ENCORA, PANUAK.

Have you discovered what caused that vast harmonic shudder yesterday, Veria?" With a cheerful smile, the round-faced and gray-haired woman sniffs the steam from the cup she has lifted level with her double chins.

"Yes, Matriarch." The black-haired woman at the other long end of the oval ebony table sips her own cup of scalded cider. "There is no one left but the soprano sorceress-"

"Best you call her the Regent of Defalk, for that is what she is and will be for many years," suggests the silver-haired man who seats himself across the table from the Matriarch.

"The Regent of Defalk, Father," Veria corrects herself, slightly readjusting her powder-blue robe. "She used the harmonies to replace a huge stone bridge across the Falche. It was one of those destroyed by the Evult's flood."

"There is a rough balance in that," judges the Matriarch, after taking a sip of steaming cider.

"It will be a while before she balances all the dissonance created by the Evult," suggests Ulgar. He twists the end of his silvered handlebar mustache before adding another pinch of cinnamon to his cup. "I wish she had tortured him more before she destroyed him."

"Father. . ." protests Veria.

"That is vulgar, Ulgar," suggests the Matriarch.

"Honesty, my dear, honesty. All proclaim the need for honesty, but none allocate so much as a silver for it." He slurps his cider. "Not so much as a single silver."

Veria glances to her mother.

"That's the Regent's problem," continues Ulgar, reaching for the pot and refilling his cup. "She is honest enough to see what was, what is, and what yet must be done, while all those around her are blinded by the dishonesties of the past."

"You are being obscure-again, dear." The Matriarch pats back a stray iron-gray hair.

"Exactly how are those around the sorc-the regent, blinded by the past?" asks Veria.

Ulgar lifts his cup, then a silvered eyebrow. He sips without speaking, as if the answer were obvious.

"Father..."

"Very well, if your mother the Matriarch consents to hearing the views of an old and foolish man."

"Ulgar, mock humility doesn't become you. It's also dishonest, and rather hypocritical when discussing the honesty of others." The Matriarch smiles broadly.

Ulgar returns her smile with one more sheepish. "Very well," he repeats, clearing his throat. "Defalk is bordered by five other lands. Ebra has been devastated, but already conflict between two successors brews in there, fostered by the golds of the Liedfuhr. In Nordwei, the Council of Wei has met to discuss the Regent, and, should she prove successful in strengthening Defalk, will seek her destruction. Ehara of Dumar has already begun to consider sending aid to Lord Dencer, hoping to win him to Dumar and to provide a staging area for Dumaran armsmen. Neserea has become a true protectorate and p.a.w.n of the Liedfuhr, with the cunning Nubara moving the stones. Lord Behlem's son Rabyn has his father's lack of intelligence, but not his cunning, and his mother's viciousness, but not her brains."

"You did not mention us," points out Veria.

"We are as bad as the others. Those of the trading faction have declined to extend credit for planting to the southern lords of Defalk, when for the first time in a decade such plantings will succeed."

"The Regent still owes fifteen hundred golds to the Exchange," notes Veria "Those were not her debts, yet she has paid five hundred and pledged to pay the remainder. She has kept every promise she has made-for good or for evil." Ulgar smiles blandly. "Is there another leader in Liedwahr who can claim that?" He turns to the Matriarch and raises his cup. "Saving you, of course, dear."

"The Exchange will not be a problem, Ulgar, not for the spring planting," answers the Matriarch. "I have suggested that the Exchange be willing to grant such credit to the lords of Defalk for seed grain and planting necessities if the Regent of Defalk reaffirms her commitment to repay the loan. She has aiready sent a message doing so, along with a second payment of five hundred golds."

"You knew that, and didn't tell them?" asks Veria.

"I told the Exchange-mistresses no lies. I never tell lies. The harmonies do not permit that." The Matriarch takes another sip of tea, then nods at Ulgar. "I don't believe you ever finished explaining about Defalk, dear."

"Oh.. . well ... it's simple enough. All of the lands that ring Defalk fear the sorceress-regent, but those lords and advisors around her believe that, because wars were slow in coming in the past, they will be as slow in the seasons ahead. Yet Konsstin has already dispatched fifty-score lancers to Neserea."

"The harmonies yet favor her." The Matriarch smiles, still cherubic. "That the Exchange-mistresses do not understand." The smile vanishes, and her eyes fix on Veria. "Nor do the SouthWomen."

"The SouthWomen?" asks Veria. "What have they to do with this?"

"Everything," answers the Matriarch. "They would have us re-create the Guardians of the South once more in Encora, and thus mimic our enemies. They would have us retreat from financing the trade of those who are not our friends, and thus starve those who are." She shakes her head. "I have said it before, and I will again, and some will not heed. Matters balance; they always do."

Ulgar slurps his tea, and Veria winces.

The Matriarch smiles half fondly at the silver-haired man. As her eyes go to her daughter, the smile turns cherubically perfunctory. She rises from the table. "I must go and rea.s.sure those who doubt the force of the harmonies."

"Matriarch," asks Veria carefully, "do you believe that the sorceress-regent will not turn on Ranuak?"

The Matriarch pauses by the door. "Anything can happen under the harmonies, but the Regent of Defalk uses all the harmonies, and distrusting the good will of one in accord with the greatest of the harmonies of Erde can create vast dissonance. I would not will it that Ranuak be on the side of dissonance. Nor should you."

With another smile, the Matriarch nods her head to her consort and to her daughter. Veria turns and watches her mother depart, again readjusting the loose-fitting powder-blue robe.

Behind Veria's back, Ulgar shrugs, then shakes his head.

8.

Anna eased herself onto the stool in front of the group gathered in the main hall of the liedburg, the make- shift schoolroom. Her eyes flickered to the door where Jecks and Blitz stood. Jecks was trying to hide a frown.

"Because there have been too many questions, I'm going to tell you all something about sorcery." Anna forced a smile, her eyes surveying the fosterlings and pages.

The silence was the most absolute she'd heard in the entire time she'd observed lessons for them.

"Some of this, you may have heard, but not everyone here knows all of this," That was a safe bet, because she doubted even Brill had known some of what she was about to say. "There are two kinds of sorcery here on Erde. One is Clearsong; the other is Darksong."

"Like the moons. . ." Lysara murmured, nodding at Anna.

"Like the moons," Anna agreed with Lord Birfel's daughter, recalling Erde's two moons-the baleful red point-disc of Darksong and the small white orb that was Clearsong. "Clearsong is what a sorceress uses to deal with things that are not alive and have never been alive. Stones, metal, bricks, if there's not too much straw in them, gla.s.s..." She struggled for examples.

"What about wood?" asked Jimbob.

"Wood comes from trees, and they were once alive. That takes Darksong." Anna took a deep breath. She was still too weak, but she had to do something besides eat and lie in bed or sit behind her table in the receiving room.

"Darksong is used for living things or things that were once alive-like wood or bone. Darksong also takes more skill in singing the spells, and more energy. If you do too much of it, a Darksong spell can kill you." She paused. "So can a Clearsong spell, but it takes a bigger spell."

Anna paused, breathing harder than she would have liked. The room remained silent.

"What is a spell?" she asked. "It is the combination of music, sung words that match the music, and the meaning of the words themselves. They all have to match. You can speak the words of a spell to music, and nothing will happen. You can sing the words of a spell-and unless you are very, very good, nothing will happen. And if it does, without music, it will take most of your energy- and, if you survive it, at least until you're as experienced as I am, you'll feel like someone's lancers ran their mounts over you."

She could see the doubt on a few faces, especially those of Lysara, Cataryzna, and Skent-the ones who'd heard her use spells without accompaniment. "Yes, I have cast spells without anything but my voice." She shook her head. "Do any of you know what sort of training I've had?"

The blank looks-just like the students in her music appreciation cla.s.ses at Ames-confirmed the ignorance.

"My oldest daughter, were she alive, would have children almost as old as Secca. I've worked on my voice for over thirty years, and most of the time that's meant two to three gla.s.ses of solid singing every day, and another three to four gla.s.ses studying the music and... the spells that accompany it." She shrugged. "You can believe it or not. That's what it took Lord Brill, and that's what it took the Evult.

That's what it will take you if you want to be serious about it. If you have a voice and talent."

She cleared her throat.

"There are also rules for sorcery. First, no sorceress, or sorcerer, can cast spells that directly affect her. I can't change my appearance or make myself older or younger, or less tired, or heal my own wounds. I think some of you have seen that. Second, the stronger and better the supporting players, the more effective the spell. Third, sorcery does not create things from thin air. It rearranges what is already in this world. When I used sorcery to make a gown when I first came to Falcor, the spell transformed old cloth into new cloth. When I made the bridge the other day, the stones came from the riverbed. You can see that there is a gorge there that wasn't there. Finally, sorcery is limited by the strength and talent of the sorcerer and sorceress."

Anna felt lightheaded, and knew she should stop. Besides, they all had that dazed expression-like children who had discovered there was no Easter bunny.. . or something.

"Magic, like everything else in this world, takes a lot of skill, a lot of raw talent, a lot of training, and you can only do so much. You all need to think about what I've said." She slipped off the stool and walked slowly past the table to the door in the silence.

Jecks offered his arm, his brows knit in concern.

She took it.

Outside the main hall, once the door had closed behind them, he whispered, "You're not strong enough for this yet."

"They need to know I can't work miracles all the time. Better I tell them than they find out and feel I've deceived them."

''Some will feel that way now."

"They may," she agreed. "And they can leave, and we won't waste any more effort on them." She wanted to scream, but she was too d.a.m.ned tired. Why was everything a double standard? Why was it that people could understand that an armsman could only fight so long, and that he couldn't defeat an entire army single-handedly, but they thought that a sorceress who couldn't sing spells endlessly was weak?

9 STROMWER, DEFALK.

Your son and heir, my lord." The dark-haired woman bows deeply, almost prostrating herself on the rich maroon of the time-worn carpet in the private study.

"What bargain did you make with the b.i.t.c.h?" The gangly Lord Dencer, pushing a lock of brown-and-gray hair off his forehead, surveys the woman and the infant she carries, but makes no move toward her.

"I said nothing, and I agreed to nothing, my lord." She straightens, and her son clutches at her shoulder. "I had hoped you would be pleased to see us. We rode as fast as we could."

"So ... Wendella, my consort, what message do you bring?" Dencer's words are hard, bitter. He puts both hands on the wood of the desk and leans forward, looking improbably like a long-legged heron about to spear a marsh frog. "For you must bring message or bargain."

"I was sent with no messages and no bargains."

"The b.i.t.c.h knows I do not favor her, and she is far brighter than either Barjim or Behiem. She would not have released you without gaining something. Something!" Dencer bobs his head. "What are you hiding?"

Wendella's eyes meet Dencer's. "My lord, the b.i.t.c.h sorceress. . . she sent no message to Stromwer. Yet she delivered one to me in bidding me leave. While it was to me, you should hear it."

"To you?"

Wendella shivers, but clears her throat, and shifts the infant higher on her shoulder, absently patting his back. "When she dismissed me, the b.i.t.c.h said that you had continued to court both the Matriarchy and Lord Ehara of Dumar. Then she said, and I remember this most clearly, 'I don't have time for games and intrigues. And I have even less for the people who attempt them." Wendella shook her head. "My lord, you are lord, and you must handle your lands and your affairs as you see fit. But I see great danger in opposing this sorceress without great power behind your cause." The brown-haired woman paused, then added, "I fear that power great enough to break the b.i.t.c.h sorceress will be great enough to destroy us."

'That was your bargain.. . to seek my loyalty to her! You would bind me! No harmony in you, Wendella.

Was that why your brother, the honorable Mietchel, was so agreeable to letting you become my consort?"

"I pled, and I groveled, my lord. I told her that your son had not seen you in half a year. . . that I had not seen you in that long."

"And out of kindness, she just released you? I find that as improbable as a spade on a sow."

Wendella flushes.

"As impossible as a beard upon you. Yet you would shave me for your release from Falcor." Dencer straightens, and his eyes glitter. He steps forward, and his hand lifts.

"Is it wrong to tell you what I saw, my lord? Is it wrong to tell you that she is most powerful?" Wendella watches Dencer's eyes, not the hand that strikes her cheek.

"Do not tell me how powerful she is! You do not deceive me, Wendella. Your tongue slithers like that of a snake. Your words are smeared in filth. You have betrayed me. You have betrayed Stromwer and Morra." His hand falls, and he looks at it. "I feel unclean."

The dark-haired woman, a welt the shape of an open hand rising on her cheek, continues to watch Lord Dencer. She mechanically pats the child who has begun to sob. "I did not make you unclean. I hate and despise the b.i.t.c.h regent. I offered you truth, my lord, and you have struck me for that. I can do nothing.

You are lord. Yet I fear for us both should you oppose the sorceress-regent."

Dencer lifts his hand, then lowers it. "You should fear me, Wendella. I am lord in Stromwer, and I will be lord." His voice hisses, and his eyes glitter more darkly.

"You are lord," Wendella acknowledges, but she does not turn her eyes or her head.

"You will have new quarters, my lady." Dencer lifts the bra.s.s bell, and it clangs off-tone. "Then we will see. Indeed, we will see."

10.

In the dim early-morning light of midwinter, Anna studied her face in the washroom mirror. The hair remained blonde with a trace of curl, the nose still fine and straight No lines or bags circled her eyes, even without makeup, not that she had any left except half a tube of lip gloss. The chin and neck lines were firm.

The cheeks were another question, deep and sunken, as though she were starving. Her eyes seemed sunken as well, and there was a darkness behind the blue. Was that the darkness of having seen and experienced too much?

The regent and sorceress washed and dressed in the green shin, overtunic, and trousers that she'd adopted as her official working uniform. In hotter weather, though. the tunic went. Gowns and dresses were for rare formal dinners and state occasions not requiring riding.

A last look in the mirror confirmed that she had to eat more, and that she should refrain from spells as much as possible for a time, except one to get clean water. She just couldn't bear the thought of drinking more vinegar.

With a deep breath, she finally headed out the door, trying to ignore the black rectangle on the stone wall that reminded her too painfully of her last attempt to look across to earth-the mist world-to see her daughter Elizabetta. Before coming to Erde and becoming a sorceress she never would have dreamed that a mirror could explode. Or that her grief over her older daughter's death would have left her open to sorcerous transport to Erde.

The fire-etched stone also reminded her of the need to create or have built a reflecting pool. She couldn't keep destroying minors.

Blaz and another guard-Lejun, if she recalled correctly-followed her along the corridor and down the stairs to the receiving room.

"Good morning, Skent, Resor.

"Good morning, Lady Anna." Both pages bowed, and Resor opened the door for Anna.