The Saprano Sorceress

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  "Will we learn magic?"

  No such thing as magic, except there is.

  "Can you not bring back the rains and the river?" Can you not… not… not?

  "Most impressive—again—Regent Anna.'' Most impressive… impressive…

  What was impressive? Going out and getting yourself killed?

  She could feel her body being moved, somehow, and again, the pain was enough to drive her under—for a time.

  "Drink… lady… drink." Each word out of the darkness echoed in her ears, each syllable burning, boring like a dull dentist's drill into her skull and train.

  She drank, she thought, though she could not feel anything but a hot liquid spilling across her face. Hot liquid and soft sounds that burned through her ears and into her brain.

  131

  In time, Anna recognized where she was—in the great guest quarters in Lord Jecks' hall, and for the time that flowed around her, she drank and ate mushy stuff and dozed—it hurt too much to sleep, really sleep.

  Her right arm was encased in the medieval equivalent of a splint, a leather-and-wood contraption that weighed on her stomach if she rested it there, and hurt, besides making her feel lopsided, in any other position.

  Finally, she could stay awake—sort of.

  The door opened.

  "You are awake," offered the white-haired lord, standing at the foot of the triple-wide bed. Beside him stood Alvar, with what looked to be burns across half his face.

  "Partly." She winced. Even her own words hurt her ears. So did the sight of the injured captain.

  "The women—they were reluctant to let us in. Even the healer. She rode from Ohal when she heard you suffered." Jecks shook his head, then gestured to the grayness outside the half-open window. "Do you see the rain? We have had no rain in more than four years." He laughed. "I feel for you, lady."

  "It's not that bad," lied Anna. Her mouth felt like it had been lined with mildewed blankets. She didn't even want to think about the havoc she had unleashed, not yet.

  "Between the spells from Lord Brill and the healer, you will heal. That is not why I pity you." Jecks looked at her thoughtfully. "You have done the impossible, and your people—they have claimed you, now—will expect that and more. You are the destroyer of dissonance, the savior of the land, lady and sorceress, great Regent of Defalk."

  Destroyer, that was about right. The greatest destroyer in history… because there were no other options, but who would remember that? You will…. She closed her eyes.

  "They will expect miracles and more," Jecks reiterated.

  Anna groaned. "Forever, I suppose."

  "No… thank the harmonies. I do not know exactly what sort of spell rendered you forever young, Lady Anna," said Jecks, "but even an old warhorse like me knows that no spell creates immortality. Did you think you could not be killed… to attempt such a massive destructive spell in the midst of the Ostfels?" He shook his head, still looking like Robert Mitchum, Anna thought. "Such youth spells only mean that you will remain young until you die. Because you have more vitality you may live a decade or two longer, but you will still have a human life-span. That, you will find, may be all too long." He shrugged. "Then perhaps your youthful energy will support you. I am only glad that it is you, and not me."

  Alvar nodded.

  Anna coughed, wincing at the shock through her chest and arm. "What happened… afterward? Spirda? The players?"

  Alvar swallowed, moistening his lips. "Vult is… no more. All… The whole valley steams with the fires of dissonance. The rivers… they became torrents with the melted snow and ice and the mighty rains." He shook his head. "Synek is mostly gone. Even half of Elawha was destroyed. The mountains still shake, and a new peak rises, a volcano. They call it Zauberinfeuer."

  Anna struggled with the word. Zauberflotte was a magic flute—Mozart; so "Zauberinfeuer" had to be a magic fire, didn't it? "The players? Your lancers?"

  "About half the purple company survived, and most of the green company." The wiry captain swallowed again. "The outcrop where the players… It split off the mountain."

  Anna's eyes burned even more. "All… of them?"

  Alvar nodded.

  "Even Daffyd."

  The slightest of affirmations followed. "Spirda and Mysar, too. Fhurgen dragged you clear."

  "Is he all right?"

  "He will be."

  The sorceress closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them. Both men waited. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "You are tired, regent, and I talk too much, but I too wanted you to know that I am in your debt, and all you need do is ask." The Lord of Elheld bowed. "We are all in your debt."

  "All of us." Alvar bowed.

  Anna blinked, or thought she did, and the two were gone. On the breeze that drifted in from outside, she could smell the dampness, even hear the rain. Was there ever such a price for rain?

  And Daffyd? Had a man ever paid so much to revenge his father? Without even really getting it?

  As she lay on the pillows, the pain still pounding through her skull, and her broken arm still throbbing, questions flooded her mind.

  Too tired to even lift her good left hand, she hurt too much and was too awake to sleep. She closed her eyes. That way, they didn't hurt, but her thoughts continued to spin through her mind.

  Magic was far from easy, but even with all the constraints, there should have been more than three sorcerers in Defalk. Why weren't there more sorcerers, or sorceresses? Once she'd gotten the hang of it, sorcery hadn't been that difficult.

  After a while, the answer floated out of the depths inside her, and she could have kicked herself—except that would have hurt even more, and she was tired of pain. It was so obvious. It wasn't the lack of a good voice, or of intelligence, or even knowledge. The limit was the lack of human kindness.

  If any song could potentially invoke magic, training a voice could be potentially fatal, given the ungrateful nature of most students—literally murder. Also, given the consequences of a bad spell, and the arrogance of many gifted youngsters, trying to learn sorcery alone could be equally fatal. That limited sorcery to those with strong natural voices, the ability to craft words, and match them to music—and there just weren't many who could do that—even on earth. Add in the need to visualize the results of a spell… you couldn't even create an iron chair without knowing what it looked like.

  That left few enough with the talent. But from whom could they learn? Without teaching, few would go beyond the rote of sorceresses like poor Jenny, and no one with any brains would touch a potentially ungrateful student. Here, sorcerers had to have brains and power… so they didn't have to teach the ungrateful.

  Kindness, consideration… the ultimate limits, because they were so very rare in their deepest forms.

  She wanted to laugh, but it would have hurt too much. You talk of kindness, of consideration… after the thousands you've killed?

  She sank deeper into the pillows. Sorceress, savior, and regent—she was trapped in what she had created, and then some—and every part of her body still hurt. Her soul… she didn't even want to consider that, not anymore, not given the deaths that rested on her.

  132

  Wei, Nordwei

  The two women watch the mists clear, and the vision appears.

  A blonde woman sits carefully upon a palomino and rides slowly down a wide street. Her right arm is heavily bound, but she smiles. Flowers and grains of rice rain upon her, as do cheers.

  Behind her, a white-haired lord rides, his eyes shifting from her to the redheaded youth who rides beside him, but the lord's eyes linger more upon the regent than upon his grandson.

  "How?" whispers Gretslen, her eyes on the shimmering water. "How? She was helpless, and they carried her back. She could not have lifted a hand in her own defense, and Lord Jecks, and Nelmor, and even stern Birfels stood by her, and they all carried out her wishes when she could sing nothing, spell nothing. She is a stranger, and made no secret of it. She is a sorcere
ss, and she did not hide it in a land that has killed sorceresses. She shivered the world, almost rent it in twain with her sorcery, and they hail her as a deliverer."

  "Because…" Ashtaar offers slowly, "because we have not seen enough good in the world and did not recognize it."

  "Good? She is nearly an absolute ruler, and you call her good?" questions the blonde. "She brought fire upon the Ostfels and drowned two cities in fire and floods, and that is good?"

  "She raised harmony against disharmony, and the conflict rent the world. There is a difference." The spymistress shrugs. "We thought she wanted power like Behlem, or that because she sought to help people she would be weak like Barjim. She has already begun to bind together the lords by raising their younger children and providing them with more learning than Defalk has seen ever before. She has returned the rains to the fields, and she does not raise taxes or levies. She treats everyone fairly and does her best to destroy greed and evil. She raises the honest lords to power, and keeps her word. She is the Liedfuhr of the North, and she would not have the title. Do you have a better definition of a good ruler, Gretslen?''

  The image in the shimmering waters vanishes.

  "I can explain it to you well enough," says Ashtaar wryly. "Explaining it to the Council may be more difficult."

  "They will not see her as good, but as a threat."

  "Goodness in another ruler, especially when successful, and backed with great power, is about as threatening a danger as they could imagine. Nor would I wish to be her." Ashtaar forces a smile to hide the shiver that takes her.

  The golden-haired Gretslen frowns.

  Ashtaar smiles sadly. "You will learn, as has she."

  133

  Anna stood in the twilight on the east tower, looking out toward Mencha, toward Loiseau, away from the invisible webs that spun in and around Falcor, understanding once more Brill's attachment, and wondering if she would ever be able to return there for more than a brief visit—at least in the ten years or so before Jimbob could rule in his own right.

  She had Brill's papers, and she could even decipher the crude codes and some of the spells and doubtless would learn more in the seasons and years ahead.

  A yard or so away, a redheaded figure leaned against Ihe parapet and gazed through the cold mist toward the Fal River, already more than the trickle it had been just weeks earlier, but still dwarfed by the banks it had yet to refill.

  The boy turned. "Lady Anna?"

  "Yes, Jimbob?"

  "Can I go down to the fire? With grandsire?" He grinned. "I am not from the mist worlds."

  "Go join your grandsire. I'll be down in a while."

  "Will you be all right?"

  "I just need time alone."

  "By your leave?"

  "You have my leave."

  The redhead bowed. "I will have your cider ready. With all that funny spice in it. And more nuts and cheese. Grandsire says you must eat more."

  "Go."

  "I hear and obey, honored Regent." With a last grin, the youth turned, his steps hard on the damp stones.

  Anna looked out through the gray and damp, through the rain that was slowly revitalizing Defalk. For the first time in her life, she had power, real power. For the first time in her life, she could direct at least some of her own destiny. And yet she could not, not without considering the destinies of others, not being who she still was.

  She thought of Jecks and smiled, briefly. She even could have the local equivalent of Robert Mitchum or Sean Connery—and perhaps she would, in time. In time… if he would, and that was far from certain in a world, like any, where little indeed was certain, even for a woman of power.

  For now… she shook her head slowly, thinking, letting the cool mist shroud her.

  What had it all cost her? Her life on earth. Her son and daughter, for she was dead to them, and their lives went on. Every time she glanced at the black-etched rectangle on her chamber wall, she was reminded of that. And there was young Daffyd, who had given her the lutar, helped and trusted her. Brill, who had given her youth in body again. Innocent Jenny, killed by the dark ones to prevent her from summoning another sorceress. Spirda, the young players, all the innocents swept away by the fires and floods she had unleashed. Even the guilty, like Delor and Behlem, had marked her, in anger for giving her no choice, and in regret that she had found no other way than the force she deplored—and continued to use.

  The list was long… and she had the feeling it would get longer… no matter what she did, and how hard she tried. No matter what amends she tried to make, no matter how many years Brill's spell sustained her.

  Dropping her head in her hands, in the cool damp misting rain of early winter, Anna, destroyer of dissonance, savior of the land, Lady and Sorceress, Regent of Defalk, wept, silently, and in great shuddering sobs.

  And the cold, soft rain fell. Cold and soft, like sorrow, the mists of Defalk shrouded the sobbing sorceress.

  In time, she would go to the hearth below, her face clear, her voice clear.

  Now.... with the silvered rain that had cost so dearly, she wept.