The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Sit down, Menares.” She took the scroll, then motioned to the chair across from the one where she sat. After a long look at the platter, she took a swallow of water and a mouthful of bread and cheese, and a second, forcing herself to eat, still fighting a lifetime of habit that equated any healthy amount of eating with gluttony.

  Menares shifted his weight on the chair, but said nothing.

  Anna broke the seal and began to read to herself.

  Arkad has always supported the rightful rulers of Defalk, and certainly recognizes the legitimacy of the late and great Lord Barjim, and of his son Jimbob. As we have expressed earlier, while Lord Jecks and other respected lords of Defalk have reluctantly endorsed the expediency of a prolonged Regency, as did we, our initial concerns about the continuity of such an arrangement remain, especially about the use of the liedgeld. As a loyal lord, we are deeply concerned that such funds, which have been sweated from the very soil, be employed in support of Defalk’s long and glorious tradition. We ask your assurance and your pledge as regent that such funds be used as traditionally required. We look forward to your response, and to your continued efforts on behalf of Lord Jimbob. . . .

  Arkad hadn’t signed the missive, but concluded with a sealmark and his name printed beside it.

  Anna snorted. Lord Arkad of Cheor was getting to be an even bigger pain, with his missives and not-so-subtle hints that a male Regency or ruler was to be preferred and trusted, not to mention his use of the royal we. She had to put an end to such garbage, preferably without putting an end to the writer. She couldn’t ensorcel or flame every chauvinistic lord in Defalk—not and have much of a kingdom left for Jimbob to inherit.

  She sighed.

  “Lord Jecks, Lady Anna,” announced Skent, the dark-haired page, from the door.

  “You may go, Menares. Lord Arkad has found another excuse to delay paying his liedgeld. You might think of the possible actions open to a disgusted regent.”

  The white-haired counselor, rose and bowed. “As you wish, Lady Anna.”

  “Have Lord Jecks come in.” Anna took another mouthful of bread and cheese, then stood.

  “Lady Anna.” Jecks inclined his head.

  Jecks still reminded her of a young-faced and white-haired Robert Mitchum with the smile of a Sean Connery. Despite his white hair, and a muscular frame somewhat stockier than the movie stars he resembled, his hazel eyes were clear and intelligent. Although he looked Older than Anna, she suspected that in actual years, the long-widowed lord was probably even younger than she was. Certainly, the clean-shaven Jecks remained the most attractive man she’d met in the year she’d been in Defalk. He was also one of the few lords respected near-universally by both his peers and the armsmen and workers of Defalk.

  Then, part of that was the sorry state of Defalk. Jecks was widely respected by the common people not only for his fairness and honesty, but also for not taking his pleasure with every comely young maid on his lands, and instead providing them with a modest dowry. What a place, where women were usually chattels. Careful, Anna reminded herself, it hasn’t been that long since all of earth was that way, and a lot of it still is.

  “Please sit down. I need to eat. Again.” After another sip of water previously orderspelled and a mouthful of bread and cheese, she added, “You had something to say. Please go ahead.”

  Jecks eased into the chair across the table from Anna. “Lord Birfels sent me a message.”

  “Yes.” Anna wanted to scream. Birfels had supported her, but he much preferred to work through Jecks—or any man. “What is his difficulty?”

  “Besides his reluctant acceptance of the present situation?” Jecks offered a wry smile. “He noted that the return of the rains offers the first opportunity in many years for the planting of all his fields. He also noted that seed grain is scarce.”

  Anna nodded, waiting for the shoe, or boot, to fall.

  “The only source of such seed grain is the Ranuan factors in Sudwei or Ranwa, and they are hesitant to extend credit to Defalkan lords, especially when the Regency itself has not completed repaying those funds borrowed by the former lord.”

  “And I suppose Lord Birfels lacks sufficient golds to purchase the seed outright?”

  “He did not write of that, but, as you know, the past years have been hard. Were I in his situation, even I would be pressed . . .”

  “Except you’re more prudent than most and saved the necessary seed grain?” asked Anna, glancing toward the closed door to the receiving room.

  “It was not easy, but Herstat and Dythya also insisted.” Jecks grinned. “Herstat has been my saalmeister for many years, and when they insist, a lord should listen.”

  “That’s why you let me borrow Dythya to get the liedstadt and liedburg accounts in order?”

  “I do not feel quite so outnumbered now—at home. Here . . .” As he smiled, Jecks’ eyes went to the closed door of the receiving room, almost as though he were nervous about being alone with the regent.

  Nervous? Why was every man in Defalk nervous to be around her? When she had appeared on Erde, and especially after Brill’s death spell had turned her permanently young-looking, they’d all been leering, except Jecks, but he’d been interested, just more restrained.

  Now . . . once she’d demonstrated some power, and ability to rule, the leering and interest had vanished. Of course, using spells to burn up a dozen or so assassins and plotters didn’t exactly help your sex appeal.

  “I take it that this seed grain would be a problem for most lords in Defalk?” she finally asked, ignoring Jecks’ glance past her.

  “Many,” admitted Jecks. “Especially those in the south. Ranuak is close, and they have relied on the grain dealers there for generations.”

  “How can I repay the Ranuans when I can’t even get the lords of Defalk to pay liedgeld?” She extended the scroll from Arkad to the white-haired lord. “Please read this.”

  Jecks read slowly, then looked at Anna.

  “What am I supposed to do with this Arkad of Cheor? Is it because he has no money?”

  “That I would doubt. His lands, many of them, hold the bottomland between the Falche and the Synor. They are among the richest in Defalk, and there is water.”

  Another penny-pinching, chauvinistic self-centered prig! Or a troublemaker. “Was he like this before, or is he really upset about a female regent?”

  “He was a problem to Barjim, I believe.”

  “He’s getting to be more of a problem to me, and that’s not going to help Jimbob any.”

  “If it should come to that, Jimbob will have fewer problems. Arkad’s sons died without issue, and he had no daughters, only a niece.”

  “So . . . the lands will revert to Jimbob?”

  Jecks frowned. “No. Should Arkad die without issue, as is now the case, you or Jimbob could bestow the lands to someone . . .”

  “More supportive?” asked Anna. “What about the niece—or her consort?”

  “She might have a slight claim.”

  “But the other thirty-two would welcome another man?”

  Jecks shrugged. “They will await your action.”

  This chauvinism . . . can you ever make things better? “In short . . . like everything else around here . . . it’s my problem.” Anna forced another wedge of cheese and some bread into her mouth and chewed slowly.

  “As I told you before,” Jecks looked at her thoughtfully, “you have done the impossible, and your people will expect that and more. You are the destroyer of dissonance, the savior of the land, lady and sorceress, great Regent of Defalk. They will not wait for the healing of time.”

  She nodded, then swallowed. She’d read something like that, once. What had it been? The revolution of rising expectations, where the more a leader did, the more people expected?

  “The problem of expectations.” After another swallow of the water she’d orderspelled that morning, she added, “Let me call Dythya.”

  She lifted the bell and rang it once. A
dark-haired page opened the door and peered inside. “Yes, Lady Anna?”

  “Skent? Would you see if Dythya’s free?”

  “Yes, lady.”

  As the door closed, Jecks asked, “What will you do with that one?”

  “Educate him, and marry him to the girl he loves.”

  “The lady Cataryzna?”

  “Lord Geansor could do worse,” Anna said dryly, thinking about the crippled Lord of Sudwei and his blonde daughter.

  “He could indeed.” Jecks laughed softly. “That is why you are dangerous. You look for ways to forge people’s dreams into what must be.”

  That’s dangerous? It seemed more like common sense to Anna. “Pardon me, Lord Jecks. Would you like some cheese or bread?”

  “No, thank you, lady. Not even a young armsman could eat as you must. But do not mind an old warhorse.”

  Anna wanted to kick him under the table for the slight tone of self-pity. Then, he probably did think of himself that way. Why did girls always think that young men were so appealing? Then, why did so many men think shallow, pretty girls were so appealing? Like Avery had.

  “Lady?”

  Anna smoothed her face. “Sorry. Old memories . . .”

  Jecks accepted her explanation with a nod.

  Shortly, the dark-haired and graying Dythya appeared. “Lady Anna.”

  “Please sit.”

  Dythya took the seat at the table to Anna’s right, and to the left of her former lord.

  Anna waited until Skent closed the door to the receiving room before beginning. “I understand that, unless we further soothe the Ranuans by paying some or all of the debt incurred by Lord Barjim, a number of our lords may find it difficult to buy seed grain.”

  Dythya frowned momentarily.

  “And most of those are in the south.” Lord, how she hated the politics. Of course, they were in the south, and they could threaten to pledge fealty to the Matriarchy or even Dumar, she supposed, on the grounds that the regency was not meeting its obligations to them.

  “Where do we stand?”

  “I did not bring the accounts.”

  “Just in rough terms.”

  “We have almost five thousand golds in the treasury. We will need to spend close to eight before harvest. We still have not received the liedgeld from eight lords. That would be about five thousand golds more.”

  “The eight we’ll have to spend—does that include what we owe the Ranuans?”

  “No, Lady Anna.”

  Anna winced. Another fifteen hundred golds she—or the liedstadt—didn’t have.

  “All right. We’ll have to make arrangements to send another five hundred golds. But we’ll send a message which says that we expect our lords and people to receive normal commercial terms, especially as regards seed grain.” She looked at Jecks. “Will that help?”

  “Were Lord Barjim still lord . . . I would say not.” The older-looking lord shrugged. “With this, you will have made two payments, and defeated the Ebrans. I would think it would be in the interests of the . . . women of Ranuak to accede to your request.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Anna turned back to the de facto accountant. “Can you make the arrangements and have a scroll drafted for me to sign? Have Menares work on the wording.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “I know,” Anna said tiredly, realizing that Menares would resent the implication that he was taking orders from Dythya. “Tell Menares that it is my request and not yours and that if he has any questions to come to me.”

  “Thank you, lady.”

  “And Dythya? Could you write out a summary, a shortened version of the liedstadt accounts, so that I can have it to refer to? Make sure you list all the lords who are short on their liedgeld—all of them.”

  Dythya nodded.

  “That’s after you take care of the payment to the Ranuan Exchange or whatever it is.”

  When the door closed again, Anna turned back to Jecks. “What do you hear about Ebra?”

  “I am not a sorcerer,” he pointed out with a smile.

  “Sorceresses have their limits, too,” she answered. “According to what I’ve called up on the glass, the place remains a mess. There’s nothing happening in Vult, and there won’t be for years. Someone is rebuilding parts of Synek, and most of the wreckage in Elawha has been cleared away. I can’t tell who’s in charge from the glass.”

  “The whispers from the peddlers are that Hadrenn holds Synek. He is the youngest son of Jykell, who was the last Lord of Synek before the Dark Monks seized Ebra.” Jecks looked at the empty goblet before him.

  “Wine or water?” Anna asked.

  “Wine, please.”

  The red wine she poured was slightly better than high-grade vinegar. As she had discovered from experience, trying to improve things like food and wine involved Darksong and was chancy at best. Then, any spell that affected something that was living or had once been living was Darksong—and invited trouble.

  Jecks took a hefty swallow. “The Liedfuhr of Mansuur has dispatched a force of lancers, and they are riding to Esaria.”

  “To support Rabyn?” She paused. “Or an advance force for an attack on us?”

  “Young Rabyn still can claim the loyalty of many who supported his sire, and who feel he is the legitimate Prophet of Music.” Jecks set his goblet down gently. “I do not think the Liedfuhr will attack Defalk until matters in Neserea become more clear.”

  “You mean, until the mighty Liedfuhr Konsstin has Rabyn firmly under his thumb?”

  Jecks laughed softly. “One forgets—for a time. You have such strange phrases, Lady Anna.”

  “Thank you.” Anna didn’t point out that, for her, Defalk often had very strange turns of phrase, with a language that was far more Teutonic in origin and only sounded like English at times.

  “My pleasure, lady.” Jecks rose. “By your leave? I had arranged for Jimbob to receive blade instruction from Himar.”

  “You’re a better blade,” Anna said.

  That got a wintry smile. “True. But children oft receive instruction poorly from parents and grandparents.”

  “Have fun watching, and don’t wince too much.” Anna returned the smile. She knew Jecks’ frustration all too well. None of her children had wanted her as a voice teacher. Still, it was hard to see the handsome Jecks, white hair or not, as the grandparent of a boy as old as Jimbob.

  After a time, Anna looked up. She sat alone in the receiving room. Alone, if she didn’t count the guards outside the door, or the pages. Skent was there now. Then, weren’t rulers always alone?

  She stripped off the purple regent’s sash, laid it across the gilt chair on the dais and walked to the door.

  Blaz and Giellum followed her up the stairs and down the corridor to the door to Lady Essan’s rooms, the sharp-voiced but observant consort of the late Lord Donjim, the Lord of Defalk before Barjim.

  Anna rapped on the door.

  Synondra edged the door open. “Oh, Lady Anna . . . please do come in.”

  Anna had not so much as stepped inside when Lady Essan spoke. “Synondra, you may take a walk or otherwise amuse yourself.”

  “Yes, Lady Essan.” Synondra bowed to Anna, and added in a low voice, “She is tired.”

  Who isn’t? Anna wanted to say, but didn’t. “I won’t stay too long, but I do need to talk to her.”

  Blaz shut the door as Synondra left, stationing himself outside on one side, Giellum on the other.

  Lady Essan sat before the fire, her ubiquitous glass of apple brandy half full, a wool shawl around her shoulders. The room felt almost stifling to Anna, and she took the chair farthest from the fire, unfastening the top button of the loose green shirt she wore under the green-and-gold-trimmed tunic. She was glad she’d left the Sash of the Regent in the receiving room.

  “You not be cold, girl-woman?”

  “Not here.”

  Essan shook her head. “Times I think you might still be from Erde . . . then . . . cold it must be in the mi
st worlds.”

  “It gets much colder than anything I’ve experienced here.” Especially the winters in Iowa. Those she didn’t miss at all.

  “These old bones would not be pleased.”

  “In those places, these younger bones weren’t pleased.” Lord, she’d disliked Iowa—even if it had been about the only place she’d managed to land a decent-paying job.

  Essan took another sip of the apple brandy and looked at the fire.

  “What do you know about Lord Arkad of Cheor?” Anna asked.

  “It has been years since I heard that name.” Lady Essan took a sip of the brandy. “Fine figure of a man he was then, but only a figure. Donjim said he followed the last words he heard. He had no heirs, then. Has he now?”

  “Jecks says there are no direct heirs. I don’t know about others,” Anna admitted. “Arkad keeps weaseling out of paying the liedgeld. This time he wants assurance that I’m spending the coins truly for the defense of Defalk.”

  “Those lands be prosperous, even now.”

  “That’s what Jecks said.”

  “Rulers and regents cannot brook outright defiance, not even great sorceresses,” the white-haired woman offered, her hand going to the glazed almonds in the small dish.

  “It’s a problem,” Anna admitted. “I don’t want any more lords to get the idea they can flout the Regency, but I don’t want them to get the idea that the only solution I have to every problem is force.”

  “Why not? That is the way their minds work. If a ruler cannot force or coerce them, most lords feel that such a ruler be not strong enough to hold Defalk.”

  Anna held the wince inside, knowing that what Lady Essan said was doubtless true. But it bothered her. Using force and sorcery against outside enemies made sense, but against her own lords?

  “That was Barjim’s greatest fault. He did not use his strength enough when times were good. Then, he did not have enough strength to establish fear and respect when times worsened. Like it or not, sorceress-woman, men bend only to force.” Essan half laughed, half cackled. “Except in the bedchamber, and even there, it be best for a woman to be strong.”