The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  "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 can-dleholder 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 flame—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 Florehda 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 m
y 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.

  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 too-small towels were scratchy, and her skin prickled in the cool of the robing room. Still, it was better than the heat she imagined continued outside the sorcerer's hall. She laughed ruefully. Hadn't that been the story of her life— difficult as things seemed, they were always better than the alternatives could have been?

  She also needed to find some clothes that would fit for riding. The green formal gown was definitely not designed for that. With a deep breath, Anna turned toward the open closets, where she found what looked to be a dressing gown. That helped with the chill.

  In among everything else—and Anna had to wonder just how many ladies Brill had prepared for—she found some soft green cotton trousers and a matching armless tunic, as well as a loose-fitting natural cotton blouse she could wear under the tunic. She frowned. Would both a blouse and tunic be too hot? She fingered the fabric of the blouse… or shirt—the buttons were on the right-hand side.

  The cotton underdrawers she found were either too tight or too baggy. Clearly, Erde hadn't discovered elastic, either. She opted for comfort. Too tight might look wonderful in a fashion magazine, but she wasn't in a fashion magazine. She was in some strange world where everyone else seemed to know what was going on. Finally, she shrugged off the dressing gown and pulled on the baggy underdrawers— softer, at least, than any other fabric she'd felt, and then the rest of the outfit.

  Shoes? She certainly couldn't wear heels.

  On a shelf at the far end of the open were four pairs of boots, all in shades of blue, but nowhere could she find socks. Only one pair was large enough, and even those were a squeeze around her calves.

  When Anna had dressed and applied a little makeup and lip gloss, she studied herself in the mirror. She had to admit I she didn't look too bad. The faded green flattered her complexion, even with the minimal makeup she'd had and used, and—wonder of wonders—the trousers didn't even accentuate her hips.

  She snorted. "A strange world, and you're worrying about how your hips look."

  Anna looked at the green handbag on the table in the bedchamber. She didn't want to carry it, nor to leave it, especially some of the contents, like the lotion, the lip moisturizer. She doubted that any of the coins were worth anything, not since the U.S. had given up honest silver and copper. That brought another rueful look to her face. Who would have thought she'd be thinking about coins?

  While she had carried more than a few things in her purse, the handbag she'd carried had been stripped down to essentials—as she always did for functions. She offered a wry grin to the mirror. Too bad she hadn't been headed for a theatrical performance with three bags full of stuff. For a moment, she wished she were one of those women who carried everything all the time.

  The trousers had no pockets, nor did the blouse, and the two patch pockets on the tunic didn't feel like they'd hold much. So how did people carry things?

  She went back to the closets that seemed to hold everything and began to rummage, eventually coming up with something that looked like a cross between an overgrown wallet, a purse, and a leather pouch. The leather loops were clearly designed for a belt to fit through them.

  As she untied the leather belt—no buckles on Erde—and slipped the wallet-purse in place, she smiled ruefully. The meaning of the term cutpurse was a lot clearer. By carefully nestling items together, she could even fit everything that had been in her green handbag in the oversized wallet, except the brush. She set that on the table with the handbag. Then she looked at it again, finally picking it up and easing it into the left tunic pocket, bristles down. The handle stuck out, but the way things had been going, who knew where she'd be by evening?

  Her eyes went to the bedside table, and the jewelry and her watch. She walked over and picked up the watch that still showed the time as five-forty. That was another question. Why didn't it work? Why had it and the key gotten so hot when she had been spelled into Erde—but not the necklace or her rings? Did the gold plate have anything to do with it? Finally, she strapped the watch on her wrist and the rings on her fingers, but the costume gold links went into the green handbag. If they vanished, so be it.

  Anna jumped at the knock on the outer door, then took a deep breath and walked to the door. "Yes?"

  "Lady… your breakfast is being served in the salon, and Lord Brill would greatly appreciate your company."

  Anna fumbled with the bolt and opened the door. "Florenda, I will be there momentarily."

  "Might I wait and accompany you, lady?" asked the dark-haired girl, her black eyes pensive.

  "That would be fine." Anna could sense Florenda's unease. Would the girl be punished if Anna failed to appear? Or was she politely trying to get Anna to hurry, but fearful of offending someone she thought might be a powerful sorceress?

  Anna left the door ajar as she studied the bedc
hamber, then turned. "I guess I'm ready."

  Florenda bowed and turned. Anna followed her down the corridor and through the dimly lit rooms to the salon, where light poured through the bay window behind the table.

  Lord Brill rose from the small table and bowed. "Good morning, Lady Anna. I trust you rested well."

  Anna returned the bow. "I appreciate your courtesy and hospitality, Lord Brill." She looked down at herself. "I hope you do not mind my use of the clothing, but I did not arrive exactly dressed for…"

  "You may have anything you need, lady." His mouth crinkled and his eyes smiled. "You will doubtless repay it manyfold through your talents." He gestured to the table. "Please…"

  "Thank you." Anna slipped into the chair across the table from him, trying not to think about repayment.

  The sorcerer wore blue, as he always did, Anna suspected, but the cloth was more functional, harder than the velvet of the day before. Shirt, tunic and trousers were all of a faded cotton like that of Anna's green trousers. The circles under Brill's eyes were even more pronounced than the evening before, and the brown-flecked green eyes were themselves bloodshot.

  "You must have stayed up awhile last night," Anna observed.

  "Something like that." He sat again and took a sip of the hot beverage in his mug.

  Anna followed his example, pouring the steaming yellow-green liquid into her mug and taking a small sip. While the warmth was welcome, whatever it was; it wasn't tea, and it wasn't coffee, and it was bitter, with a taste like boiled pine needles.

  She poured a goblet of water.

  Before her was another half melon, and in the middle between them, a loaf of bread, some sliced dried apples, some cheese wedges that looked like those she'd rejected the day before, and a jar of reddish preserves.

  She broke off some of the bread, dabbed some of the preserves on it, and took a bite.

  "You never did say much about your world," Brill began slowly.

  "No," Anna admitted after swallowing a mouthful of the tasty and chewy dark bread. "What would you like to know?"