The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  As they rode back to the sorcerer's hall, Brill edged his mare closer to Farinelli. "What do you think of our music?"

  "It's more… functional, I think. Ours is designed more for…" Anna paused. How could she say it? What was earth's music designed for, anyway? After a time, not long before they slipped into the shadows of the hall's gates, she finally answered. "I need to think more."

  As they rode past the main entry to the hall toward the stable, from somewhere in the back of the hall grounds came the single crow of a rooster, following by clucking and brawwldng.

  "You are very thoughtful, lady," Brill said as he dismounted outside the stable. "Best you get the thinking done while you can. Events may not always allow for lengthy contemplation."

  "I appreciate the advice." Anna dismounted and led Farinelli toward his stall, where she was met by Quies.

  "How was he, lady?" asked the stablemaster.

  "He was fine, thank you. I enjoyed riding him."

  "Good." Quies led the gelding into the stall, and Anna started toward the front of the stable.

  "You seem rather distant," Brill offered, joining her. The two walked back across the stones toward the main part of the hall.

  "It is rather unsettling to accept a whole new world." Especially when you're still not sure it's real. Anna took off her hat, holding it in her hand. Where the hat had touched her hair was sweaty, and probably dirty from the sweat and dust. "It's even hard to know where to start."

  "I have done my best to make you welcome."

  "I would have done the same for you, Lord Brill, and you would have had as much readjustment in my world as I do here—perhaps more." Anna realized she shouldn't have spoken so sharply, but her feet hurt, and she was tired of being expected to be grateful or scintillating or brilliant— or whatever Brill expected.

  "Dinner will be ready in a glass or so." Brill said stiffly in the entry hall, his eyes taking in Anna's dusty clothes and floppy hat.

  "That will allow me some time to get cleaned up," Anna said sweetly. She was amazed at how dusty she'd gotten just from the short ride to and from the sorcerer's outbuilding. She nodded politely and headed up the wide stone stairs. Before she had gotten three steps up, she was joined by Florenda.

  While the tub filled, she rummaged through the long closets, not wanting to wear the green performing gown— especially not the longline bra—to dinner. The tub was almost full before she found a dark blue gown that was almost a wrap-around style—but it seemed to fit—the only one that really did. Most of the clothing was for women far shorter than she was. She'd still have to wear either the heels, a pair of sandals her toes hung over the front in, or boots.

  She opted for the sandals, since green heels clashed with the dark blue.

  Then she stripped off the dusty riding clothes and eased into the tub. For a time, she just lay in the warm water of the tub, letting it carry away the soreness in her feet and legs.

  A knock on the door roused her, and she had to hurry, finally pinning her hair up into a bun that would probably come undone halfway through dinner.

  Again, Florenda escorted her to the salon.

  "You scarcely look like the horsewoman I saw this afternoon." Brill bowed deeply. He had also bathed and wore the dressier blue velvet trousers and tunic, and short boots.

  "You're kind." Anna nodded.

  "Truthful. I'm still amazed that you have grown children. You have no secret spells to make you younger, you're sure?"

  "Not that I know of." Not except hair coloring, and I'm not about to mention that.

  "After a day here, what have you discovered about us?" asked the sorcerer, pulling out the chair and waiting for Anna to seat herself.

  "That I have a great deal to learn." Anna kept her voice light as she slipped into the heavy chair.

  "What else?"

  "Defalk seems to face some serious problems."

  Brill rang the bell, and Serna appeared immediately. Dinner was a repetition of the night before, except that the sauce on the unnamed meat was white instead of brown, and the bread was more toward rye than pumpernickel.

  "Have you had any more thoughts about the difference between our music and yours?'' Brill probed idly.

  "Ours is more concerned with affecting how people feel," Anna said carefully, knowing that was certainly true enough.

  "That's more like darksong. Is that because your tech-knowledgeable magic is more powerful than clearsong?"

  Anna blinked. "Oh, it's technological magic—the machines. Now, we can do much more with technology, but it hasn't always been that way." She still felt as though she were walking on eggs, trying to avoid admitting that song had no direct physical power in her world without being blatantly untruthful. "Does your clearsong—it is clearsong, isn't it?—work better on things than people?"

  "Clearsong usually does not work on people. Darksong does, but only if the sorcerer is both powerful and careful. Healing is the most dangerous type of spellcasting."

  "Don't you have doctors?" She paused. "Healers?"

  "Some healers know herbs and poultices, and there are some surgeons, but except for setting bones or sewing up wounds, most people heal better without them."

  Anna shook her head, and took another mouthful of bread. She ate slowly, her eyes heavy. The long day, and the heat, were catching up to her.

  "Tomorrow, I need to work on a new spell," Brill mused.

  "For what?" Anna asked.

  "That's something sorcerers generally do not share, at least not until the work is done." Brill took a sip of the vinegar wine that Anna continued to avoid. "You could use the other workroom." The sorcerer's words weren't quite a suggestion.

  "You'd prefer that I not ride anywhere alone, and that I not experiment with spells in the hall?" Anna tried to keep a smile from her face.

  "I have great respect for your abilities," Brill returned. "So might the dark ones, and they know you are here. Outside the walls, until you are more… accustomed to Liedwahr…"

  "Do you think people would come after me?"

  Brill smiled sadly. "I know they will. What I do not know is how soon they will begin."

  "It sounds like you think I should work on sorcery to protect myself."

  "That is always a good idea, particularly now."

  Anna yawned. "I'm sorry. It's not as though I've done that much today. Just ride and listen and look around. Maybe I'm still recovering from…" She spread her hands.

  "That could be. I have never dared to try to transport someone from the mist worlds."

  Anna waited.

  "It can be dangerous, and some sorcerers have been pulled there, rather than pulling objects or people here. Most times the objects or people carried are burned as if by fire." Brill laughed, but his laugh died away. "For those reasons, hard as matters may be here, I prefer my own world.''

  "So would I, but I wasn't given much choice." Anna finished the last of the water in the goblet and sat back. "How do I get back?"

  "I do not know. I would worry about trying. It could kill you." Brill spread his hands. "You are here, and a few others have come from the mist worlds. Likewise, there are records of older sorcerers traveling there, and records of those who arrived as charred corpses. I know of no one who has traveled more than one direction." The sorcerer paused. "That does not mean it is not possible."

  Anna understood. Brill was not about to spend time on something that was impossible. He wouldn't hinder her, but he had paying work to do, work that she had interrupted, and he was suggesting that she work on getting her own spellcasting in order—before too long. Like… starting tomorrow.

  "If you don't mind, Lord Brill, it's time for me to turn in." She stifled another yawn. "Time to get some sleep," she added as she pushed back the chair and stood up.

  Brill rose and bowed. "I will see you at breakfast."

  "I'm sure you will." Anna inclined her head.

  Florenda appeared and followed her up to the bedchamber.

  Afte
r changing into the thin gown, Anna sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the covered windows, wondering how Elizabetta was doing, hoping that her daughter would be all right. Then, again, Avery would certainly step in. Yes, he would. Her fingers clenched.

  Finally, she pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets.

  Neither her worries nor the lumpy mattress and pillows could keep her awake.

  13

  Falcor, Defalk

  Barjim looks into the pewter goblet, then across the table. "I shouldn't have any more."

  "No one will tell you not to, lord," offers the blocky gray-haired man.

  "No one but my conscience, or the ghost of my father, or worse yet, that of my uncle. Or the headache I'll have tomorrow." Barjim's hands curl around the goblet as if he would squeeze it into scrap before he forces his fingers to relax. "Everyone is watching every move I make. If I move troops from Denguic to Mencha or farther east, the Prophet of Neserea will have an army marching from Elioch. Oh, I forgot. He already marched it to his border station at the West Pass to ensure… What did he call it? The music of tranquility?" Barjim's heavy, hooded eyes widen fractionally, and he sets the goblet down on the ancient table. "The dark ones are massing to overwhelm me through the Sand Pass, and I can't raise enough levies and can't buy enough troops to reinforce the eastern marches, and Brill's got about as much backbone as a sand adder."

  "He does a good job on fortifications," pointed out the older man.

  "Only if he's paid, Gelen. Only if he's paid, and you know how little silver we have left. With the drought, the fall harvest won't bring much, and even those bitchy usurers in Encora won't lend me anything else."

  "So… abdicate. Turn Defalk over to Behlem and his prophecies of music. Or petition the Traders' Council of Nordwei to make Defalk a protectorate of Nordwei." Gelen's voice is ironic.

  "I can't do that." Barjim picked up the goblet once more, turning it in his fingers. "Behlem would have my hide—and have Jimbob turned into a castrato and sold to the Sea-Priests. The Norweians would just put me in command of the forces against Behlem—or the dark ones."

  "Have you asked Alasia?" asks the gray-haired man.

  "I don't have to ask her, Gelen. I certainly don't. She tells me, and how can I not listen? Her father has no other direct heirs, but the holding would go to Ensil like that"— Barjim snaps his fingers—"if he thought I'd as much as indirectly criticized her."

  "She is not stupid," Gelen says levelly.

  "No. She's brighter than I am, and all of Defalk knows it. Oh… what does she say? She says about what I just said, because I listen, because I'm smart enough to know that she makes sense." The Lord of Defalk looks at the pitcher beyond the goblet and shakes his head. "Everyone needs an excuse—even me."

  Then he stands. "Except I've got to live with myself."

  14

  Everything here is yours to use, or you may ride back to the hall. Make sure either Wiltur or Frideric accompanies you. All I ask is that you do not disturb me when the door to my workroom is closed." With that, Brill had bowed and left her.

  The workroom was clean enough, and spacious, nearly the size of her bedchamber in Brill's hall, with a window that viewed the distant hills—or mountains—to the east.

  On the stone table were a goblet, a pitcher of cool water and more of the dried apple slices and bread. Both a crude pencil and a quill pen and inkstand rested on the table beside a stack of light brown paper. The key-harp on the corner of the table was something like a miniature piano, except the volume was so low that it was clearly useless except as a composing or learning aid.

  Anna pulled out the chair and sat at the table. Was she just supposed to practice? What? Spells she didn't know? Or was she supposed to create spells?

  As she'd told Daffyd, she wasn't a composer. She was a singer.

  She filled the goblet half-full and took a deep swallow, then another. Her fingers strayed toward the bread, and she pulled them away.

  She touched one of the hand-harp's black keys, and winced. Either the instrument hadn't been used in years or Erde used a strange scale, and that didn't seem possible. The music played the day before had been a simple polyphony, functional, but not out of tune. She looked at the tuning pegs, almost like levers.

  Her hand crept toward the bread again, and she pursed her lips. Eating because she was worried and stressed—one of her worst habits, and one reason why she was a size twelve instead of the eight she'd been four years ago. She shook her head and picked up the pencil, absently creating a series of fat-lined, interlinked loops on the top sheet of the brown paper.

  Anna tried to recall the general rules Brill had given— grudgingly—at breakfast. Sorcery didn't work on the singer—except indirectly; if you caused something to explode you could get killed by the fragments. Spells worked best on ordered or semi-ordered nonliving materials. Spells had to have rhyme and what amounted to meter. Songspells worked best with solid accompaniment, and the more complex and involved spells didn't work at all without that kind of support.

  Great! She put down the pencil, pushed back the chair, stood, and walked toward the door. Then she stopped. What would she do? Ride back to the hall and stew? Complain to the two guards? Or to the ever-attending Rorenda? And about what? Being fed, clothed, treated like a lady? She wouldn't even get sympathy.

  With a deep breath, she turned to the bookcase. Maybe the books would help. The handful of books in the case were leatherbound—hand-bound, she was certain. She scanned the titles—Boke of Liedwahr, The Naturale Philosophie, Proverbes of Neserea, Donnermusik. She pulled out Donnermusik, and opened it to the first page. Her eyes blinked.

  While what she spoke seemed close to what Brill and the others spoke, the words on, the page before her seemed like a cross between seventeenth-century English and German— or maybe the way English would have been without the Norman invasion.

  Musik is the mathematik of sound… and sound the manifestation in Erde itself of the structure of musik that doth support all that be and all that be within Erde…

  She struggled on for a page or so before she realized that the book wasn't just about music, but a treatise on the musical theory behind storms. From what she could piece together, the writer was discussing how the harmonics of a storm were music-driven. She flipped through more pages, stopping occasionally and reading paragraphs.

  As lightning beginneth with a long note value, so must the music which calleth it forth…

  Harmonic variants be most important as a musical consideration, for they must in truthe effect a change of musical resemblement though the constant repetition, with most suitable variants, of the bass pattern… through trommel…

  The relationship between the thunder, and that needs must be represented by the falk horn, supplemented by a continuous bass provided by a trommel, and the lightning… must be joined by a melodic line of the violincello…

  Anna frowned. The last phrase sounded like a sorcerer needed an entire symphony to deal with storms and weather, but Brill had been uneasy in talking about the weather, and he had certainly implied that the dark ones were the only sorcerers who did—and that they used massed voices because a single voice didn't have enough power.

  She looked at the book again. The writer certainly seemed to think that instruments could support weather spells. But the writer was hinting at something that amounted to harmony, and nothing Brill had shown her had demonstrated anything that was effectively complete harmony. She shook her head, and began to leaf through the pages again, but so far as she could see, the slim volume held no words for spells, and nothing resembling music, not even the flaglike medieval tablature she vaguely remembered from her graduate days.

  She closed the book and walked back to the "window. The roads were empty, and the sun was higher, and hotter, no doubt. After a time, she turned and reseated herself at the desk-table.

  Part of the problem was the songs. She'd never realized how many dealt with love, and feelings. She
needed a song that dealt with solid objects, or weapons, or something.

  Her mind was blank. With all the songs she'd learned over the years… Her mind was blank… not blank of songs. There was the jewel song, and all the arias from Boheme, and Barber, Don Giovanni, and even Lakme. De-libes had some violence in Lakme… Were there some sections that could be used? She murmured the words, not singing them until she reached the section she sought.

  "Que le del me protège Me guide par la main Chasse le sacrilège Au loin de mon chemin!"

  "Sacrilège" wasn't it. Could she use "les ennemis'l— that was a near rhyme even in French'. But… the words wouldn't do much except in a battle, and she didn't expect to see one. At least, she certainly hoped she wouldn't. Still, she wrote down the words, with the change, and the rough notes of the melody line. Would they be enough? She couldn't write the whole score, and even if she could, could anyone read it? She hadn't seen any written music. Was there any?

  She rubbed her forehead and took a swallow from the goblet, turning it in her hand. Why did she have so many questions? In novels, heroines or heroes just did things, but what was she supposed to do?

  She looked back at the key-harp. She might as well tune it, even if it were only good for composing or learning. A piano would have been better. Why an underpowered harp?

  Then she nodded, almost ashamed at her slowness. If the strength of spells were determined by the combination of music and voice", and if most spells took twelve players or more, a sorcerer or sorceress had to be limited by what he or she could develop and teach. That meant that there couldn't be that many sorcerers, not when it took talent, trained skill, the ability to read both language and music, and write both in a semi-literate culture.

  With a piano… or something like it… She shook her head. A good pianist and singer—or even a good guitarist and singer—would be the equivalent of… what? A guided missile, atomic weapons? She didn't know… and she didn't have a piano, or a clavier or a harpsichord.

  She strummed the strings, then counted—twenty-four— three octaves. It sounded almost like equal-tempered tuning, but not quite. Perhaps an early form, without the minute adjustments that made the system work smoothly? She hoped so as she reached for the tuning levers.