The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Why … why was it so fucking difficult? She was already being called a bitch and worse. Yet, if Behlem had been Delor’s target, the overcaptain would have been tortured to death in the most grisly way without anyone thinking an ill thought of the Prophet. So why was she the bitch?

  The cold stones that surrounded her gave no answer.

  73

  The day was gray when Anna woke, her eyes gummy, her nose stuffed. For a time, she lay on the lumpy bed, but her thoughts kept drifting back to the dream, a dream where she searched through an unfamiliar house, a house hotter than an oven. She was looking for Irenia, Mario, and Elizabetta. She hadn’t been able to find them, but she’d just had to keep looking, going back through closets overflowing with clothes into which she could no longer fit, toys the children hadn’t used for years, and stacks and stacks of music written in a notation she’d never seen. After a time, she forced her eyes open.

  Finally, she sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. The gray outside was that of morning before sunrise. All that searching in her dream—it meant she had to see them—Mario and Elizabetta, anyway. She swallowed, and her eyes burned, at the thought of Irenia. No magic would let her see Irenia again.

  She stood and padded to the window. The sun had not lifted itself above the horizon, but the eastern sky was pink. Time to dress … and then time to try another spell.

  Once she had her riding clothes on, she turned to the mirror and began to sing, first focusing the spell on Mario.

  “Mirror, mirror …”

  Nothing happened, except a brief swirl of white across her own reflection in the cracked and shimmering glass. Had she lost her ability? Or did a cracked glass spoil the effect? She swallowed, then walked around until she located the greasy pencil and began to scrawl. After that came the lutar.

  “Mirror, mirror with cracks in glass,

  remove the fissure with this pass,

  Make it shine smooth and fine …”

  The glass misted, and reappeared-blemish-free. But the frame was still heat-warped and dark. She ate some stale bread and repeated the effort to see Mario. Again, there was the swirl of white—and nothing.

  The sorceress walked back to the table and swallowed half a goblet of water, and chewed some of the bread left from the night before.

  Then she tried again, with the same result.

  She paced to the window, then back to the mirror. What about Elizabetta? Her heart pounding, Anna studied the mirror for a time before she sang the second spell.

  “Mirror, mirror …”

  This time this swirling white mists in the mirror cleared to reveal Elizabetta sitting in her bedroom in the Colonial. Her red hair was unkempt, and around her were piled heaps of clothes. Elizabetta’s eyes were red, and she was looking at the open cardboard boxes on the floor.

  Anna felt her own eyes fill with tears, but she just watched as her daughter sat on the rumpled tulip quilt that Anna’s mother had given Elizabetta for her tenth birthday.

  The sorceress squinted as Elizabetta said something. Was she asking “Why?” or swearing?

  After a moment longer, the redhead jerked herself upright and began to fold clothes, almost savagely, before stuffing each item into one of the boxes.

  Again the heat poured from the glass, far sooner than before, and Anna sang the release spell quickly. Watching that distant image just twisted her stomach tight up inside herself.

  She shook her head, tiredly, and massaged her neck and then her temples. Spells weren’t infallible, nor was she, as she had discovered in the stable.

  The door knocker thunked.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Menares,” came the answer.

  Anna slid the bolt quietly and eased the door ajar, one hand on the hilt of the knife, but the counselor was alone. “Come in.”

  The older man stepped inside, fingering his white beard as he glanced at the empty saddlebags and the water bottles. “You are still intending to scout out the area around Pamr?”

  “I don’t know any other way.”

  “Last night …” Menares looked into Anna’s eyes.

  Anna looked back, and the counselor’s eyes fell.

  Finally, she said. “You and Behlem set that up cleverly.”

  “My lady … how could you suggest … Delor was a fine commander. He will be sorely missed.”

  “By whom? The Ebrans?” She shook her head. “If I hadn’t done something, every egocentric officer in the Prophet’s army would have thought he could try to kill me, in order to do Delor one better. Now that I have acted, you and Behlem are figures of great temperance and moderation, forced to put up with a mad sorceress for the sake of Defalk and Neserea.”

  Menares did not meet her eyes. “Perhaps it is best that you leave Falcor for a few days.”

  Anna had her doubts. In her absence, the two would probably concoct enough rumors to ensure no officer felt safe within a mile—a dek, she corrected herself—of her.

  “Menares, you are a wise man. I hope you can assure both the Prophet and his captains that I am a reasonable woman.” She forced a smile. “I am sure you can find some way to get across the idea that …” She paused. “Let me put it another way. If it had been the Prophet that Delor’s man had assaulted, how long would Delor have lived?”

  “Not long,” admitted Menares.

  “I even gave Delor some time to make amends. Did he?”

  “Captains are not usually given to making amends, Lady Anna.”

  “Not to women, you mean? Perhaps they should reconsider their ways. That wasn’t the point, though. I was hoping you could find a way to explain to the captains and overcaptains that I am a most reasonable woman.” She smiled again. “Especially when people are reasonable in return.”

  Another silence filled the tower room.

  “How long will you be gone?” the counselor finally asked.

  “As long as it takes, and not a moment longer.” Anna looked at the leather bag in Menares’ hand. “I presume those are our travel expenses?”

  The counselor nodded and extended it. “There are fifteen golds.”

  Anna tucked the bag into her overflowing wallet. “I’ll return any that aren’t needed.” She looked at the saddle-bags. “I do need to pack these and be on my way.”

  “I’m certain you do, lady.” Menares smiled tightly as he turned toward the door.

  After seeing him out, she slid the bolt into place and resumed her hasty packing—not that she was taking that much besides the lutar, spare riding clothes, a towel, and soap. There wasn’t that much in Falcor she could take.

  When she was through, Anna glanced at the saddlebags and the water bottles by the door, then yanked the bellpull.

  Before long, both Skent and Birke stood on the landing.

  “I’d like some help with these.”

  “You’re leaving today?” asked Skent.

  “I’ll be back.” Unfortunately. “Before too long.”

  The two glanced at each other.

  Anna could read the unspoken thoughts. “If you’re wondering whether I’m really leaving because of the mess last night, the answer is no. I’d arranged this before last night. Of course, it probably won’t hurt that I’m out of view for a few days.”

  “I’m glad Delor’s gone,” Skent volunteered

  Birke smirked, and Skent added quickly, glaring at the redheaded page, “He was mean. Once he kicked Cens.”

  Birke looked away from Skent, and then down at the stones of the landing.

  What was that about? What was she missing? Anna wondered.

  “Let’s go.” Anna lifted the lutar case. The two followed her down the stairs and across the morning-shadowed courtyard to the stables.

  In the gloom inside the stables, Tirsik stood. Beyond him, Daffyd struggled with the saddle to his mare.

  “Good morning, Lady Anna.” Tirsik smiled. “He’s been fed, seeing as I heard you’d be riding out early.”

  “Thank you.” Anna
turned to the pages. “Just leave the bags by the stall. I’ll load them once I get Farinelli saddled.” She smiled. “Keep things in order while I’m gone.”

  Skent smiled and nodded. Birke nodded soberly. Then they walked toward the stall. Anna looked back to the stablemaster.

  “The one worships you. The other fears you,” said Tirsik.

  “I hope I treat them the same.”

  “Oh, you do, lady. I’ve watched. But Skent comes from an armsman’s stock, and he’s seen the worst. Young Birke, his sire’s a lord, and the lords of Defalk haven’t held much for strong women. Armsmen need strong women, but lords fear them.” The wiry stablemaster laughed. “I talk too much. Best you be getting ready.”

  “I appreciate your words, Tirsik. I’m a stranger, and they help.”

  “Are we still going?” asked Daffyd, loudly.

  “Why not?” Anna smiled brightly as she turned.

  “I heard … last night.” The player glanced toward the central hall structure.

  “That doesn’t change anything. I talked with Menares this morning.”

  Daffyd shook his head. “The armsmen won’t be happy.”

  “Spirda is a lancer. He reports to Hanfor,” Anna pointed out.

  Daffyd shrugged, an expression that did not signify full agreement.

  Anna walked to the stall, where Farinelli neighed. “Good morning to you, beast. You seem to be the only one besides Tirsik who’s pleased to see me this morning.”

  The gelding neighed again.

  “Except you just want to be groomed.” She laughed as she slipped into the stall, setting her feet carefully. The area still held the faintest residual odor of charred meat and straw. Anna tried not to think about it as she brushed the palomino, then saddled him, and strapped her gear in place.

  Farinelli almost pranced as she led him from the stables out into the courtyard where Daffyd waited, a sober expression fixed in place. He shook his head minutely as Anna rechecked the saddle.

  “Why are we riding to Pamr?” Spirda asked, as he led his mount into the courtyard and stopped beside Anna.

  “So I can figure out some way to stop the Ebrans before they kill you,” answered Anna. She wanted to apologize for being short with the clueless young subofficer, but she didn’t. She was tired of explaining and apologizing.

  “But the Prophet …”

  “The counselor and the Prophet have already agreed.” Anna turned to Farinelli and checked saddlebags, water bottles, and the lutar case a last time before mounting.

  Daffyd scrambled into his saddle, as did Spirda.

  Anna slowly eased Farinelli across the stones of the courtyard toward the portcullis gate.

  Except for the half squad of duty guards, there were no armsmen moving in the tents beyond the liedburg walls. The horses in the temporary corral stood almost motionless. Even in the meanest stretch north of liedburg, the early-morning light fell on streets that were all but deserted.

  A wisp or two of smoke drifted from a handful of scattered chimneys, and Anna had to guide Farinelli to the east side of the street to avoid an enthusiastic maid dumping chamberpots. But far too many shutters were fastened tight, or ripped open and hanging askew on iron brackets.

  Spirda rode stiffly behind Anna and Daffyd, but Anna was in no mood to cheer anyone up. How could she figure out how to use a river and land to stop the dark ones? And did her inability to see Mario mean something terrible? Or that she was losing her talent for sorcery? Or that, as Brill had intimated, too much trying to see the mist worlds—her earth—would cost too much? Or start a raging blaze?

  She straightened in the saddle and pushed the thoughts away. She had to do what she could do.

  74

  The endless sun beat down on Anna, on the dusty road as she led the riders up the long incline from Sorprat and the ford across the Chean River. Sweat oozed into her hair and down onto her brow no matter how often she used the soggy square of cloth that once had resembled a handkerchief.

  At the top of the incline, where the road flattened into a dusty strip heading eastward toward Mencha, Anna turned Farinelli back west for a few paces, along a narrow path wide enough for perhaps two horses. There she reined up and studied the road. The main road from Mencha and the east swung down through the cut in the hillside to the ford—essentially a stone causeway over which a handspan of brown water flowed. On the low hill on the north side of the river stood the handful of houses that represented Sorprat. On the south side, where Anna, Daffyd, and the armsmen had reined up, the dry river bluffs were empty, except for an abandoned stone watchtower less than fifty yards across the road from Anna. The watchtower offered a clear view of both ford and town, and the flat highway that stretched through scattered brown grass, creosote bushes, and bare reddish ground toward the eastern horizon. Anna edged Farinelli slightly closer to the bluff edge and leaned forward in the saddle, trying to study the curve of the river.

  “Still waters run deep …” The song’s words echoed in her thoughts and were gone. The Chean might run smoothly, but it certainly wasn’t deep, and that was part of her problem.

  “Why are we headed out this way?” asked Daffyd. “No one is stupid enough to fight a battle with their backs to a cliff.”

  Anna wanted to glare at the player. Too often, he was still the condescending undergraduate who hadn’t figured out how much he didn’t know. “You’re right, but I don’t know the road. I need to check it out.”

  Daffyd looked puzzled. “Check out?”

  “Look at it.” Anna paused, then continued, absently patting Farinelli on the neck. “If the Prophet’s forces are in Pamr, how will Eladdrin bring his troops?”

  “He’ll take the high road along the bluff here,” answered Spirda from Anna’s right. “He wouldn’t want to put them on the exposed low ground down there, especially since he knows you’re a sorceress. They’d be sitting geese for archers, too.”

  Anna would not have called the narrow dusty trail that wound westward—almost paralleling the curves of the river itself—a road, although perhaps it had been a highway once, before the rains had ceased. The trail was flat, level, and ran through low brush and brown grass, leaving any who traveled it visible for deks or leagues … or whatever. Her eyes flicked back downhill to the Chean River, a thin line of brown water almost lost in wider banks that announced it had once been far greater.

  As Spirda had said, the Ebrans certainly would not wish to lead their troops downhill into the ford—even if they knew the area contained no troops.

  What if Behlem drew up his forces as though to defend Pamr—a good part of a day’s march farther west? With their water-scrying, the Ebrans would certainly know where the Prophet’s forces were.

  Anna frowned. The Ebrans could take the narrow trail that once might have been a road and follow the river to hold the high ground—and they wouldn’t have to worry about mud or rain. Even so, how near would they stay to the river? She rubbed her forehead.

  “Spirda? If Hanfor were leading his troops, how close would he stay to the river?”

  “It’s hard to say.” The subofficer pursed his lips, then scratched the back of his head. “He’d want to see the river and the plain there. I don’t know, but I’d bet he’d pretty much follow this road we’re on. You can see riders from a long ways, and there’s higher ground on this side as you get toward Pamr.”

  Anna looked at the bluffs—they seemed to be normal clay and soil, not sandstone or the redstone of the Ostfels. Could she turn the bluffs into something more dangerous? She remembered listening to Sandy and his endless lectures on aquifers and groundwater and sinkholes. But could she create something that the Ebrans couldn’t see? Couldn’t sense? Something that seemed natural even to magic sensors?

  “We’ll be here awhile.” Anna took out the second water bottle, uncapped it, and swallowed a good third of it before she replaced it. Even with the bedraggled floppy-brimmed hat and the long-sleeved shirt, she felt the sun beating through her.


  Spirda looked surprised.

  “I need to do some prep work. Just make sure we’re not disturbed.” She slowly dismounted, handed Farinelli’s reins to the subofficer, and began to unstrap the lutar. “Daffyd?” “Yes, Lady Anna?” The player eased the mare over beside Spirda.

  “I’m going to need some help.” She pulled out several scraps of paper and the battered greasemarker that she’d lugged all across Defalk. “After I figure out the right kind of spell.”

  Daffyd nodded and began to dismount.

  Spirda gestured, and one of the other armsmen, older, black-bearded, rode closer. “Take these, Fhurgen.” The subofficer handed Farinelli’s reins to the bearded man. In turn, Daffyd handed the mare’s reins to the older armsman.

  Anna set the lutar case beside the road, and began to hum, trying to match what she had in mind to the melody. She sat on a patch of ground between two bedraggled creosote bushes that seemed clear of ants and insects, pushing the hat back slightly, her back to the mid-afternoon sun.

  She was probably crazy to be out in the heat, but she felt there wasn’t that much time. So she just kept drinking lots of water.

  The first line didn’t work, and she scratched it out.

  “What’s she doing?” whispered Fhurgen to Daffyd.

  The other armsmen just watched, and Anna could feel all the eyes on her. She wanted to shake her head.

  “Creating a spell … I think,” the player muttered back.

  Anna glared at them. It was hard enough without intrusions. Both men closed their mouths, but she caught the exchange of glances. More unspoken shit about moody or bitchy women. Men were creative or eccentric, but women were difficult or bitchy. She snorted, ignoring the second set of glances, forcing her thoughts back to the spell rhyme.

  Her neck burned by the time she had the four verses she needed scrawled out on the paper. Her knees creaked as she stood.