The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle (55 page)

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Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.

BOOK: The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle
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“I will do what I can, Lady Anna.” The tall, graying officer bowed.
“Thank you.”
Anna walked back toward the north tower, noting that the west side of the courtyard was filled with wagons, supply wagons, possibly for the great feast.
“ …’ Ware the roan! Easy there!”
“ … keep that team back …”
In between the teamsters’ calls, she could hear the chickens,
brawk
ing from the mud-crusted corners of the walls and by the heap of straw outside the stables. At the sight of the stables, she paused, then turned toward the players’ quarters.
Although the day was marginally cooler than those of the
long summer, she still had to fan her forehead as she stepped through the doorway. Daffyd was alone in the small common room practicing a songspell she had not heard, with a melody that seemed vaguely familiar.
“That’s lovely,” Anna noted.
“It be no spell, just a tune. Most are longer, and you can make a mistake without a sorcerer yelling. No offense, lady.” The dark-haired player grinned sheepishly as he glanced up, then around. “They say that some folk tried to enter your room last night and you left them a pile of ashes.”
Anna nodded. “They tried to break down the door.”
“No one heard?”
“No one came,” she pointed out.
“That be strange. Most strange, especially for a sorceress who delivered the Prophet’s victory.”
“Strange things seem to happen in Erde,” she observed.
“Yes.”
“Where are the other players?” she asked.
“The counselor sent for them.”
Anna didn’t like that, either, but she wasn’t liking much of what went on in the liedburg. “Do you know why?”
“Whenever he uses the mirror, he needs them all. So does the Prophet.”
“For a mirror spell?”
Daffyd shrugged, then asked, “Are you going to the big dinner?”
“I’ve been asked. How about you? Do you want me to get you a seat?”
“That would be nice, but the players made a place for me, and that might be best.”
“You’re sure.”
Daffyd nodded. “I don’t like Zealor or some of his ilk. You would have to worry about me then, and you may have to worry about you.”
“You think so?”
“I have never trusted the Prophet, and now is no time to begin.”
Anna laughed at his sour tone. “If you hear anything that I should know, would you let me know?”
“Most certainly.”
“And would you play that tune again? I like music that’s not a spell.” She stood and listened, and the young player went through three other songs before he stopped and wiped his forehead.
“You’re tired?”
“I practiced all morn.”
“Oh … I’m sorry.”
Daffyd grinned. “Would you join me for something to eat?”
“Of course.”
“It be but bread and cheese, and dry beef.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
They walked to the small low-ceilinged room where they had eaten before, and Anna heaped her plate with mostly cheese and bread, but, knowing she needed the concentrated protein, she added two slabs of dry meat. Daffyd had several slabs of the dried beef and a warm sour ale that Anna forwent in favor of a vinegary red wine.
“Lady,” ventured Daffyd, sitting on one side of the wobbly trestle table, “be it safe for you to remain here?”
Anna finished a mouthful of the stale and almost musty bread before answering. “Everywhere in Defalk is as safe as anywhere else, I think.”
“That be an odd way of putting it,” mused the violist, his mouth partly full. “Odd and true. But no great comfort.”
“Life isn’t meant for comfort, sometimes. Especially if you want to do something.” Anna took a tiny sip of the acid-bitter wine. “You just wanted to avenge your father, didn’t you? And you got me, and look where we are.”
“Never thought I’d be a player for a sorceress in Falcor.”
“I never thought I’d be one.”
Daffyd looked at her for a moment. “There be many here who would rather you be more, than less.”
Anna swallowed. Even Daffyd? “I am a woman, Daffyd, and your sister’s consort had troubles with that.”
“He was no true man.”
At the creaking of the door, Anna glanced up to see a handful of players filing into the room. Fiena was the second one, and, as Anna’s eyes fell on the strawbeny-blonde, the Prophet’s player looked down.
“Aye, an’ we know where that mirror looked,” muttered Daffyd. “Strange times, indeed.”
The five other players gathered at the far end of the second table, eating silently, while Anna and Daffyd quickly finished their food.
Outside, Daffyd nodded and said, his voice muffled by the continuing traffic in the courtyard, “Best ye do what needs to be done. No sense in being … well … the great mountain cats must die in their own skins. Sorceresses, too.”
“Thank you.” Anna thought she knew what he meant. She had lots of cheerleaders, but then, she’d always wanted to be onstage, rather than in the audience. Now, she had little choice.
As she walked toward the tower, more supply wagons, and more yelling teamsters, seemed to appear, but Anna saw no familiar faces among the Neserean guards posted around the courtyard.
Skent nodded as she entered the tower and gestured to the sandy-haired page beside him. “Lady Anna, this is Resor.”
“You’re from the main part of the hall? Skent had said you were working here now.”
“Yes, Lady Anna.” Resor measured Anna with his eyes, appraisingly, yet warily.
“You wonder how one small woman can create consternation?” She tried to keep the laugh light.
“Not many as would call you small, Lady Anna, either in stature or deeds.” Resor nodded his head. “Some say you have claimed Defalk as your home, having no way to return to your own.”
“They do?” Anna smiled. “What do you think, Resor?”
“I would beg your indulgence, Lady Anna.”
The sorceress pondered for a moment, then responded. “There are sayings where I come from. ‘Home is where the heart is.’ And ‘Actions speak louder than words.’ I hope I have acted correctly.” Anna turned and started up the stairs.
“ … no answer …” muttered Resor
“Has she ever raised a hand against any of Defalk?” asked Skent. “Ever?”
“Oh …”
Skent was too bright and too vocal, Anna reflected. Still, he had spunk, and he’d managed to survive. Both said something. She walked past her landing and up to the top level, where she rapped on the door.
“Who be it?”
“Anna.”
Essan opened the door herself.
Anna raised her eyebrows.
“Now they have gone and taken Synondra. They say that the lady Cyndyth needs her—as if I do not?” Essan snorted, but her eyes were damp. “Come in, if the mess will not bother you. I am old, too old for cleaning and other such foolishness.” She trudged back to her chair and sank into it.
Anna had not been able to halt her stiffening at the mention of Cyndyth and Synondra, but she slipped into the room, closed the door and made her way to the other chair. What could she say? Especially with all the players and Menares around a mirror, scanning the whole liedburg? “I just wanted to thank you for your courtesy the other day.” She paused, then added, “I will have to repay your warmth and courtesy in another way, but as would your daughter I will.”
“Now … do not go upsetting an old woman.” Tears seeped from the corners of Essan’s eyes. “You are a gracious lady, taking care to talk to me when few will, and you being from afar.”
Gracious? It was more a cross between being stubborn, a damned fool, and terrified. “You are too kind, lady.”
Essan’s eyes crossed to the wall mirror, then back to Anna, before the older woman took a handkerchief and blew her nose, loudly. Then she said, “I am sickly, and tired, and you are kind to look in on me. Best you go before you catch my malady.”
“As you wish, lady.” Anna rose. “Perhaps I can come again before long and call upon you or your friend Nelmor.”
“He would be glad, I am sure. Now … off with you.”
Anna bowed and left, gently closing the door and walking down to her own quarters. This time the room appeared untouched, but she dropped the new bolt in place, then walked to the window. She looked out, down at the portcullis gate and the rows of tents beyond the walls. Thousands of men, and she thought spells would work?
The sorceress smiled. Was that to cover the fears within, the fear of what she must do, and what she might become?
FALCOR, DEFALK
“Y
ou are sure she plans nothing?” Behlem paces across the sitting room, resplendent in his formal blue-and-cream uniform.
“We have exhausted all your players using the mirror to watch her every move. Yesterday, she went to see Hanfor. He was scrupulously polite and excused himself after but a few moments. She ate with her player, and they talked of nothing. She passed a few words with the pages, and then stopped to see Lady Essan, who rather bluntly suggested that the sorceress leave, even after Lady Anna made overtures to her.”
“And today?”
“Much the same. She practiced upon her instrument, but said no spells. She made another overture to Lady Essan, which was rejected. She ate with her player, and they talked of music that was not linked to spells—apparently that is possible in the mist worlds, even with words. She groomed her mount, walked around the upper battlements of the north tower, then washed up—”
“How does she look out of those riding clothes?” Behlem grinned.
“She is beautiful, perhaps even as beautiful as the lady Cyndyth, in a different way.” Menares flushes, then clears his throat. “Then she washed up and cast a small spell to clean and press that green gown she brought back from Mencha—”
“So she plans to wear a gown tonight,” muses Behlem. “Good.”
“You ordered her to,” points out the counselor.
“She is obeying. That is good.” Behlem paces toward the window again. “So I will inform everyone that she is leaving on the following morn to rebuild the old sorcerer’s place—Loiselle or whatever it’s called. Will that be enough?”
Menares spreads his hands. “Even if the assassins fail, they cannot be traced to you—or Cyndyth—and she is out of here. If she survives, you call on her to repulse the next attacks of the Evult. She will.” Menares shrugs. “You cannot lose, sire. She either dies or replaces thousands of armsmen.”
“What if she throws in with Ebra?” The Prophet pauses by the shuttered window.
Menares laughs. “She cannot. The Evult hates her, and he hates women. Those lands are surrounded by your holdings in Defalk, and only Ebra is close.”
“I still worry about the old man, and the lord-pretender.” Behlem turns toward the center of the room and fingers his beard again.
“Lord Barjim’s brat is twelve years old, and Lord Jecks has all of tenscore in armsmen and levies. Remember, Jecks
sent a messenger and met with her in a open field without weapons. That does not sound like they are exactly close. Also, the lady Anna is clearly from a place where intrigue is seldom practiced. She is most straightforward, even blunt.”
“That seems apparent.” Behlem straightens his uniform. “It nears the glass when we formally bestow the lands upon the lady Anna.”
“And your officers will understand that the private presentation, announced later at the dinner, effectively terminates her service as the equivalent of an armsman.”
“Exactly.” Behlem smiles. “So does Cyndyth.”
The counselor nods. “That is good.”
“You do not know how good. No … do not respond, Menares. Not a word.” Behlem’s hand touches the gold hilt of the ceremonial blade.
A
fter running through a full set of vocalises, Anna took down the green recital gown from the corner wall pegs. She didn’t have to struggle into it. She didn’t even need the longline bra. In fact, she had wondered if the gown would be too large, but it wasn’t—even though she knew she was slimmer. Was she more muscular? Or had she subconsciously tailored it with her cleaning-and-pressing spell? After dressing, she tried more vocalises, but the gown let her breathe easily, unlike when she had worn it in Ames.
She looked in the mirror, but couldn’t see any real difference. The gown fit, almost perfectly, and she knew it would have the desired effect. Her eyes dropped to the open note on the table.
She was to meet with the Prophet in the small receiving hall—the note from Menares was quite specific—and then
proceed to the main hall for the dinner. She was not to approach the Prophet during the dinner itself. One way or another, that would not be a problem.
Beside the open note was a sealed one, with the name
Hanfor
on the outside. What it said was simple enough, just requesting that the overcaptain meet the sorceress outside the small receiving hall following her meeting with the Prophet in order that she might express her gratitude in an open and proper fashion.
Thunk!
“Coming.”
Anna turned and picked up the lutar case, careful to hold it away from the gown’s skirts. The sealed sheet was in her other hand. When she opened the door, the dark-haired page stood on the landing. His eyes widened as Anna stepped out.
“Ah … Lady Anna. You …” Skent blushed.
Anna touched his shoulder. “You’re good for a lady’s ego. Thank you.” She paused. “Would you please carry this for me?”
The page looked at the lutar case, then took it, even as he said, “Of course.”
“Is Birke below? Or Resor?”
“They both are.”
“Good. I have a message for Birke to deliver.” Anna went down the stairs carefully, although she wore the green dress slippers she had created, rather than the heels. She wasn’t used to heels anymore, and the gown didn’t drag with the slippers—another change? Or was she somewhat taller?
Both Birke and Resor gaped as had Skent when she turned the corner and came down the last steps to the main level.
Anna handed the folded and sealed sheet of paper to the redhead. “This is to be delivered directly and immediately to Overcaptain Hanfor. You are to hand it to him directly. Dire consequences will befall you or anyone else if it does
not go to his hand. Remember,” Anna smiled, “it is from a sorceress.”
Birke looked at the envelope and gulped.
“Thank you, Birke.” Her voice softened, and she offered a smile, though her heart was pounding, as it always had prior to a performance, and this was going to be quite a performance if she could pull it off.
“ … is beautiful …” murmured Resor.
“ … got to get going …”
The sorceress hoped Birke would have no trouble finding the overcaptain, but if he did not, she would go solo.
For once, all the lamp mantles in the hall’s corridors were clean and shimmered with the flames of trimmed and lit lamp-wicks. Armsmen in clean uniforms were positioned at every corner, standing stiffly—or relatively stiffly, Anna reflected.
A pair of guards and the ubiquitous Giellum were drawn up outside the small receiving hall.
Anna smiled at Giellum. “Is the Prophet ready?”
“He said to show you in, lady.”
“A moment.” Anna turned to Skent. “This case is important, young man. You wait right here with this until I summon you. It probably won’t be long.” She forced a smile. “Certainly no longer than until the dinner itself will begin. It is part of the ceremony after I meet with the Prophet. Don’t go anywhere.” Anna looked over at Giellum. “Make sure he doesn’t, Giellum. The Prophet would be displeased, and so would I.”
Both nodded.
“As soon as the doors open, you be ready with this. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Lady Anna.” Skent nodded seriously, tightening his grip on the brown leather handles.
“Good.” Anna glanced at Giellum.
The young armsman and de facto herald opened the door. “The lady Anna, as summoned by the Prophet. Lord of Defalk, Sovereign of Neserea, and Protector and Prophet of Music.”
Anna blanked her face and entered the long and narrow room.
Behlem stood before a high-backed and gilded wooden chair. A raven-haired woman sat in gown of brilliant blue in a lower-backed but also-gilded chair to the left of Behlem’s. Cyndyth’s eyes fixed on Anna as the sorceress stepped forward and as the door closed behind her. On the right side of the dais stood Menares, in dark Neserean blue. On the left, beside Cyndyth, stood Hanfor, in a formal blue uniform.
Behlem smiled broadly as Anna approached. She stopped and curtsied—à la Metropolitan Opera, Anna reflected to herself, all style and no heart. She stood and waited.
“Menares has informed you, Lady Anna, that you are gifted, for your life, the estates and lands of the late Lord Brill?”
“Your grace is most kind,” Anna murmured, her heart pounding, almost hoping that Behlem would provoke her, wondering if she could do what was necessary if he did not.
“This strikes me as a most reasonable compromise,” Behlem continued. “You have rendered me service in your efforts against the Ebran forces, but those services have been costly in other ways.” The Prophet provided a condescending smile, the kind she hated.
“First, the road to Mencha and the only good ford across the Chean have been greatly damaged. Second, the flow of the river has diminished and that has reduced the harvest. Third, there is the devastation to Sorprat and to Falcor itself.”
Anna waited. Hanfor’s face was weathered stone. Menares looked grave, as if trying to emulate some great jurist. Cyndyth smiled, faintly, triumphantly.
“I would talk about the devastation wrought by the great flood. Could you not have stopped this?” asked Behlem. “They say you are the greatest sorceress in the history of Liedwahr.”
“Your trust in my abilities is most touching, your majesty,” Anna said with a smile, but not taking her eyes off
either the Prophet or Cyndyth. “I am one person. I cannot be in two places at one time.”
“Then it is for the best.” Behlem nodded. “I would request that, tomorrow morn, you make your way to Mencha to take possession of your holdings. You may take all that you require, and your player, and any of your personal guard that may choose to accompany you. Like all lords, you will pay liedgeld, but because your lands have been neglected, not until after the next harvest.”
“Is that all?” Anna asked.
“All? You have been rewarded, rewarded beyond the dreams of most singers or sorceresses.” Behlem looked incredulous. “Do not press me, sorceress.”
“Nor me … .” murmured Cyndyth.
Menares shook his head minutely.
Anna sighed, hummed one note, and sang, full-voice:
“Prophet strong, prophet wrong,
turn to flame with this song.
Singing turn, music burn,
die the death you’ve earned!”
“No! You bitch!” Behlem stumbled forward, his right hand groping for the ceremonial blade for a moment before he began to tear at his uniform. Then slowly, like a falling tree in a forest fire, he toppled slowly.
Even as she stepped to her left, Anna felt like retching, both at the shrieks of agony; and the stench of burned meat. Instead she gathered herself together, as cold inside as Behlem was hot, hummed again and sang.
“Scheming lady, scheming wrong
turn to fire with this song.
Your schemes have you burned,
die the death you’ve earned!”
Cyndyth stared for a moment, then opened her mouth, rising and lurching toward the sorceress, but she, too, flared
into flame, and then toppled into a burning charcoaled heap.
Anna swayed, but managed to stay on her feet, swallowing the bile in her throat.
The old advisor—Menares—opened his mouth.
“Don’t,” Anna croaked.
Menares shut his mouth.
Anna turned to the overcaptain. “Will you serve me, Hanfor?”
Hanfor stood for a long moment. “Do you threaten me, lady?”
“No. I am asking, because you have ability, and because I’d rather there not be any more killing and deaths. Defalk has had enough, and there’s no one left capable of commanding armsmen here.”
“I will serve you,” Hanfor bowed, “so long as I do not have to lead troops into Neserea.”
“Thank you.” Anna appreciated his wording. “I suppose you had best gather the officers immediately in the main dining hall. Do not mention the Prophet yet. I will announce that.”
“What … of me?” Menares croaked.
“Come along, and say not a word,” snapped Hanfor, touching his blade.
Anna opened the door, and motioned Menares out, glancing at Hanfor. She let him close the heavy door.
“Let no one enter,” Hanfor ordered Giellum.
The young armsman’s eyes flickered, and his nose twitched, and he swallowed. “Yes, ser.”
Across the hall, Birke stood looking around, note in his hand. Then he rushed for Hanfor and pressed the paper into the overcaptain’s hand. Hanfor glanced at Anna. She smiled briefly, then took the lutar case from Skent, as Hanfor opened and read the note, which he then tucked into his belt.
“The Prophet has commanded that all enter the dining hall,” Anna said quietly. She took the lutar case and extracted the instrument, then handed the case back to Skent.
As she walked toward the open double doors thirty yards
down the corridor, she could hear low voices, and voices not so low. Her mouth was dry, and her heart pounded. Was it murder? Of course it was. Was it necessary? Lord, how many people justified themselves that way? She kept walking.
The great hall was already half filled with the Prophet’s officers when Anna walked to the dais. Holding the lutar, she glanced around, waiting.
“ … beautiful …”
“ … beautiful like a sharp blade with no hilt … no matter how you handle her … get sliced six ways to market …”
“ … never seen her in a gown … looks different …”
“ … like her better in the field …”
More officers entered, then Hanfor, and the doors closed. Hanfor moved across the room, and the officers parted as he neared Anna. He offered a quick bow. “They are all here, I think.”
“Thank you. Stand behind me. Please.”
The weathered officer frowned, but obeyed.
Anna’s fingers flicked three loud chords, and the murmurs died. Would she have enough time before someone charged, or would her reputation hold them at bay? She slipped into Rosina’s words quickly, almost effortlessly.
“Ma se mi tocano dov’e il mio debole,
sarouna vipera, sa ro,
e cento trapole
prima di cedere
faro giocar, faro giocar …”
Then she followed up with the revised version of the spell used on both Virkan and Madell.
“Captains here, captains strong,
keep me safe with this song.
Captains warm, captains cold,
faithful be till dead and old.”
Even before she stopped singing, Zealor stepped forward, trembling, and opened his mouth. Then a violent shaking took him, and he collapsed on the floor writhing. Soon … he was still.
Anna nodded. So much hate that his system could not stand the conflict.
She turned to the others. “As I am sure some of you know, Delor attempted to have me killed. Don’t believe that I didn’t understand that Behlem kept others around to try again once I had defeated the dark ones.”
She paused. She was sounding stupid, getting ahead of herself, and her mouth was still like cotton. “The lord Behlem had requested I leave Falcor and planned to have me killed once I left tomorrow. He and his consort killed and tortured innocent women. She set at least two assassins after me. Yet I never opposed him. Not until today. All rulers do some terrible things, but Lord Behlem would have become little different from the Evult of Ebra.” She swallowed. “Those of you who know me, you know I do not like killing. Those who know me know I do not speak in fancy phrases. I have done what I thought best. I killed many to save you, and I have destroyed the Prophet and his Consort to save Defalk and perhaps Liedwahr. I don’t know, but I have done what I felt was right.”
Silence filled the hall, the silence of men stunned beyond immediate belief. Men who could not believe a woman was cold-blooded and direct enough to kill their ruler and face them.
The sorceress looked out across the faces of the officers, seeing Alvar’s swarthy face, and Spirda’s strained pale face. “I do not intend you harm, as most of you must know by now. There are some who have meant me harm, and the spells were to keep them from harming me. Any of you may leave, with your armsmen, but I command those who do depart to leave Defalk and never to return, save with my written permission.

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