The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Then, there was another troubling thing. While Anna clearly had the body and physical attributes of a young woman in her mid-twenties, she hadn’t had a single period since she’d been in Liedwahr. First, she’d thought it was stress, but everything else was normal, except her cycle. She didn’t have one, and she didn’t have an explanation … unless … unless …

  Brill’s sorcery had frozen her physically so that she’d never have a cycle … and, young body or not, no chance at children. She wasn’t sure she wanted to bring children into Liedwahr, and she certainly hadn’t met anyone she would have wanted to love or father them—but she would have liked the choice! And it didn’t look like she was going to get that, either.

  She took a long slow breath and looked from the mirror to the two gowns once more.

  In the end, she donned the green one, the more modest of the two, though neither was as daring as the recital gown that still lay in Loiseau, probably moldering, or plundered by the Ebrans.

  Skent answered the bellpull, his eyes wide, and they headed down the stairs toward the middle dining hall.

  Did she really look that good? Anna wanted to shake her head—his reaction had to be a youthful crush.

  “How is Cataryzna?” she asked.

  The page blushed.

  “All right, young man. I won’t embarrass you too much. Will I ever get to meet her?”

  “She lives with her aunt in the south tower. That’s the guarded one.”

  “I take it that her father is important?”

  “Geansor is the Lord of Sudwei, and Sudwei is the gate to the South Pass.”

  Anna frowned. So Geansor was the key to the main trade route to Ranuak? Why was Cataryzna so valuable as a hostage, apparently for both Barjim and Behlem, when women didn’t count for that much? “I find it hard to see why a daughter—”

  Skent stopped and turned, lowering his voice. “Lady Anna …” He looked up and down the tower staircase.

  “She’s a hostage. I understand that. But why her? Doesn’t Lord Geansor have any sons?”

  “Lord Geansor was … wounded in the peasant uprising when she was small. She was his firstborn, the only one that lived. He can have no more children. The lord’s only brother was killed by raiders two years ago.”

  Anna understood. Cataryzna was literally the only blood relative or possible heir, and that meant she would be married off—probably as soon as the mess with the Ebrans was resolved. She shuddered at the thought of a world where a young girl was effectively imprisoned, if in a golden cage, until she could be imprisoned by marriage once more. Then, much of earth had been like that—and some still was. She put a hand out to Skent and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Skent. Does she like you?”

  The page forced a nonchalant shrug. “Who could say? I only deliver meals and such when Hestyr is ill or on other errands.”

  The sorceress could tell. Love had found a way, and that love seemed hopeless to both.

  “Don’t worry yet,” she cautioned, as she continued down the steps toward the main level. “Nothing will happen for a time.”

  “Lord Behlem was talking of consorting her with Overcaptain Delor.” Skent grinned. “You didn’t know, did you?”

  “No.” Now that strange exchange between Skent and Birke the day she had left made sense. Of course, so did Behlem’s plan to marry Cataryzna to Delor, because an officer would owe loyalty to Behlem more than would any lord from Neserea. Anna snorted. Barjim probably had worked out something similar with one of his own trusted officers. Men! “But I understand more.” Anna forced a smile, hating what she was about to do, even if it was true. “You know, I’m the only one who would oppose what Behlem has in mind.”

  “You would?” Skent’s tone was skeptical.

  “I don’t believe women should be barter chips in power games.” Anna laughed harshly. “At least, we ought to have the right to barter ourselves.” After all, wasn’t that what she was doing? The thought left the taste of bile in her mouth.

  Skent pursed his lips, but said nothing, and Anna let it ride. There was nothing she could do at the moment.

  Only half the lamps in the long corridor to the dining hall were lit, and the air remained hot and dusty as Skent and Anna approached the double doors where Giellum stood, flanked by two armsmen with drawn blades. Both wore Neserean cream and blue, and Anna wished she had worn her dagger, and brought the lutar. Instead she smiled at Giellum.

  The younger armsman swallowed and eased open the left-hand door. “Lady Anna.”

  Anna nodded to Skent and stepped into the dining hall, again lit only dimly by three candelabra upon the single long table.

  “My lady!” called Menares from beside the head of the table. Beside him stood a tall and gangly man whose thinning hair was far too long, with a lock dangling forward over his left eye.

  As Anna stepped forward, the handful of officers eased away, almost as if she were a leper, and the man beside Menares pushed his hair off his forehead. Ignoring the of ficers, she walked the length of the table and stopped a few yards short of the counselor.

  “Lord Dencer, this is the lady Anna, the sorceress from the mist worlds,” Menares said. “Lady Anna, Dencer is the Lord of Stromwer.”

  Dencer inclined his head ever so slightly, enough to convey his impression that Anna was far beneath him.

  “I’m pleased to meet the lord who holds the key to the south,” Anna lied, wishing she could simply incinerate the condescending bastard.

  “Lady Anna is the sorceress who destroyed much of the Ebran forces at the Sand Pass.”

  “A pity she could not destroy them all.”

  “I don’t recall seeing you there, Lord Dencer,” Anna said smoothly. “Were you engaged in important business elsewhere? Perhaps in Ranuak?”

  Menares swallowed a gulp almost soundlessly, then turned at the sound of a chime to see Behlem, resplendent in a new or refurbished tunic of blue and gold.

  “Lady Anna, would you be so kind as to light the chandeliers?” asked the Prophet, his voice smooth.

  “It would be my pleasure.” Anna put even more butter in her words than Behlem had in his. She wanted to toast both the supercilious Dencer and the Prophet, the first for his arrogance and Behlem for his cavalier use of her as a tool. Instead, she cleared her throat and sang the candle spell, projecting as much force as possible and visualizing the blaze of light.

  The sudden illumination was almost as good as a bank of flashbulbs, Anna felt, and the paleness of Lord Dencer reflected the effectiveness of Behlem’s ploy.

  “Thank you, Lady Anna,” said the Prophet. “We should be seated while the food remains warm.”

  “Rather impressive,” admitted the Lord of Stromwer. “Yes … rather impressive.”

  “And without players,” added Menares as he sat down beside Lord Dencer and across from Hanfor, who had slipped into the seat to Anna’s right.

  “Congratulations,” whispered Hanfor, his lips not moving, the words barely reaching Anna as he poured her wine.

  “Thank you, overcaptain.”

  “It is surprising to find a … sorceress of such power … in the hall of … one such as the Prophet of Music,” said Dencer. “How did you come to be here?”

  “It was not exactly my idea,” began Anna, as she quickly summarized her arrival in Mencha and her encounters with the Ebrans, concluding with, “ … and Lord Behlem seems to be the only leader with both the resources and the desire to stop the dark ones.”

  “The lady Anna is too kind,” said Behlem ironically. “Far too kind, but her talents allow her the luxury of kindness.”

  “I give you only your due,” Anna answered graciously, adding, “You are the sole lord who has stepped forward against the dark ones.”

  Behlem’s fingers touched his beard, and a smile flitted across his mouth and vanished as he said. “We must also defeat them.”

  “Indeed you must,” added Dencer, brushing a longish lock of mostly brown hair off a sweaty forehe
ad. “If Defalk is to remain intact.”

  “Defalk will remain intact,” promised Behlem, “especially with your assistance and that of Lady Anna.”

  Dencer smiled blandly and lifted his goblet.

  “Your player said that in an earlier skirmish with the Ebrans you took a war arrow full through the shoulder and yet within weeks you fought at the Sand Pass.” Hanfor smiled with his last words.

  “Is that true?” asked Dencer.

  “Mostly. It wasn’t a skirmish. It was an ambush.” Anna paused as the surcoated servers slipped the platters and the baskets of bread onto the long table.

  “He also said you deflected the arrow barehanded or you would have been killed,” added Hanfor.

  “Yes. I was unfortunate enough to try that. Those arrows hurt.” Anna lifted her goblet and took the smallest of sips.

  From his position on the table below Hanfor, Zealor grinned and whispered, “Especially if you live through them.”

  “You do not look as so many women warriors do,” of fered Dencer, his tone neutral.

  “Ha! Tell that to Delor’s kin, or the armsman she gutted with a dagger.”

  Anna couldn’t tell who had offered the sotto voce comment, but she could see that Behlem was caught between amusement and anger.

  “An … you seem to have garnered quite a bit of respect,” Dencer finally replied.

  Anna speared two thick slabs of meat, then held the platter for Hanfor. As usual, she was hungry, as she had been the entire time in Liedwahr. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t churn all night, either from the nourishment she needed or the politics she loathed.

  “The lady Anna is highly respected,” interjected Menares. “She has even scouted and served as an envoy for the Prophet since her arrival in Falcor.”

  “Enough of this talk of arms,” ordered Behlem with a laugh. “Everyone will want to tell a tale, and we will never eat.”

  Dencer smiled again, faintly and falsely, and served himself two slabs of meat.

  “Since I am a stranger here,” Anna began, “I know little of Defalk. Tell me about Stromwer.” She didn’t bat her eyelashes, but she might as well have. Still, what she didn’t know would fill a book, and it wouldn’t hurt to thaw Dencer out of his shock. She might also learn a lot, and everything helped.

  Hanfor nodded minutely, and Anna took a small sip of wine, knowing she needed to keep the sips small indeed over the long evening. Then she forced herself to take another slab of the meat.

  83

  ENCORA, RANUAK

  “The Evult unleashed the headwaters of the Ost. Much of Wei was flooded,” reports Veria. “The entire trading area will have to be rebuilt.” She seats herself on a low cushion to the left of the Matriarch’s chair.

  “He is a little man. Every time his plans are thwarted, he wants to destroy something,” observes the Matriarch. “He will have to unleash something even worse on Defalk before long.”

  “Why? People still flee Falcor, and the border lords must buy our grain. Each week the land suffers more from the heat, and the harvest would hardly repay a third of what you loaned Barjim and lost.”

  “She never loses,” points out Ulgar. “You only lose when you stop playing.”

  Veria’s eyes flicker to the silver-haired consort who is bent over a board filled with pieces. “Father … this is not a game.”

  “It is not … not exactly, but he is right, dear,” says the Matriarch, her round face still cheerful. “Lord Behlem plays the Lord of Defalk now, and he still holds the soprano sorceress.”

  “I’d say she holds him, though neither knows it,” opines Ulgar.

  “None of this makes sense,” protests Veria.

  “Oh, it doesn’t make sense; but the parts of the harmonies are there, and there will be a harmonic resolution. That’s why the Evult is only making matters worse with all his fussing and fuming.”

  “Mother—”

  “Matriarch, dear. We are speaking officially.” The Matriarch offers a serious face for a moment, but the smile returns to the cherubic cheeks as she speaks. “Eladdrin will fail against the sorceress because he expects her to fight, and she will not, not on his terms. That will upset the Evult even more, and he will fly into a rage, and do something even more dissonant, and that will strengthen the rebounding harmonies. Really, it is quite clear.”

  “What about the golds?” pursues Veria.

  “I do not know, but a debt is a debt, and it will be paid one way or another.”

  Veria looks to her father, but he only smiles.

  84

  Even before she washed or dressed, Anna was at the mirror, lutar out and envelope in hand, the envelope heavy with her letter, the gold and silver coins, her watch, and the small drawing.

  “Mirror, mirror …”

  This time the image was clear. Elizabetta was alone, standing in front of the dresser in the guest room at Avery’s vacation house, rubbing her eyes. Anna didn’t wait, but strummed the lutar and began the spell, hoping, somehow, that it would work.

  “Bring this to my daughter, in her land,

  Deliver it safely to her hand,

  let her know that I love her … .”

  The envelope vanished, and the tower room around Anna shivered, as though a distant chord had been plucked on a gigantic harp and reverberated through the entire tower, through all of Falcor. Yet Anna sensed she alone felt that chord.

  Her head ached, and sharp needles stabbed through her eyes. Still, Anna, though her head was pounding, started to repeat the first spell, but the words caught in her throat as cracks rippled across the mirror and flames flickered along the wooden mirror frame.

  She barely managed to empty the water basin across the burning wood before her knees shivered into jelly, and she half staggered, half fell toward the bed.

  85

  When Anna woke again, her head ached, and her whole body ached, and her room was hot and dusty from the hot wind coming through the window. She could barely open gummy eyes and struggle upright.

  Drinking nearly an entire pitcher of water—slowly, so slowly—helped reduce the headache. After easing the cloth-covered breakfast tray from the landing, she began to eat. The stale bread and hard cheese helped, and, by the time she had finished, she only felt like Farinelli had ridden over her, as opposed to an entire army.

  Ignoring a too-damp forehead, she looked to the window, no longer blocked by the unseen cooling filter she had earlier ensorcelled into place, then to the blackened and sagging rectangle that had been a mirror. She’d have to get another. Apparently, sending even the smallest package to earth had taken tremendous effort. Anna shivered, despite the heat. Everyone said she was the strongest sorceress around, and if she had that much trouble … She shivered again, then forced herself to her feet.

  She needed clean water, and she needed a mirror. Slowly, she reached for the bellpull, and then shuffled to the door.

  When she opened the door for the page, Skent’s mouth opened as he saw the wall past her shoulder.

  “These things happen to sorceresses,” she said. “I need a new mirror—an old one—any kind of mirror—immediately, and I need more water.”

  “Yes … Lady Anna.”

  “I’m sorry, Skent. It’s hard, sometimes.” She stepped aside. “Could you take what’s left of the mirror?”

  Skent just gawked for a moment.

  “Not all spells work the way they should. People forget that.” She rubbed her forehead. “And, if you wouldn’t mind, could you bring me something more to eat?”

  The page almost shook his head, but looked dumbly at the spidered lines and the blackened frame of the mirror before he stepped toward it.

  After Skent left, Anna sat down and drank some more water while she waited for the wash water, the food, and another mirror. From the way she felt, she didn’t even want to consider how she looked.

  Before long Birke brought the wash water, and a small tray of dried apples and bread.

  “Thank you.”<
br />
  The page nodded and backed away.

  When she had eaten some of the apples, she spelled the water. Laboriously, she washed and began to pull on her clothes.

  She stood dressed but barefooted in the middle of the room, forcing more of the rubbery apples past her lips, when the knocker thunked.

  “Yes?” She half walked, half staggered toward the door.

  “It is Menares, Lady Anna.”

  She suppressed a groan and opened the door.

  With a smile, the white-haired counselor marched into the chaos of the room and looked around. “What mighty sorcery have you tried this morning?” asked Menares pleasantly.

  “What?”

  “Lady Anna, I am not powerful, but I am not without wit. You appear as though you have wrestled with dissonance. Your room is hot, and your composure is less than perfect.” The counselor smiled. “And your page has removed a burned mass of glass and wood.”

  “Trying to bridge worlds,” Anna admitted. “It takes more effort than I thought.”

  “Were … you successful?” Menares’s eyes narrowed.

  “Not so much as I would have liked.” Anna didn’t want to say more. So she walked to the table and took another swallow of water. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Since you will lead the vanguard, the Prophet wanted to inform you that you will leave at dawn tomorrow.”

  “What is the vanguard?”

  “You will have some two companies of lancers, in addition to Subofficer Spirda and your personal guard.”

  “A company?” asked Anna.

  “Five squads.”

  Anna tried to calculate mentally, then just approximated—something like one hundred and fifty mounted armsmen.