The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Me?” asked Anna involuntarily.

  “So they say.”

  “Not me.” A growling from her stomach reminded Anna of other necessities, and rescued her. “I need to eat.”

  Jecks stood immediately. “If I might join you? Alvar ate with Jimbob already. Jimbob sleeps now. He still is young.”

  “Of course.” Anna offered a smile, hoping her concerns didn’t show through too much. “I had thought you would. Earlier, I mean. And I understand about Jimbob. Sometimes you forget he’s only twelve.”

  The Lord of Elheld nodded, then stood as she did, and they walked silently down the wide main brick stairs.

  They sat at a corner of the large table in the intimate dining salon beside the kitchen. The three lit wall sconces gave a dim but adequate light. Two platters rested on the table, one of a roasted fowl, uncut, evenly roasted brown, and oozing golden drippings, and a second of sliced meat over thick noodles, covered with a white sauce.

  Anna could smell the duck. Was it as greasy as it looked? And smelled? Then, she’d never cared that much for either goose or duck. She helped herself to the noodles, her mouth watering. She’d really eaten far too little over the course of the day.

  She’d almost finished her first helping before she spoke. “You saw the kitchens.”

  “Yes?” mumbled Jecks.

  “And the stables?” Anna paused. “They were well kept, better kept, and cleaner in many ways than the rooms people lived in here.”

  “I do not think anyone has lived here for some years, except for Lord Arkad. Alvar said Fauren’s quarters were with the armsmen.” Jecks took a hefty swallow of wine from his goblet, then reached for the pitcher to refill his goblet. “Those are clean.”

  “I wonder.” Anna carefully lifted the goblet and took a small swallow of wine, since she hadn’t felt like order-spelling any water besides that in her quarters. The pewterlike goblet was heavy, and she wasn’t used to using her left hand. “I had the impression that Fauren was the evil plotter behind a weak and crazy old lord. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Except it does.” She pursed her lips.

  “Lord Arkad had some greater plan, you think?”

  “I don’t know. He kept the ballroom—the dancing room—and the old throne room. He was gathering huge amounts of golds, and outside of the main part of the hall, everything is clean and in good condition.”

  “Our weapons difficulties may be slighter, now,” Jecks said after taking another mouthful of the duck that had proved too greasy for Anna.

  “There was an armory somewhere?”

  “Over two hundred good blades, and close to a hundred lances. A number of bows. Those I did not count.”

  “Won’t that leave the liedburg’s armsmen without weapons?” she asked.

  “Those were racked below. The armsmen have their blades.”

  Anna nodded to herself. One way or another, the blades needed to go to Falcor. “That will help Hanfor. And if we can get the ones from Ranuak . . .”

  “A blade in the hand is worth two in the forge.”

  Anna yawned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was so tired.” She shook her head.

  “You amaze me. You have ridden nearly two leagues, cast numerous spells, been wounded, and taken over a strange hold, and you are astonished that you are fatigued.” Jecks’ eyes twinkled as he stood and offered his arm.

  Anna took it. “It makes sense that way.”

  Not much else does, but that does. She stifled another yawn and took the first step toward the stairs, glad for his stability in an unstable world.

  28

  WEI, NORDWEI

  Ashtaar glances at the black agate oval, then at Gretslen, who sits in the chair before the flat desk. “Send a message scroll to Menares.”

  “He has not acknowledged any previous instructions and messages, and he fears the soprano sorceress so greatly that he will not admit to receiving anything from Wei.” The blonde seer’s voice is matter-of-fact.

  “His fear of her is exactly what I am counting on.” The spymistress smiles. “Ehara is being courted by the Sea-Priests. What can we do about it?”

  “There is little we can do, not with the Bitter Sea yet frozen, not until the spring gathering.”

  “We can ensure that she knows.”

  Gretslen frowns.

  “Do we want the Sea-Priests to get a foothold in Dumar, and then in Ranuak?” Ashtaar sighs. “I should not explain, but I will. Ehara reckons to use the Sea-Priests’ coin to take over the south of Defalk. He sends arms and golds to Lord Dencer. What the ambitious—or desperate—Lord Ehara does not know is that the Sea-Priests will cast him aside as they can, and Dumar will become where their ships port in Liedwahr. First will come their control of the wool trade, and then of the grain.”

  “You think the sorceress can do aught about this?”

  “If she knows that Lord Dencer is receiving golds from Ehara, she must act. Provided she knows this is happening—”

  “Menares will not tell her.”

  “Oh, but he must. Should she ever discover that he knew of the threat and did not inform her, what would his life be worth? No, she would not kill him. She would do worse. She would send him back to Neserea, or to Wei.” Ashtaar picks up the stone that is deeper and blacker than night. “Draft the scroll. I would see it by evening.”

  “As you wish, mightiness.” Gretslen’s voice remains neutral.

  “You doubt my desire to warn her? Even the Council would not. With a known danger in Dencer and Ehara, she will not move north. Nor can she consider taking territory in Ebra. She is strong enough to bring down Ehara, one way or another, and that will bring her into conflict with both Konsstin and the Sea-Priests.”

  “And you feel that she will use her sorcery against them?”

  “She will not have any choice,” predicts Ashtaar, glancing down at the black agate oval she holds. “She never has had that choice. Nor do we.”

  “Why can she not see what we see? She is a greater sorceress than any of us . . .”

  “How many seers do you have in the tower, Gretslen?”

  “Five, besides myself,” admits the blonde.

  Ashtaar smiles. “There is but one of the sorceress, and she needs must hold her strength for the mighty works required of her. Also, strength is not skill. There is much she does not know, much she cannot yet know.”

  Gretslen frowns momentarily, smoothing the expression away before Ashtaar looks up.

  “Draft the scroll.”

  29

  In the bright midmorning spring sunshine, Anna eased Farinelli to a halt on the rutted and packed clay of the road that led to the bridge across the Synor River. She smiled, glad that she could see again, undoubled, unimpaired. Two days of rest had helped. Can you count on days of rest after every major bit of sorcery? She pushed the thought away.

  On her right rode Liende, as her chief player. On the left rode Jecks, and immediately behind them, Alvar and Jimbob. A faint line of clouds rose on the southern horizon, but the skies overhead were clear, and a light and pleasant breeze gusted out of the south.

  “There is the bridge,” Jecks announced.

  “It looks as rickety as Halde and everyone said,” the blonde and youthful-looking regent acknowledged.

  “It has served for many years,” Jecks said.

  “It won’t serve us that many more. Not unless the river goes dry,” Anna answered. She glanced at the road and the bridge again, then toward Alvar. “Let’s keep everyone back from the bridge until I’m done. Send a squad across the bridge to the other side. When they get there, have them set up a post . . .”

  “A picket line?”

  “A picket line a good hundred yards from the bridge.” Anna cleared her throat, hoping the spring tree pollen wasn’t going to trigger her allergies. Brill’s youth sorcery hadn’t done anything for that. “The last thing we need is someone trying to cross a bridge while I’m trying to replace it.”

  “Yes, Lady Anna.” Th
e swarthy captain nodded and turned his mount away, riding back toward the lancers who had halted perhaps five yards behind the players, in turn five yards behind Anna and Liende.

  Jimbob eased his mare up beside his grandsire.

  “Liende?” asked Anna. “Would you have the players wait here for a moment? I need to see where I want you all to play. It may take me a little bit to get ready, but I hope it won’t be too long.”

  “We stand ready.” Liende nodded.

  Anna flicked the reins gently, and let Farinelli carry her off the road and closer to the edge of the slight bank overlooking the lowland and the river itself. When she reined up, to her right was the low timber structure that had served as the main crossing of the Synor for more than fifty deks. The last scattered houses of the easternmost part of Cheor lay a good two deks westward, along the road she had just traveled from Synfal.

  While the Falche—to the west of Cheor—was wider than at Falcor, and much wider to the southwest after it was joined by the Synor, the Synor itself was a narrow river. The water flowing under the old bridge wasn’t much more than twenty yards wide, with grasses and rushes extending a few yards beyond. As Jecks had pointed out, though, for the forty deks upstream of Cheor the Synor ran deep enough that it was well over the head of even a mounted rider, with several yards to spare.

  Despite the flatness of the land, she had noted that there were scattered boulders, some sizable, along the river, probably either from beneath the delta or carried downstream over time. She was counting on there being enough for her sorcery. Otherwise . . . she shook her head. You do what you can.

  Anna continued to survey the river and the bridge, pondering how the old timber bridge had lasted. She thought she could see it waver even as her lancers crossed it and then set up a picket line to keep the road and bridge clear.

  Farinelli whuffed and sidestepped as Jecks eased his mount up beside Anna. Jimbob halted his mare slightly farther back.

  “Are you sure this is wise?” Jecks frowned.

  “We don’t have any battles to fight. I have a set of players, and that means I’m not doing it all myself. And that bridge is the key to all the lands in the south of Defalk, isn’t it?”

  “Except for Morra, that is true. Still, your bridge will also let an enemy march north to Falcor.”

  Anna smiled grimly. “If an enemy gets that far, we won’t be around to worry.”

  “A regent who does not retreat.” Jecks gave a short laugh.

  Alvar and Fhurgen had reined up slightly behind Jecks and Anna, but neither spoke as the sorceress continued to study the river and the bridge.

  “When we fight on their lands, our people don’t suffer as much.” Anna wondered where she’d thought of that, even as she said it.

  An expression flicked across Jecks’ face, too fast for Anna to identify it. Was it surprise? Or dismay? She wasn’t sure she liked either. She turned in the saddle, absently patting Farinelli on the neck. “Alvar, I think the lancers should keep everyone on this side back, say, as far as that path that joins the road there. That should provide enough of a margin of safety.” You hope.

  “Yes, Regent Anna.” The captain turned and rode back toward the lancers, and the cart and wagon they had detained. “All squads back. Back behind the cross-path there.”

  Anna dismounted and extracted the two sheets of paper she had prepared earlier—the spell and the sketch of the bridge. Then she looked at the still-mounted Lord Jecks, then at Fhurgen. “If you would not mind hanging on to Farinelli, Fhurgen?”

  “He has not troubled me before. Let us hope he does not today.”

  “I hope not.” She turned to Jecks.

  “Have you a task for me?” The white-haired lord smiled, a faint twinkle back in his eyes.

  “No. This time, you and Jimbob can just watch.”

  “You . . . I . . . we will watch.”

  Anna wondered what Jecks had been about to say, or why he hadn’t. Offer a compliment? Was she that formidable? “Thank you.” She tried to make her words warm, and she smiled.

  Jimbob smiled back, almost with a puzzled cross between a smile and a frown, and Jecks returned the warmth.

  Then Anna walked to the top of the low rise where she could see both river and bridge. On the far side, her armsmen were stretched out. Two had stopped a cart drawn by a pony, and a woman leading two sheep.

  She hummed the spell tune, then started through a vocalise. “Holly, lolly, polly . . . pop . . .” She coughed up mucus. It was going to be one of those days. Thank goodness, or the harmonies, it wasn’t a battle or some other disaster.

  The youth spell hadn’t really returned her to youth, not her own youth. She’d never had bad allergies when she’d been young. Brill’s dying effort had rejuvenated her current body, given it strength and a youthful form, but she was still struggling with allergies and intermittent mild asthma.

  Clearing her throat, she tried another vocalise. Her voice didn’t feel clear until she’d run through four vocalises, and she tried to ignore the impatience she felt was building around her.

  Across the river the lancers had stopped another wagon, and on her side, Alvar had halted a cart and a shepherd with a dozen sheep.

  Finally, Anna turned and motioned to Liende, and waited until the red-and-white-haired woodwind player rode forward. “I think about here would be right.” The sorceress added, “We’ll use the long building spell. Warm up and run through it a few times while I finish getting ready.”

  “Players to position,” said Liende, with a gesture to the others to dismount and circle around her.

  Anna walked forward a few steps, looking at the sketch of the bridge and trying to visualize it over the waters and the still-brown rushes of the Synor.

  While the strings and horns began to tune behind her, she began to sing the notes of the spell, using “la” instead of real words, and visualized the stone arch she wanted to replace the rickety wooden span that had seemed to sway and sag even under a single wagon earlier.

  After one run-through, Anna concentrated on just the drawing of the bridge the spell was supposed to create, ignoring the cacophony of tuning, and the creaking of yet another wagon nearing the river.

  Then, as the players waited, she finished a last vocalise and mentally went over the spell melody and the words. Finally, she nodded to Liende. “The long building spellsong.”

  Once the melody rose, Anna sang, not belting, but with full voice.

  “. . . replicate the blocks and stones.

  Place them in their proper zones . . .

  Set them firm, and set them square

  weld them to their pattern there . . .

  “Bring the rock and make it stone . . .”

  The ground around the river shuddered, but Anna held her mind on the image of the new bridge and the stone approachway to it, keeping her voice open and clear.

  The shiver in Erde’s underlying harmonies seemed less pronounced. Was that because the players were stronger? Still, there was a flicker of lightning across the half-clear sky—again visible to but her, she suspected. The few puffy clouds did darken into a heavy gray.

  Anna swayed on her feet, feeling dizzy, lightheaded, but she caught herself.

  Damn it all! More rest before we get out of here. All she ever did, it seemed, was cast spells and get weak and recover in time to cast more spells. Her eyes narrowed. The new bridge seemed solid, although the stones shimmered as if they had been glazed.

  “Lady Anna?” Jecks stood beside her, offering her both her water bottle and a biscuit bigger than his fist.

  “Thank you.” She took a swallow from the bottle and then a bite of the crumbly biscuit, and another . . . and another. After a moment, she realized she’d eaten the entire biscuit. She was still lightheaded, but didn’t feel as though she’d fall over any moment, and she had no problem with double images.

  With a smile, Jecks offered another biscuit.

  “Thank you,” she said again, taking it, and chew
ing off a crumbling corner.

  Alvar eased his mount toward her. “My lady? The bridge? Can it be used?”

  “They can use it,” she confirmed.

  “Another bridge that will outlive us both,” Jecks said, with a shake of his head.

  “Better bridges than battles,” she mumbled as she finished the second biscuit and lifted the water bottle.

  30

  ESARIA, NESEREA

  I won’t. I can’t.” The girl sits up in the bed, and swings her legs over the edge, letting the sheer green cotton fall away from small and well-formed breasts that shimmer in the faint light that comes through the door from the outer room.

  “You’re sure?” Rabyn’s voice is concerned, warm.

  “I can’t . . .” She shakes her head. “That . . . that’s awful.”

  “I’d hoped you’d be sweet to me.”

  “The other . . .” She shakes her head. “Not that. . . .”

  The dark-haired youth sits up beside her, offers her a goblet of wine. “Here. It’s all right. I didn’t realize it would upset you.”

  “You’re so young. You’re not old enough to think like that. How . . .” She takes a swallow, and her mouth puckers slightly. “Sweet. Too sweet.” Another smaller swallow follows.

  “Honey. I like my wine sweet. I like girls sweet, too, Dylla.” Rabyn offers a smile.

  “Sickening . . . sweet.” She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, and her mouth puckers again.

  “I like things sweet. That’s why you should have done what I asked,” he adds slowly, taking the goblet from her, as her hands begin to tremble.