she not been concentrating on reading his reactions.
“That wasn’t the intent.” Anna offered a gentle laugh.
“I was trying to get cold and clean water. I got it so cold it froze the crystal.”
“Again, you surprise me.” Brill inclined his head. “I have never tried to freeze water. Working with water can be most dangerous. Metals and stone are generally easier.”
Anna glanced down at her plate, vaguely surprised that she had eaten everything on it, and then at Brill’s. Despite the fact that he had easily eaten twice what she had, if not more, he was clearly trim and without a spare ounce anywhere. Sorcery had to be hard work here. A trace of a smile crossed her lips. Maybe she wouldn’t have to worry about weight. Her half smile disappeared as she realized that she was being considered as a weapon in a war, and she knew little about either side.
The sky outside the window was turning a deep purple, and the salon had gotten dimmer and dimmer.
Brill hummed for a moment, then sang to the candle on the table between them:
“Candle light, candle bright,
flame clear in my sight.”
The candle flame appeared from nowhere, then flicked and continued to burn.
“Can you do that?” Brill asked.
“I’ve never heard the tune, but I can try. Would you hum it once?” Anna asked.
The sorcerer obliged.
Anna glanced up at the chandelier in the middle of the ceiling, then thought. She hummed the tune once, and again. Finally, she took a deep breath, hoping that she could duplicate the feat, concentrated on the mental image of a blazing chandelier, and sang:
“Candle light, candles bright,
flame clear in my sight.”
The entire chandelier blazed into light, then subsided to a warm glow.
Brill wiped his forehead. “Ah … yes, I can see that … .”
“I seem to have this tendency to overdo things,” Anna said politely. Inside, she was half excited, half fearful, wondering how she was so successful at something she’d never done. She also tried to remember the tune Brill had hummed.
“Even the dark ones might be somewhat surprised,” the sorcerer observed as he lifted the crystal bell and rang it.
The white-haired server appeared and removed the plates and bread, then returned with two small slices of pastry.
“Recerot,” the sorcerer explained.
Anna picked it up with her fingers and took a small bite of the layered pastry soaked in honey, almost like baklava—but without the nuts. The honey tasted slightly off, but she finished it anyway, and followed it with several healthy swallows of water.
“The honey is a trace strong,” Brill said. “I think that’s because there is so little moisture.”
“I appreciated it all,” Anna said truthfully, realizing that she had been hungry indeed, and that she could have eaten more.
Brill rose, almost abruptly. “I would not presume to escort you to your chamber, Lady Anna, but I trust you will rest well.”
“I appreciate your hospitality, lord, and your willingness to assist a stranger.” She inclined her head.
“Tomorrow, perhaps, you would enjoy a ride around the hall’s grounds?”
“If you have a gentle horse,” Anna answered. “I’m out of practice.” Out of practice was definitely an understatement. Except for a few trail rides with Sandy and his daughters, she hadn’t been on a horse for more than twenty years. “I would enjoy learning more about Erde.”
“We will see what we can do.”
The ubiquitous Florenda was waiting at the salon door with a lamp, and Anna followed the slender woman back up to the guest chamber.
“Breakfast is served at the second morning bell, lady. I will knock on your chamber door at the first bell.” Florenda bowed deeply, even more deeply than before.
“Thank you, Florenda.” Anna offered the young woman a smile before closing and bolting the door.
The coverlet had been turned back, and both bedside lamps had been lit. The window hangings had been loosed and completely covered the perfect tinted blue glass panes. The small pile of crystal had been removed, and two clean and empty goblets and a pitcher of what appeared to be water stood on the window table.
Beside the lamp on the window side of the bed was
a candle, like something out of an antique picture book, set in a metal holder that had a curved handle. Beside the candleholder was a metal device that looked like a combination between tongs and strange scissors.
Anna shook her head and felt the sheets—somewhat coarse linen, but at least they weren’t wool. She hoped Lord Brill had spelled the bed for vermin, or whatever.
Of course, she couldn’t sleep in her green gown—or wear it every day, either. With a sigh that was half yawn, she stepped toward the robing room, then realized that she couldn’t see in the dark.
That was the reason for the candle. She stepped around the bed and picked up the scissor-tongs, and squeezed them. A spark leapt from them. Although she understood the striker, rather than fiddling with the device, Anna hummed the tune she and Brill had used to light the candles again. It seemed easier than fiddling with the striker. This time, she sang and concentrated on getting a normal name—and she did.
With a smile, she carried the candleholder into the robing room, and after pawing through half the left-hand closet wall, she found what appeared to be a thin cotton gown. Then in the dim candlelight, she kicked off her shoes and struggled out of the green formal and the slips, and the longline bra, and the nylons. They were ruined with runs in at least three places. For the moment, with another yawn, she set them aside. As she pulled on the gown, she wondered if Brill were spying, then shook her head. She hoped he wasn’t. She didn’t like the idea of her privacy being invaded, but she didn’t have any doubts that a sorcerer who had discovered her arrival could easily use his abilities to follow her motions—dressed or undressed. Still, the shapely Florenda indicated that Lord Brill probably had his pick of local young women. So, why would he bother with Anna?
Had he been telling the truth with his words about not wanting her body, but her abilities? Was anyone telling the truth?
She carried the candle back into the bedchamber and set it on the bedside table, cupping her hand and blowing it out, since she saw no snuffer. The cold of the stone floor on her bare feet was welcome. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took off her jewelry last—all costume except for the ring Irenia had given her—and laid it on the bedside table with the non-functioning watch.
Then she climbed between the sheets. The mattress was lumpy, as she had suspected. She tried to arrange the equally lumpy pillows and pushed back the coverlet so that she was covered only by the sheets.
Finally, she blew out the lamps and lay back in the darkness—and the silence.
Everything seemed so real—and unreal. The smells and tastes were vivid enough, especially the vinegary taste of the wine. And the crystal fragments had seemed real enough. But a world where sorcery worked? And everywhere was the same strange contrast—delicate, cultured, refined items beside crude things. What was the pattern? She shook her head in the darkness, knowing she knew the answer, but unable to grasp it in her tiredness and confusion.
Finally, her eyes closed.
9
ESARIA, NESEREA
A sea breeze cools the columned, hilltop chamber. Between the fluted marble pillars the man in the spotless and feather-light white tunic can glimpse the whitecaps of the Bitter Sea. The music of strings, low strings, drifts from the adjoining Temple of Music, providing a soothing background.
The man wearing the cream-and-green Neserean uniform, who stands below the marble Seat of Music, does not appear soothed.
“How did the dark ones first contact you, Jorbel?” The Prophet of Music, Lord of Neserea, and the Protector of the Faith of the Eternal Melody leans forward on the green cushion that comprises the only softness in the receiving pavilion.
“I don’t understand, Lord Behlem.” The uniformed man bows, as he has several times previously.
“If you wish to keep using that head for understanding and other purposes, like surviving, you had best stop playing dumb, Jorbel.”
The perspiration on Jorbel’s forehead turns into rivulets. “Ser?”
Behlem nods, and two armored and armed figures step forward. Jorbel’s hands grab for the knife at his belt, for his scabbard is empty, then claw at the empty air before him. The corpse sinks forward to reveal the blade in its back.
“Donkey-copulators!” snarls Behlem. “How do they do it?” His fingers stroke the neatly trimmed reddish blond beard. “Three of them in the army command in the last year.”
An older man, white-haired and white-bearded, steps forward. His eyes are bloodshot, with deep black circles beneath them. “He might have said more, ser.”
“They never do. The dark ones do something to them. They don’t even respond to the persuasion of the strings or spells of loosening the tongue. They just start making trouble, always insisting that they have received commands I never gave.” Behlem snorts. “Why would I order Jorbel to take the blades from the armory reserves and have them forged into plowshares? Why?”
“Perhaps the dark ones are sending a message?” suggested Menares.
“That we should peacefully accept the rule of darksong and its dubious benefits?” Behlem glances toward the storm gathering beyond the breakwaters of Esaria. “Still …” He pauses. “Are you sure this is wise, Menares? We are far from Ebra, and building up the army has not been inexpensive.”
“Consider this, ser. All of the traitors have opposed it. Also consider the situation that faces us. Nordwei is too strong for the dark ones—”
“At present,” interjects Behlem.
“The Norweians continue to expand their navy, and they refuse to trade except for solid silver. Ranuak is protected by the Whispering Sands and the Sand Hills. Esaria is our only trade port, and the Bitter Sea is often ice-packed or frozen near half the year. The overland route to Encora can be easily severed if the dark ones take Defalk’s eastern marches. In your uncle’s time, we had access to Wei through the River Nord, to Synek and the Syne River to Elahwa.”
“Please, Menares, don’t give me a lecture on trade or economics. I trust you for that. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but we both know how good I am at that sort of thing.”
A wry smile passes the older man’s lips. “Very well, ser. It’s very simple. If you don’t take Defalk, at least the access to the Falche and the South Pass, before the dark ones do, Neserea will be a province of either Ebra or Nordwei in a decade, and you’re a young man.”
Behlem nodded, despite the frown on his face.
“Of course, if you would like to rely upon Cyndyth’s heritage …”
Behlem’s eyes glitter. “You are my advisor, but some matters are best left to me, Menares.”
“I shouldn’t have suggested.”
“No. You shouldn’t have.” Behlem’s eyes focus somewhere far distant. “I’d send her home, as you well know, except that I need the annual stipend from Mansuur, and Konsstin would love an excuse to cut it off.” He smiles brightly, tightly, and his eyes refocus on his advisor. “You’re sure this latest thing won’t stop the dark ones?”
“The blonde sorceress that Lord Barjim has conjured from the mists?” Menares shrugs. “I have my doubts that any sorceress could stop the dark ones, but if she does … we have nothing to lose. Barjim has not the silver or the troops to hold his eastern marches against Ebra and the west against us. Nordwei would not risk an army in Defalk, and certainly not in Ebra.”
Behlem strokes his beard again, as the soothing sounds of the strings drift across the hilltop from the Temple of Music.
As the Prophet of Music looks away, Menares wipes his forehead.
10
Anna woke abruptly in darkness. Where was she? She reached for the lamp, and her hand fumbled on the smooth stone of the bedside table, sending the link necklace skidding off the edge and clanking onto the stone floor.
Her face itched from the scratchy pillowcases, and she could feel a lump of mattress padding—lint or horsehair or feathers or something—digging into her side. She shifted her weight and struggled upright in the dimness, sensing light beyond the heavy window hangings.
<
br /> Rather than try a lighting spell or the striker—groggy as she was, she could definitely understand the value of the striker—she eased her feet off the high bed and onto the cold floor. She padded across the smooth stones toward the windows, where she pulled back the hangings to a gray morning, gray because the sun had not risen.
The stone walls looked blue-gray in the predawn light, and forbiddingly empty. Weren’t people supposed to get up early in less technological cultures? Anna yawned and looked toward the robing room.
Today, she was supposed to go riding—riding and learning more about Erde. If she were hallucinating, she certainly must have taken some fall. Anna shook her head. Erde didn’t feel like a hallucination.
“It sure doesn’t feel like Kansas, Toto—or Iowa.”
And it didn’t. The mattress had been lumpy, the sheets scratchy, and the room stuffy. Her joints ached; her eyes were gummy, and she wanted a toothbrush.
She walked slowly into the robing room and turned on the tap—the wrong one, and quickly added lukewarm water to the steaming stream. There was a flat, rubberlike plug that fit over the drain. In struggling to get the plug to fit in place, she ended up soaking half her gown.
“Damn …” she muttered, looking toward the mirror as she waited for the tub to fill. The gown clung to her in all the wrong places, especially if she were being watched, magically or otherwise.
She shook her head, definitely not at ease with the idea of real magic. “Are you sure you’re not hallucinating?”
The faint steam from the tap, the cold stone underfoot, the aches in her back, the damp gown against her skin, and her itchy nose were good indications that wherever she happened to be was real—too real.
She finally turned off the water, stripped off the gown, and eased into the tub. The warm water felt good, although she’d probably need another bath after riding, as much to relieve soreness as to remove dust. She had to sprawl half out of the tub to grab the small towel she’d used as a washcloth the day before. Then she used the oil soap sparingly, very sparingly, as she washed her face. She wished she had more than the small bottle of hand cream and the little jar of lip moisturizer. Even lotion would have been good, but she hadn’t seen anything like that on Erde—and doubted that she would.
The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 6