Read Online The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle by L. E. Modesitt Jr. - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. E. Modesitt Jr.
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the green formal and the slips, and the longline bra, and the nylons. They were ruined with runs in at least three places. For the moment, with another yawn, she set them aside. As she pulled on the gown, she wondered if Brill were spying, then shook her head. She hoped he wasn’t. She didn’t like the idea of her privacy being invaded, but she didn’t have any doubts that a sorcerer who had discovered her arrival could easily use his abilities to follow her motions—dressed or undressed. Still, the shapely Florenda indicated that Lord Brill probably had his pick of local young women. So, why would he bother with Anna?
Had he been telling the truth with his words about not wanting her body, but her abilities? Was anyone telling the truth?
She carried the candle back into the bedchamber and set it on the bedside table, cupping her hand and blowing it out, since she saw no snuffer. The cold of the stone floor on her bare feet was welcome. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took off her jewelry last—all costume except for
the ring Irenia had given her—and laid it on the bedside table with the non-functioning watch.
Then she climbed between the sheets. The mattress was lumpy, as she had suspected. She tried to arrange the equally lumpy pillows and pushed back the coverlet so that she was covered only by the sheets.
Finally, she blew out the lamps and lay back in the darkness—and the silence.
Everything seemed so real—and unreal. The smells and tastes were vivid enough, especially the vinegary taste of the wine. And the crystal fragments had seemed real enough. But a world where sorcery worked? And everywhere was the same strange contrast—delicate, cultured, refined items beside crude things. What was the pattern? She shook her head in the darkness, knowing she knew the answer, but unable to grasp it in her tiredness and confusion.
Finally, her eyes closed.
9
ESARIA, NESEREA
A sea breeze cools the columned, hilltop chamber. Between the fluted marble pillars the man in the spotless and feather-light white tunic can glimpse the whitecaps of the Bitter Sea. The music of strings, low strings, drifts from the adjoining Temple of Music, providing a soothing background.
The man wearing the cream-and-green Neserean uniform, who stands below the marble Seat of Music, does not appear soothed.
“How did the dark ones first contact you, Jorbel?” The Prophet of Music, Lord of Neserea, and the Protector of the Faith of the Eternal Melody leans forward on the green
cushion that comprises the only softness in the receiving pavilion.
“I don’t understand, Lord Behlem.” The uniformed man bows, as he has several times previously.
“If you wish to keep using that head for understanding and other purposes, like surviving, you had best stop playing dumb, Jorbel.”
The perspiration on Jorbel’s forehead turns into rivulets. “Ser?”
Behlem nods, and two armored and armed figures step forward. Jorbel’s hands grab for the knife at his belt, for his scabbard is empty, then claw at the empty air before him. The corpse sinks forward to reveal the blade in its back.
“Donkey-copulators!” snarls Behlem. “How do they do it?” His fingers stroke the neatly trimmed reddish blond beard. “Three of them in the army command in the last year.”
An older man, white-haired and white-bearded, steps forward. His eyes are bloodshot, with deep black circles beneath them. “He might have said more, ser.”
“They never do. The dark ones do something to them. They don’t even respond to the persuasion of the strings or spells of loosening the tongue. They just start making trouble, always insisting that they have received commands I never gave.” Behlem snorts. “Why would I order Jorbel to take the blades from the armory reserves and have them forged into plowshares? Why?”
“Perhaps the dark ones are sending a message?” suggested Menares.
“That we should peacefully accept the rule of darksong and its
Had he been telling the truth with his words about not wanting her body, but her abilities? Was anyone telling the truth?
She carried the candle back into the bedchamber and set it on the bedside table, cupping her hand and blowing it out, since she saw no snuffer. The cold of the stone floor on her bare feet was welcome. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she took off her jewelry last—all costume except for
the ring Irenia had given her—and laid it on the bedside table with the non-functioning watch.
Then she climbed between the sheets. The mattress was lumpy, as she had suspected. She tried to arrange the equally lumpy pillows and pushed back the coverlet so that she was covered only by the sheets.
Finally, she blew out the lamps and lay back in the darkness—and the silence.
Everything seemed so real—and unreal. The smells and tastes were vivid enough, especially the vinegary taste of the wine. And the crystal fragments had seemed real enough. But a world where sorcery worked? And everywhere was the same strange contrast—delicate, cultured, refined items beside crude things. What was the pattern? She shook her head in the darkness, knowing she knew the answer, but unable to grasp it in her tiredness and confusion.
Finally, her eyes closed.
9
ESARIA, NESEREA
A sea breeze cools the columned, hilltop chamber. Between the fluted marble pillars the man in the spotless and feather-light white tunic can glimpse the whitecaps of the Bitter Sea. The music of strings, low strings, drifts from the adjoining Temple of Music, providing a soothing background.
The man wearing the cream-and-green Neserean uniform, who stands below the marble Seat of Music, does not appear soothed.
“How did the dark ones first contact you, Jorbel?” The Prophet of Music, Lord of Neserea, and the Protector of the Faith of the Eternal Melody leans forward on the green
cushion that comprises the only softness in the receiving pavilion.
“I don’t understand, Lord Behlem.” The uniformed man bows, as he has several times previously.
“If you wish to keep using that head for understanding and other purposes, like surviving, you had best stop playing dumb, Jorbel.”
The perspiration on Jorbel’s forehead turns into rivulets. “Ser?”
Behlem nods, and two armored and armed figures step forward. Jorbel’s hands grab for the knife at his belt, for his scabbard is empty, then claw at the empty air before him. The corpse sinks forward to reveal the blade in its back.
“Donkey-copulators!” snarls Behlem. “How do they do it?” His fingers stroke the neatly trimmed reddish blond beard. “Three of them in the army command in the last year.”
An older man, white-haired and white-bearded, steps forward. His eyes are bloodshot, with deep black circles beneath them. “He might have said more, ser.”
“They never do. The dark ones do something to them. They don’t even respond to the persuasion of the strings or spells of loosening the tongue. They just start making trouble, always insisting that they have received commands I never gave.” Behlem snorts. “Why would I order Jorbel to take the blades from the armory reserves and have them forged into plowshares? Why?”
“Perhaps the dark ones are sending a message?” suggested Menares.
“That we should peacefully accept the rule of darksong and its
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