L. E. Modesitt - Spellsong 1 - The Soprano Sorceress.pdf - L. E. Modesitt - margozap

THE

SOPRANO SORCERESS

L. E. Modesitt, ]r.

For and to my soprano sorceress,

who made this possible.

Any mistakes are mine,

the music hers.

L IEDTRAUM

* * * * * * *

West of the Sand Pass, Defalk

A dozen musicians sit on stools under the oblong white silk awning held in

place by four sturdy poles, each pole anchored by heavy cords to a pair of

stakes. The silk flutters slightly in the almost still air that carries the scent of

dust and horses.

The brown‐and‐red mountains that loom in the east above the pass entrance

waver in the summer heat, and sweat drips down the faces of the musicians.

All wear faded blue cotton tunics and trousers, with boots of a matching blue

leather. Occasionally, one blots a forehead or cheek, but not one of the

musicians speaks. Dark sweat stains mark the tunics of the heavier men. The

three horn players exchange glances, not quite those of worry, then look

toward the two men standing in the midday sun beyond the silk awning.

The bigger man, wearing leathers and a hand‐and‐a‐half blade in a scabbard

worn across his shoulders, puts a hand on the saddle of his warhorse. A good

fifty paces to the east wait a squad of mounted troopers wearing the purple of

Defalk. Their black sabres are sheathed in scabbards at their waists. Half carry

black horn bows and quivers, and half bear long spear‐lances with identical,

leaf‐shaped steel blades.

ʺYouʹre sure these walls will stand against even the Dark Monks?ʺ drawls the

bulky, broad‐faced man. His hooded eyes give his face a sleepy‐looking cast.

ʺWhat I raise will be standing when you and I are long gone, Lord Barjim,ʺ

affirms the resonant baritone voice of the slender and balding man in blue

silks.

ʺThatʹll be a long time, Brill,ʺ laughs the Lord of Defalk. ʺYou look the same as

when I was Jimbobʹs age.ʺ

ʺTheyʹll stand that long or longer.ʺ

ʺAye, and they should for all the silver Iʹm paying.ʺ

ʺItʹs far less than bringing in masons from Nordwei.ʺ

ʺNot that much. Not in these times.ʺ Barjim pauses, as if waiting for a

response, then finally continues. ʹ ʹToo bad you couldnʹt bring us rain. Need

that worse than the fort, except we need both, with the dark ones on the

move.ʺ He looks down at the shorter lord. ʺI still donʹt see why you canʹt

bring rain. Itʹs not as though youʹve avoided dark‐song. We both know that.ʺ

ʺThatʹs too dark, and Iʹve explained why before,ʺ Brill answers patiently.

ʺYou have an answer for everything,ʺ points out Barjim. ʺThatʹs why youʹre a

sorcerer.ʺ

ʺNo,ʺ responds Brill. ʺThatʹs why Iʹve survived as a sorcerer.ʺ

ʺCold iron is more sure.ʺ

ʺThat is true, lord,ʺ says Brill, his tone light, not quite mocking. ʺUnless you

consider the Dark Monks.ʺ

ʺSomeday.ʺ Barjim shakes his head. ʺIʹll leave you to your task, master

sorcerer. Iʹll be back to inspect your work later, and, of course, pay you.ʺ

ʺOf course, lord.ʺ Brill bows deeply.

Lord Barjim snorts and turns, swinging up onto his mount. As .he rides

toward his troopers, they straighten in their identical purpled leather saddles.

Once the troopers pass the outcropping of dark stone on the south side of the

valley, they turn due west, back toward Mencha, away from the Sand Pass

that leads to Ebra. When the sound of hoofs on the paved highway echoes

back uphill, Lord Brill lets a smile cross his lips. He glances toward the

representative piles of stone and brick, the dry powdered mortar, and the

tubs of water, then steps under the silk sunshade and wipes his forehead.

After he takes a long sip from the goblet on the portable table, his brown‐

flecked green eyes drop to the two‐part drawing of the walled fortification

fastened with leather thongs to the drafting board. The right‐hand side of the

drawing illustrates the foundation outline, the left‐hand side a frontal view as

if seen from a tall oak, though Brill stands in the middle of a depression

between the hills, empty except for the sorcerer and his players, and the heaps

of stone on the south side. Beside the drawing are the spells, with the proper

accents marked. The softness in Brillʹs eyes vanishes as he faces the musicians.

ʺThe ground‐sorting tune,ʺ he orders. ʺRun through it once.ʺ He lifts his right

hand and began the count, marking the time deftly. ʺOne, two…ʺ With his

nod, the musicians begin the sonorous tones, the brass horns low and urgent,

the woodwinds pantherlike, the strings whispering like shifting sands.

ʺNo! Jaegal, you must emphasize the downbeats more, especially the first.ʺ

Brillʹs hands stop the players, and his eyes flash.

Not one of the musicians looks up, although one of the horn players scowls,

his face averted from Brill. In the last part of the string section, a black‐haired

youth takes a clean gray cloth and blots his forehead quickly before replacing

the cloth and repositioning his bow.

ʺAgain!ʺ Brill demands.

As the musicians play, the ground beyond the bricks and mortar and water

appears to shiver.

The sorcerer nods. ʺGood. Take a moment. Some water. Wipe your

foreheads.ʺ Without looking at the seven men and three women, he turns the

drafting board so that he can direct the musicians, see the drawing and the

spell, and the ground where the fort is to rise.

Brill waits. The silk awning above ripples in the hint of a breeze, and the only

sounds are soft and muted as the musicians drink and blot foreheads, necks,

and fingers.

ʺPlaces,ʺ the sorcerer finally announces.

The ten players reseat themselves on their stools and take up their

instruments. The last to lift an instrument is the black‐haired young man in

the back with the viola.

ʺNow… one… two…ʺ

Brillʹs resonant baritone wraps around the notes the musicians play.

ʺ… cleave the ground, even, straight, and true,

More cleanly than the diggers do.

Scour the stones both smooth and flat…ʺ

The sorcerer sings; the musicians play; and a silver haze settles onto the

hilltop where the soil shifts, and the ground parts. The air stills completely,

and the awning hangs limply in the heat, and even the scents of parched

grass, dust, and horses seem to vanish.

At the end of the songspell, Brillʹs hand slashes for silence, and the songhaze

vanishes. The silk awning flutters.

ʺYou have a few moments,ʺ the sorcerer says. He takes the spotless white

cloth from his pocket and wipes, then blots, his steaming forehead, before

lifting his iron‐tipped staff and walking out into the full sun and toward the

sets of trenches that had appeared on the hilltop after the song‐haze lifted.

The sorcerer walks the trenches, and the staff taps the lines of exposed stone,

stone remelted into the foundation pattern.

Under the awning, the players stretch and stand, except for the woodwind

player whose braided white‐and‐red hair betray her age far more than her

creamy skin. Her cold eyes follow the sorcerer until he begins his return,

when she looks down and takes a quick sip from her water bottle, then

moistens her lips and her reed.

ʺThe foundation is solid.ʺ Brill blots his forehead a last time before folding the

cloth and slipping it back into his pocket. ʺPlaces.ʺ

With a soft shuffling the musicians square themselves on their stools and lift

their instruments in response to the sorcererʹs hands. Their notes follow his

tempo, and his voice.

ʺ… replicate the bricks and stones.

Place them in their proper zones…

ʺSet the blocks, and set them square

set them to their pattern there…ʺ

The hilltop shimmers, as do the bricks and stones, and the heaps of mortar,

and the tubs of water tremble. Dull crackings whisper through the haze from

the south side of the valley.

When the silver haze lifts, Brill turns toward the structure that looms there—

newly built. Stone‐based brick walls rise the height of four tall men and

stretch across the floor of the valley, almost joining the two hills. The dark

stone outcropping to the southwest of the fort has almost vanished, two‐

thirds of its bulk sliced away.

ʺBehold Lord Barjimʹs new stronghold against the Dark Monks of Ebra.ʺ Lord

Brill frowns, then whirls toward the players.‐ʺSomeone was humming.ʺ Brillʹs

eyes scan the musicians. ʺSomeone was humming. And look! Look at that

gate wall!ʺ His hand jabs westward.

The left‐hand side of the arched gate is crooked, out of true.

The sorcerer reaches for his goblet and drains it, setting it on the small table

with a thud. ʺGero!ʺ

A thin youth runs from the wagon and the tethered horses to the west. ʺYes,

Lord Brill.ʺ

ʺMore water.ʺ Brill grasps the staff and carries it as he walks across the

trampled sun‐parched grasses and onto the paved road that resumes a dozen

yards from the magically built fortʹs gate, beyond the bricked and dry moat.

He keeps tapping the iron‐tipped staff as he continues through the open brick

archway, across the brick‐paved courtyard to the low brick‐walled building

that stands roofless in the afternoon sun. The staff raps against walls, against

stone and paving stone, against mortar and brick for a long time before he

slowly walks back under the white silk awning that scarcely flutters in the

still air.

ʺThe gate, thank the powers of song, is the only flaw.ʺ His now dark‐circled

eyes sweep the musicians. ʺI should starve you all.ʺ His eyes lighten. ʺRefresh

yourselves, and then, then we will ʺuse the symmetry spell to repair the gate.ʺ

Brill limps, ever so slightly, to the drafting board, where he studies the spell,

and begins to murmur to himself. After a time, he takes a markstick from the

wallet on his belt and begins to write out a revised similarity spell below the

others.

Under the back section of the awning, the black‐haired young man glances

nervously toward the white‐haired viol‐ino player in the front row, but the

older man sips from his water bottle without acknowledging the scrutiny.

With a last slash across the yellow paper on the drafting board, the sorcerer

turns and straightens. ʺPlaces.ʺ Brill takes a deep breath. ʺSimilarity one,

please. No humming. Fast tempo.ʺ His hands begin marking the time, and his

sharp nod cues the musicians as the music rises.

ʺ… set true and straight

both sides of the gate…ʺ

This time, the spell is short, and the songhaze lingers only over the gate for

what seems to be instants.

The sorcerer slashes the music to a halt, staggers, before taking another deep

breath, then a gulp of water from the goblet on the small table. Only then

does he turn and walk back toward the gate. A dozen paces are sufficient to

L. E. Modesitt - Spellsong 1 - The Soprano Sorceress.pdf

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