The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle (8 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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So Defalk wasn’t a postage stamp-sized country, either. “What’s to the north? And how far?” Anna pressed.
“Nordwei—it runs across most of the north of Liedwahr—more than three hundred leagues from Cape Eastwei to the mountains north of Esaria.” Brill pursed his lips. “The border is about thirty leagues north of Falcor, and a little farther from here.”
“Is Falcor the capital of Defalk?” Anna asked.
“Capital? You mean the coins amassed by a usurer? There are few coins indeed in Falcor. Falcor is the liedstadt of Defalk, because that is where Lord Barjim’s liedburg is.”
Every time she tried to get an answer, somehow the answer led into something else. If the Germanic word roots meant the same things, then Falcor was the capital of Defalk, but
liedstadt
translated roughly as “song-city,” while Lord Barjim’s castle or hall was a “song-castle.” Anna grabbed the saddle as Farinelli lurched forward, her thoughts spinning as she tried to construct a mental map—Ebra to the east, and Neserea to the west, and Nordwei to the north.
“What’s south?” she blurted.
“Ranuak,” Brill answered tersely. “I have a map in my workroom.”
His tone bothered Anna. Was she just supposed to sit on Farinelli and follow the sorcerer around and meekly take what information he offered? She’d stopped doing that with Avery—which had been one of the many things that had led to the divorce—and she wasn’t about to start again.
The sorcerer reined up by a stone hitching post outside the squat building, and dismounted. The dusty path to the oaken door bore boot tracks, almost all the same boot tracks, probably Brill’s, Anna reflected as she climbed off Farinelli and tied him beside the mare.
Anna followed the sorcerer, almost as in a daze, as he led her through the small entryway and into a room filled almost entirely with a pool contained in a raised stone pedestal, where, on one side, rested a harp, half reflected in the silvered water. Anna squinted as she glanced at the silvered surface, where images seemed to flicker and then vanish. The cool of the building was a relief after the searing heat outside.
“Reading the pool takes some effort, and it’s hard to separate what is from what you hope. There is the map.”
On the wall was a crude map. Anna refrained from smiling as her study of the map confirmed—generally—her mental picture. Defalk was indeed surrounded on all sides, both by mountains and other countries.
Brill touched her arm, interrupting her study of the map. “The practice room is through this door.”
She bit back a comment about being hurried and followed the sorcerer.
The next space was a large room empty except for an array of stools and a large wooden stand that could have held music, except that Anna had seen nothing resembling music.
Brill explained, “This is where the players practice new spellsongs. Confinement helps reduce untoward effects.”
Anna cleared her throat. “I thought there weren’t any effects if people weren’t singing.”
“Unaccompanied music cannot cast a spell, but it can disarray the emotions,” Brill answered smoothly, with an air of superiority that momentarily reminded Anna of Avery again—or Antonio, as he now called himself, the king of the comprimarios.
She repressed a snort, and managed a nod, as they entered another room, with two wide windows to the east, a flat desklike table, two chairs, and a small book case.
“This is the eastern workroom, and it might be most suitable for your use,” suggested the sorcerer.
“That is thoughtful of you,” she said slowly.
“You are still not convinced that Erde is real,” he said.
“At some moments I am, and at others I’m not. It’s getting more real the longer I’m here,” she added after a pause.
“It is very real, lady, and you could be here for a very long time.” He laughed harshly. “Or a very short time, if you do not believe it is real.”
Anna understood that threat and found herself flushing, half in anger. “You would have some of the same problems in my world.”
The sorcerer nodded. “I well might, but you are here.” Next he guided her back to the center atrium and pointed to the doors for a washroom and attached jakes, and to a storeroom which contained supplies for her work.
“Such as?”
“A key-harp, a set of bells, some paper …”
Anna had seen nothing resembling a piano, a harpsichord, or an organ, but went with her gut feelings—not to comment on that deficiency.
Brill’s own workroom contained two desks and several spoked wooden chairs, a northern exposure with a view of both the hall and Mencha, a small instrument that looked like a zither with a short keyboard, presumably one of the so-called key-harps, and a book case. A rack of handbells was mounted on a side wall, and sconces held three wall lamps.
The third workroom was similar to the first—stark, but spacious, except that it seemed much warmer, perhaps because of the southern exposure that showed browning fields and groves of gnarled trees climbing halfway up the hill to the dome building.
“Apple trees?” Anna asked.
“Apple and some apricots. The apricots take the heat better, if they get water.”
Anna studied the southern view, the scattered houses and the brown line that seemed to be a highway heading south.
“Do you prefer this or the east room?”
“The east,” she answered.
“I thought as much.” Brill turned back toward the small entry hall without another word.
Were all sorcerers like that? Did they flick from solicitous to indifferent from moment to moment?
She followed the balding sorcerer from the dome building, and the late-morning heat struck Anna like a furnace, but the dryness made it bearable—just. She untied the gelding and mounted.
Brill gestured toward the other trail, the one leading down to the groves. “I had thought to show you what we face from the dark ones.”
Anna eased Farinelli up beside Brill’s mare. “The effects of the weather?” she asked.
“Not five years ago, all these fields, all the way to the south, as far as the eye could see, were green.” As the horses carried them farther down the trail toward the groves, he continued. “The leaves of the apple trees were so thick you could not see the ground under them from here.”
Anna glanced out to the south, her eyes reaffirming the brown dryness, broken only with intermittent stretches of green.
“The roads were filled with wagons and carriages.”
“Kkkkchew!”
Anna rubbed her nose. The dust was getting to her. “Sorry. It is dusty.” She was glad for the floppy hat, but she wished she’d brought sunglasses as she squinted against the constant glare. “It looks pretty barren.”
“That’s the work of the dark ones.” Brill laughed harshly. “The Ranuans refuse to see the danger, and the Norweians play off everyone else, and each year Defalk dies a little more.”
On the right side of the trail, perhaps fifty feet from where the apple orchard began, was an empty pond, one with slightly darker dirt that indicated recent water, formed on three sides with the elaborate and precise brickwork that Anna was associating with sorcery.
“You made the pond?”
“What else could I do? You see … .” explained the sorcerer,
his hand pointing to the nearest of the gnarled trees, and the damp and narrow ditch that ran from a sluice gate at the bottom of the brick dam down to the orchard.
Anna studied the irrigation system as Farinelli carried her down into the orchard itself.
“Where do you get the water?”
Brill smiled wryly.
“Is that what you were doing last night?” Anna guessed.
“I claim I have a spring that flows at night.”
Anna nodded. With water so scarce, Brill would not wish to broadcast his sources, especially if he were drawing from the same aquifer as others’ wells.
“Even so, see how small and few the apples are?” The sorcerer lifted his shoulders and let them fall. “And I cannot bring water more than a few times a week, and the waters barely feed the orchard.”
“How far do your lands extend?” Anna asked.
“Not even a dek beyond the base of the hills. My grandfather obtained the hills, and my father added the groves and fields beyond the base. Not that the fields have offered much in the past few years.” He turned the mare back uphill without another word.
Her knees were shaking by the time she dismounted at the hall stables. Her head was spinning, and sparkles flashed in front of her eyes. She staggered as her feet touched the courtyard stones outside the stable.
“Are you all right, Lady Anna?” Brill took her arm.
“I need some water,” Anna rasped. She wasn’t that good with heat, and the dryness had kept her from realizing just how dehydrated she had gotten. She’d been used to the wet heat of Iowa, where she would have been drenched in sweat.
“The mist worlds are cooler. I should have known,” Brill took her arm and helped her back to the hall and to the salon where Anna slumped into a chair at the table.
The sorcerer watched as Anna sipped her way through nearly a pitcher of water.
“I’m not used to this much heat,” she finally said as the
worst of the dizziness and disorientation passed.
“Will you be ready to hear the players this afternoon?”
“How long?” she asked.
“That won’t be until the ninth glass.”
“I’m not used to your timekeeping. How many glasses in a day?”
“At the beginning of spring or fall, the day is ten glasses long, and, of course, so is the night.”
Anna thought for a moment. So a glass was somewhat longer than an hour, say, maybe ten minutes or so, and it was near noontime. “It’s what, about the fifth glass of the day now?”
“Actually, midday in summer is the sixth glass.”
“I should be fine by the ninth glass, especially after I eat.” She paused. “If we ride in this heat anymore, I’ll need a water bottle of some sort. That should do it.”
“You are different, Lady Anna.” Brill shook his head slightly. “Very practical.”
Anna wondered. Avery and even Mario had thought her often very impractical. Or was a problem-solving attitude just considered unfeminine on Erde? Or was Brill flattering her?
He rang the bellpull, and the white-haired server appeared.
“Serna … we will eat … and the lady Anna will need a pair of water bottles for our afternoon ride—around the eighth glass.”
“Yes, ser.” The dark eyes looked from Brill to Anna and then at the floor.
Anna supposed she looked bedraggled, but, for the moment, she didn’t care. She probably would later, but her stomach was empty, and she still felt dehydrated. She refilled the goblet and took another sip of the cool water. The last of the light-headedness was beginning to disappear.
In less than two sips, Serna returned, with two platters and an array of food—more of the dark bread, two more half melons, some cold slices of meat, yellow cheese wedges, and dried apple slices.
Anna tried a small nibble of the yellow cheese—hard, but without the moldiness that the softer and whiter cheese possessed.
The melons were the same as always, but welcome nonetheless, as was the tasty bread. Again, Anna found that she ate more, far more, than she should have.
“I’d like to rest for a while,” she said, after glancing again at the empty platter before her.
“Of course.” Brill’s smile was understanding, but not cryptic, and she made her way up to the bedchamber, accompanied by Florenda.
NORTH OF THE WHISPERING SANDS, EBRA
T
en rows of dark-hooded figures stand silently as the drums begin to roll. Then come the horns, the low falk horns and muted brazen trumpets.
The Songmaster raises his left hand, then drops it into a slow rhythm, while the drums and horns meld into a sound like the incoming tide rushing across the Shoals of Elahwa. The black baton in the Songmaster’s right hand falls, and the massed voices take up the spell.
“Blessed be the land that receives the damp,
Strike the watered clouds with heaven’s lamp.
Blessed be the land that receives the damp,
Strike the watered clouds with heaven’s lamp.”
Shortly, a bolt of lightning flashes through the black clouds that roll southward and pile up in the skies over the newly uncovered soil just north of the Sand Hills.
“Blessed be the land that receives the damp,
Strike the watered clouds with heaven’s lamp.
Blessed be the land that receives the damp,
Strike the watered clouds with heaven’s lamp.”
More lightning bolts cleave the clouds that have turned nearly night-black.
The Songmaster’s left hand gestures once more, and the timbre of the accompaniment deepens. The baton flicks, and the chant shifts.
“Blessed be the land that receives the rain.
Open the clouds onto the thirsty plain.
Blessed be the land that receives the rain.
Open the clouds onto the thirsty plain.”
Droplets begin to fall on the newly uncovered soil, on the fragments of dried wood that had once been shaped, and upon the sand-polished, white fragments that had, centuries earlier, belonged to some living creature.

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