The Soprano Sorceress: The First Book of the Spellsong Cycle by L. E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

padded chair. “Daffyd … . I wouldn’t have …” The warm smile returned. “You do indeed present a welcome surprise, perhaps a greater surprise than many would expect.” He stood and gestured toward the table, extending a hand to Anna. “Let us dine.”
    She took his hand, a normal, warm male hand, and rose. She could smell the faint odor of sweaty male—deodorants didn’t go with magic, she gathered.
    Brill dropped her hand, without squeezing, and gestured toward the place on the right. The place setting included a folded, faded blue linen napkin, a blue china plate with the B , fired in place in the center, edged in a gold trim, a silver spoon more like a soup spoon, and a small sharp knife. There was no fork.
    The two chairs at the table were both finished in metallic blue lacquer with blue cushions. Brill pulled out her chair with both hands, and Anna almost nodded to herself. The chair was heavy.
    The outer walls of the keep or hall shaded the blue-tinted windows from the glare of the sun, low in the sky, Anna suspected, from the angle and depth of the shadows in the courtyard. The area she could see from the window was empty—no retainers, no guards. She looked back to the sorcerer.
    “I must apologize in advance, lady. Our fare here is limited.” The sorcerer lifted a crystal bell and rang it before seating himself.
    As the tones echoed through the salon, a white-haired woman in the faded blue that all Brill’s servitors and employees, if that was what they were, wore appeared with a small tray.
    Silently, the server placed a half melon in front of each of them. The melon had a bright orange interior and a yellow-green rind, like a cousin of a cantaloupe.
    “The melons are probably the best part of the meal,”
Brill noted, reaching for a crystal carafe containing the same amber vinegar wine.
    “No, thank you,” Anna said quickly.
    “You do not like the wine?”
    Anna scarcely would have called it wine.
    “I’d prefer clean, cold water, if you don’t mind.”
    “Some sorcerers do, I’ve discovered. The blue pitcher has water in it.” He filled his own goblet with the amber wine.
    “Do you have to spell all the water here?” Anna asked, pouring the water into the empty goblet.
    “I do. All the water used in the hall is clean, even the bathing water.”
    “I see why people call your hall a place of wonders.” Anna wasn’t so sure she was happy about a world where it was considered excessively cautious to purify the bathing water.
    “Jenny said that? Generous of her. It couldn’t have been Daffyd. He wouldn’t offer me a kind word.”
    “You don’t seem bothered by his dislike of you.” Anna used the small sharp knife to cut away a bite-sized slice of the melon, slipping it into her mouth. It was warmer than she liked melon, half honeydew, half cantaloupe, but sweet and refreshing. She cut another slice.
    “I’d dislike me were I in his boots.” Brill took a sip of the wine. “Not too bad.”
    “Why would you dislike yourself if you were Daffyd?”
    “I killed his father. It was necessary, because Culain’s humming was getting worse, and he wouldn’t listen.” Brill set down the fluted goblet. “Lady Anna … using spellsong is always dangerous. You said your daughter died in a magic-carriage accident. It is much the same way here on Erde. My father tried to use spellsong too long. There was less of him left than of Culain.” Brill laughed, a sound with bitter overtones. “Of course, it didn’t help that he tried to turn a thunderstorm on Lord Barjim’s grandfather.”
    Anna shook her head. “Your father was—”
    “Politics. They’re always complicated. Barjim was raised
by his uncle. Donjim was the older son, but none of his children lived. Barjim and I don’t care much for each other personally, but he needs a sorcerer, and I, obviously, need silver.”
    “Just as you need Daffyd?” Anna guessed.
    “Precisely. I thought you might understand. Daffyd is a good