The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Her eyes went to the road ahead, and the second wall. The taller wall ended at each side of the road in a set of pillars. On each pillar were rusted iron brackets, four of them, that had once held gates. Of the gates there was no sign.

  “No guards here.” Alvar cleared his throat and looked toward Anna. “Should we . . . the banner?”

  “Yes.” She should have thought of it herself, but she still wasn’t fully accustomed to Defalk. Less than a year wasn’t time enough to learn all that was necessary, whether she was a sorceress or not.

  “The banner! Forward!” ordered the swarthy and wiry captain. “Forward.”

  Anna watched as the purple banner with the golden crossed spears and the crown, with the R beneath, billowed for a moment in the light breeze, then drooped, even as the young armsman she didn’t know rode to the head of the column bearing the standard.

  “We should stop before we get within bow range, Lady Anna,” Alvar offered.

  “How much farther is that?” Anna had no concept of bow range. She knew Alvar had brought a half-score of archers and considered himself lucky to have so many in his command. Good archers seemed to be rare. Not so rare as sorcerers, but rarer than any other kind of armsmen.

  “By the waste ditch there.” The spot where he pointed lay another thirty yards ahead on the road.

  A faint odor wafted toward Anna on the light breeze out of the north. “How about stopping right here?” She reined up.

  Jecks grinned, but said nothing.

  “Column halt!” Alvar reinforced the command with a raised blade.

  As Alvar rode back to ensure some form of order, Anna, lutar held ready, ran through a vocalise, while idly looking toward Synfal. The entrance to the keep was by a gate partway up the hillside, perhaps five yards above the flat of the plain.

  Alvar rode back and reined up as Anna finished the second vocalise.

  “That hill’s not natural.”

  Jecks frowned.

  Anna didn’t know that much geology, but she did know that it was highly unlikely that one isolated fifty-foot-high hill would rise out of bottomland as flat as a lake. Had some earlier lord built the mound? Or had a series of holds resulted in the hill? Did it matter?

  The walls of the keep, unlike the outer and untended walls, were over eight yards high and clearly in good repair, although Anna suspected that the yellow bricks were more susceptible to sorcery or to the cannon she didn’t have than stone would have been. The twin gates, doubtless with a portcullis behind, were of heavy oak, iron-bound, and closed.

  “You must request entrance, lady,” Jecks said softly.

  “He won’t grant it.”

  “Still . . .”

  Anna understood and turned to Alvar. “Do you have someone you can send closer?”

  Alvar gestured to the standard bearer, and the young armsman eased his mount up beside the four. “What would you have him say?”

  Anna cleared her throat. “His lordship Jimbob, the regent Anna, and the lord Jecks . . . here to see Lord Arkad of Cheor.” She looked at Jecks. “What else?”

  “You request hospitality on his honor.”

  Anna nodded. “His lordship Jimbob, the regent Anna, and the lord Jecks . . . here to see Lord Arkad of Cheor. We request his hospitality, on his honor.”

  The armsman repeated the phrase, then eased his mount forward and past the waste ditch, halting on the gently rising road about fifty yards from the closed gates. He raised his voice and declaimed Anna’s words.

  For a time, there was silence.

  Then a voice replied, words spoken too faintly to be heard.

  Anna eased Farinelli forward, but halted short of the wooden planks that served as a bridge over the waste ditch, steeling herself against the pungency that rose from the dark liquid that oozed toward a pond to the right.

  The armsman repeated his message.

  “How do we know you’re who you say?” demanded a round-jowled man in purple from a parapet over the gates.

  “You know the banner. Who are you to deny the regent?” snapped Alvar.

  “The servant of Lord Arkad.”

  “A nameless servant, and you would deny two lords and the regent?” responded Alvar.

  Anna nodded.

  The round-jowled figure drew himself up. “I am Fauren, head seneschal and counselor.”

  Anna could see that she needed Arkad and his scribe or counselor in hearing distance before she could cast a spell. She also had another problem, and that was that Liende and her players, farther back in the column, didn’t know enough of the spellsongs Anna used to be useful. That meant spells had to be supported only with the lutar, and that meant Anna couldn’t afford to waste any.

  Still, there was no sense in delaying. Fauren—two syllables—the same as the word “armsman.” Anna rode forward another few yards.

  Jecks accompanied her, but waved Jimbob to stay back. “Enough,” he suggested to Anna.

  She glanced toward the walls rising above them, then cleared her throat. She strummed the chords, then sang.

  “Fauren right, Fauren wrong.

  Obey this regent’s song.

  Open all gates strong . . .

  “Faithful and obedient be,

  to Anna and the Regency!”

  Silence followed the song. A silence Anna welcomed with the faint throbbing that had invaded her skull with the spell—and another double image of the hold before her. She slowly extended her free hand to the water bottle and fumbled it open, drinking slowly.

  Beside Anna, Jecks shifted his weight on the dark stallion. The broad-shouldered and black-haired Fhurgen urged his mount forward and before her, as if to act as a human shield. Farinelli sidestepped two steps.

  Then a creaking followed, and the dark gates swung open. The iron portcullis lifted.

  “Do we ride in?” asked Jimbob, who had slipped forward and reined up behind his grandsire.

  “No,” said Jecks. “Lord Arkad must come to us. Especially after this.” He looked to Anna. “Can you offer another spell?”

  “If I have to,” she answered, again lifting her water bottle one-handedly.

  “ ‘Have to’?” Jimbob’s freckled face reflected puzzlement.

  Anna ignored the expression and drank once more, then replaced the bottle. Jecks bent over and extracted the travel biscuits from the bag tied on the left saddle ring, offering her one. She took it and began to eat, trying to swallow all the dry crumbs. Then she took another swallow of water.

  Her headache was mild, and the double vision had faded, but she’d need both the energy and the water.

  Behind them, horses milled, and the low buzz of conversation sounded like the beehive in Papaw’s back field.

  Shortly, Fauren limped out and stood in the shadow of the open gates. “My master bids you enter.”

  “Return with your master, Fauren, and have him bid us welcome and enter. On his honor,” snapped Jecks, the first time Anna could recall hearing anger in the white-haired lord’s voice.

  “I bid you welcome for him.” Fauren bowed, almost obsequiously. “He is indisposed and ill.”

  “Then have him carried here.” Jecks’ voice was cold.

  “Alas . . .” pleaded Fauren.

  Anna caught sight of movement on the walls. Was that an archer? She cleared her throat and lifted the lutar, glad she’d thought about the spell earlier.

  “All within this faithless hall

  forever serve in lifelong thrall

  the regent and the lord she serves . . .

  . . . Defalkan order she preserves.”

  Anna tried not to wince, but the rhyme scheme was the best she’d been able to do.

  A horrified look crossed the seneschal’s face, and his hands curled toward himself, and his heart, and he staggered. His knees buckled, and then he collapsed, writhing, on the road.

  A single figure plummeted over the wall and landed with a sickening thud on the ground beneath the walls.

  Anna reeled u
nder an equally sickening thud that seemed to rock her skull. Her eyes watered, and she could see clearly, side by side, two images, as if her brain could not integrate the separate visions from each eye—except that the left image seemed “warmer” and the right one “cooler.” Her once mild headache was scarcely mild, and her free hand grasped the front of the saddle to steady her.

  “Are you all right, Lady Anna?” asked Jecks in a low voice.

  “I will be.” And I have no intention of collapsing before Arkad’s gates because of a little spell.

  “Perhaps you should send a squad to see the keep is safe,” suggested Jecks, his eyes still on Anna.

  “Fine.”

  “Our job, Regent.” Alvar stood in the saddle and turned. “Green company! Forward!”

  With Fhurgen’s and his men surrounding them, Anna, Jecks, and Jimbob waited as the twoscore lancers rode around the still figure of Fauren and through the open gates. Not an arrow flew. Not a blade flashed, but Anna kept shifting her weight in the saddle.

  Finally, she reached for the biscuits again. Her head still ached, and her eyes still saw double. Jecks leaned from his saddle and reclaimed the bag. “Here.”

  She ate and drank.

  Alvar rode out through the gates alone, a wide smile on his face. “Your spell worked. You’ll not have any trouble.”

  Anna finished the last of her water and stowed the bottle back in the loops. “You’re sure?”

  “Some of the thralls and peasants were smiling. Some of the others . . . you’ll see.” Alvar turned his mount back toward the keep, raising his blade, and gesturing for the rest of the column to follow.

  Anna still glanced at the heavy dark gates apprehensively as they rode through the heavy brick walls and arch and into a courtyard below the main keep. Two more bodies lay in the courtyard, both purple-clad, like Fauren.

  As Anna reined up, the two armsmen by the double oak doors to the keep prostrated themselves on the stones.

  “Lady Anna . . . Lady Anna.”

  “Impressive,” murmured Jecks.

  Jimbob’s eyes went from the Synfal armsmen to Anna, then back to the armsmen. “I don’t understand.” The youth leaned in his saddle toward the sorceress. “You didn’t use a slaying spell, but some people died. Can you slay without asking for death?”

  “That’s why I don’t like to use sorcery.” Anna took a deep breath. Just one reason of the many I keep discovering. “Jimbob . . . some people. They feel strongly. If I cast a spell that compels them to feel something against their nature, some will die rather than change their nature.”

  “A good thing, too, young Lord Jimbob,” rumbled Fhurgen from where he sat on his mount directly behind Anna. “Anyone who’s so against you and the regent’s better dead.”

  Once, Anna had wondered about anyone being better dead, but after seeing what had happened to Madell—and Dalila and her children—she wasn’t so sure if Madell wouldn’t have been better off dead. Certainly, everyone else would have been better off if he were. She absently massaged her forehead. “Now what? I suppose I need to find Lord Arkad—if he’s alive.”

  “We’ll find him,” Alvar affirmed. “You wait where you can be guarded.” He vaulted off his mount, gesturing for several armsmen to follow, and unsheathed his blade.

  Anna glanced toward the walls, but while the handful of armsmen watched her, none seemed more than curious. Some had seated themselves in patches of shade afforded by the walls. Anna closed her eyes as she sat on Farinelli. That way, she didn’t see double, and the faint sense of nausea and vertigo that went with the double vision disappeared.

  In time, Alvar reappeared with the armsmen.

  Anna opened her eyes and looked at the captain, pleased that the sick feelings didn’t reappear, although the double vision remained.

  “Lord Arkad is alive. He sits in his receiving chamber. He be alone.” Alvar shook his head.

  “Is it safe?” Jecks asked, his voice so slow it almost rumbled.

  “We found no armed men, and all the servants wish to please. Your sorcery was most effective, lady.”

  Anna hoped so. Her head still ached, and seeing two images of everyone was a strain. She almost wanted to take a swig of the medicinal alcohol in her pack, but that wouldn’t have been the best idea. Perhaps Lord Arkad had good cellars and a decent wine. That she could use. Definitely.

  “We will escort you both,” Alvar added.

  Jecks nodded. Anna dismounted first, deliberately and carefully, fearing that her balance was not what it should be. The white-haired lord and Jimbob followed her example. After a moment, she decided to bring the lutar.

  Jecks held the door as Anna entered the cavernous hall, an echoing chamber that held little but dust, and the odor of mold. They were greeted by a serving girl, thin and nervous, who bowed once, twice. “Lady Anna, Regent Anna, this way to Lord Arkad’s chamber.” She bowed again.

  Behind the hall was a corridor running perpendicular to the hall, and the serving girl turned right. Fhurgen stepped up beside her, blade unsheathed, his head turning from side to side.

  Alvar walked on Anna’s right, Jecks on her left, both with blades out.

  Anna frowned. The entire experience seemed almost surreal. Walking through an ancient castle or hold in dim light, surrounded by armed men, treating her like an ancient queen to be protected. Yet her sorcery had apparently turned the keep’s defenders into allies, unwilling or not. And you can’t take a step without wondering if you’ll fall over.

  Her fingers tightened around the lutar, her thoughts skittering into the burning spell. She didn’t want to flay anyone with fire, but she could if the need appeared. Correction. You hope you can.

  The serving girl stopped at the foot of the massive yellow brick staircase, turned, and bowed again. “He’s up the main stairs here, in the upper room, Regent Anna.”

  Anna nodded, then followed the girl.

  Fhurgen, Jecks, and Alvar kept abreast of her, with Jimbob lagging, his eyes darting from side to side. Close to a score of armsmen followed the group, but the only sounds were the echoes of boots on brick.

  At the top of the stairs, under a huge portrait of a man in unfamiliar armor on a white horse, they turned right, down another brick-walled corridor for perhaps twenty yards to an open doorway.

  The time-stained door was open into a square and high-ceilinged room nearly ten yards on a side. At the right end of the room was a raised wooden dais. On the dais was a carved chair, nothing more. An old, white-haired figure sat on the chair.

  Jecks slowed slightly, gesturing for Jimbob to do the same.

  Anna, flanked by Fhurgen, stopped short of the dais, squinting in trying to make out Arkad. Her nose itched. Mold? Dust?

  “Pay homage to the regent,” growled Fhurgen.

  Arkad looked up from the carved chair at Fhurgen, then to Anna. “I honor you, Regent. I honor you. I honor you.” Tears seeped from the rheumy eyes, disappearing into the food-stained and tangled white beard.

  Anna paused. Something didn’t feel right. She lifted the lutar slightly, her fingers feeling for the strings.

  “I honor you,” cackled Arkad, a line of saliva drooling out of the left corner of his mouth. The Lord of Cheor tottered erect and bowed his head. “I honor you.”

  Anna glanced toward Fhurgen momentarily. Did Arkad seem as . . . mad . . . as she thought?

  The ancient figure stumbled down from the dais toward Anna. “Honor you!”

  With the flash of silver Anna threw up her right hand and jumped aside, trying to protect the lutar and herself from the blade. A line of fire grazed the side of her hand.

  “Bastard!” Fhurgen’s bare blade slashed, and the knife clattered on the stones. The guard’s second effort threw the tottering figure onto the bricks.

  Arkad did not move, and blood began to pool on the stained yellow floor bricks. Then the ancient figure twitched once and was still. Anna knew he was dead.

  After a moment, Anna looked at the gash
on the side of her palm. “Good thing you brought the alcohol,” she murmured to herself.

  “I am sorry, Regent.” Fhurgen’s voice almost broke.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Fhurgen. I was careless.” She shook her head. Sorcery doesn’t protect you if you don’t use it . . . or if someone’s so twisted and mad that the spell has no effect . . . or if you’re seeing double and don’t react.

  “There’s a bottle wrapped in green cloth in my saddlebags. Would you send someone for it?” She looked back down on the emaciated white-haired figure in the stained maroon tunic lying in already-drying blood.

  Fhurgen nodded to the blond armsman behind him. “You heard the regent, Rickel.”

  Jecks looked to Anna.

  “I’ll be all right. It’s not much more than a scratch.” She shook her head. “What a mess. What a fucking, dissonant mess.”

  24

  DUMARIA, DUMAR

  Ehara swings into the saddle of the roan, glancing from the stable back at the white limestone of the palace, then urges his mount toward the parklike preserve that stretches from behind the white stone building to the top of the bluffs overlooking the Falche River three deks to the east and to the north gate little more than a dek away, where the road winds down the steep hill past the mansions of the wealthy traders.

  The gray-haired lancer officer spurs his mount to catch up with the Lord of Dumar.

  “You’re a lancer, Overcaptain Keasil. It took you long enough to catch me.” Ehara’s voice booms across the turf that leads to the woods.

  “You are known as an excellent horseman, sire.” Keasil’s voice is lower than Ehara’s as he settles his mount into a walk beside Ehara. “You asked me to accompany you?”

  “Away from the palace and the ever-listening ears. I’m sure you understand.” Ehara urges his mount into a trot.

  Keasil manages to react quickly, and the two men ride side by side toward the tended woods.

  “Keasil . . .” Ehara turns in his saddle and grins. “Send a token of our appreciation to Lord Sargol in Suhl. You can select something from the chest, a diamond or two, I think, when you come to my study later. Siobion prefers the pearls and rubies. I will have a scroll ready for you shortly after I return to my study. I’ll send for you.”