The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Anna frowned, then she shook her head. The way she’d composed the spell wouldn’t allow showing Sargol if he weren’t in his hall.

  She lowered the lutar. How could she change it? It took several attempts with the grease marker before she had something. After humming through the tune to fix the new words, she looked at Jecks.

  “It’s not as easy as it looks to outsiders.” Then she lifted the lutar.

  “Mirror, mirror, in your frame,

  show me Lord Sargol in his fame.

  Where’er he may ride or be,

  show him now to me . . .”

  The second image centered on a gray-haired and slender man, with a trimmed gray beard and a regular tanned face. A darkly handsome figure, Anna decided. Lord Sargol rode a gray mount, with a gray cloak half open.

  Behind him rode armsmen. How many, Anna could not tell from the image presented in the wall mirror. Nor could she tell where he rode. She wanted to stamp a foot, childish as it felt. She needed better spells—more precise ones . . . or something.

  Her eyes went to Jecks. “Have you seen enough?”

  “Yes, Lady Anna.”

  Anna released the spell. This time, the dizziness didn’t pass immediately, and she walked slowly back to her chair, setting the lutar on the bed behind it.

  She sat and took a long swallow of water, hoping it wouldn’t be that long before Alvar and supper, or whatever a late-afternoon meal might be called, arrived.

  “You need to eat more,” suggested Jecks, mildly, not quite meeting her eyes.

  “I know. I know.” She closed her eyes for a moment, but that only got her white sparkles against the red-tinged darkness, and she opened them nearly immediately. “Do you know what it’s like to have to eat all the time? To worry that you’ll die if you can’t eat?”

  “Once . . . many years ago, I had to eat much more.” Jecks laughed, half humorously. “Now, I wish I could. Always, we wish for what we have yet to reach or what we have left behind.”

  That was true enough. With a gust of damp air, Anna looked toward the window. The rain had picked up again, and she could hear it splatting against the outer walls of Synfal.

  It wasn’t that long before a thrap on the door.

  Jecks rose, and Anna let him.

  Alvar followed the two serving girls and the heaped platters into the room. He glanced around, then slipped out, only to return with another chair from somewhere even before the girls left.

  On one platter was a variety of white and yellow cheeses, as well as slabs of cold meat. The second platter held noodles of some sort, covered with a steaming brown sauce. There was a large basket with a long dark loaf of bread, and a smaller basket with three apples.

  Anna felt her mouth watering. She tried some of everything, and found herself wolfing down the mint-spicy noodles, not caring that much that her eyes were watering.

  Again, she ate twice what either man did, and then had some more of the white cheese and the dark bread. After that, she sliced up the tart apple and ate that, and more cheese.

  “Good food, and I thank you, Lady Anna,” Alvar said as he finished.

  “I, too,” said Jecks, adding, “Sorcery is wearying work. More wearying than wielding a blade from what I see.”

  “I never would have thought it,” Anna admitted, reaching for the last crust of the hot dark bread.

  Finally, with her headache and dizziness gone, she picked up the lutar again. “Let’s see what other sorcerers are following me.”

  Alvar swallowed as she began to sing.

  “Of those with power of the song

  seek those who’d do me wrong

  and show them in this silver cast

  and make that vision well last.”

  This time the images in the glass were fewer, far fewer. There was the blond seer from Nordwei whom she’d seen from the beginning, a hawk-faced man in white who had to be one of the Sea-Priests, and a young black-bearded man with intense eyes that burned.

  She turned to Jecks and Alvar.

  Jecks shook his head.

  As she could smell the heat of the mirror’s wooden frame, Anna released the images.

  The looks of hatred on the faces of both the Sea-Priest and the unknown young man bothered her. She couldn’t prove it, but she felt those looks were directed at her, and she’d learned the hard way what happened when she didn’t take into account her feelings.

  At the same time, she had to wonder. Were there that few with power who would do her wrong?

  “The woman’s from Nordwei. She’s been following me ever since I got here, I think. Is the man in white one of the Sea-Priests?”

  “I do not know, lady,” answered Alvar.

  “I would say so, from his garments,” said Jecks.

  “What about the young man?”

  “He looks like a dark monk or a commoner,” answered Jecks.

  Why would a commoner hate her? Should she investigate more? She frowned. She couldn’t sing spells for everyone who opposed her—not all at the same time. Still carrying the lutar, Anna walked over to the table and finished the last of the water. She’d need to orderspell more. That could wait.

  What else should she scry? Dencer? She took a deep breath. How could she craft a better spell?

  “Lord Dencer, show me then and now,

  what he does ‘gainst me and how.

  Show the scenes both far and near

  and show us what one should fear.”

  The mirror obligingly split into three scenes. In the one in the upper left third of the glass, Dencer sat on a low ridge watching what appeared to be lancers practicing something. From what Anna could see, there were hundreds of lancers, far more than she had. In the left-hand side of the glass, Dencer stood beside a desk, holding a velvet pouch. Across the desk was an officer in a crimson uniform. The lower scene showed an aerial view of the land. Anna didn’t see anything familiar. There was a road, flanked by several hilltops, and fields and perhaps a keep or holding in the distance.

  After several moments, she turned to Alvar. The captain lifted his shoulders. “Lady Anna, I do not understand.”

  “It is a vision from the heavens,” Jecks explained. “That could be anywhere in southern Defalk. I do not see anything I recognize, but the land is softer and greener than in the north.”

  As heat radiated from the wooden mirror frame and it threatened to burst into flames, Anna released the spell. As she looked at Jecks, a crack broke the silence. Black lines split the mirror into three sections, still held by the frame.

  “I think I need another mirror.”

  “You are hard on glasses.” Jecks glanced at the window as rain splattered into the room. “Perhaps the shutters?”

  Anna nodded.

  Alvar used a striker to light the candles, while Jecks stood and went to the window to close the double shutters.

  “The armsman in red—you think he was from Dumar?” she asked in the flickering light from the candles.

  “Ehara’s lancers are said to wear red.” Jecks sipped the amber wine.

  Anna thought she might have some . . . later. “Ehara’s sending golds to Dencer, like the Norweians warned me.”

  Alvar gave a single sharp nod.

  “And he’s training a lot of lancers.” Anna thought. Maybe she should go straight back to Falcor. Or follow Jecks’ advice and just repair the ford at Soprat. If the southern lords were preparing revolt, she might need quick access to and from the east. Anientta would have to wait—like a lot of things. “You may be right, Lord Jecks. This is not the time to visit Synope.” She paused. “Do you have any idea where that last scene might be?”

  “No, Lady Anna. I do not. It has to be south of here, because there were red quince trees on the hillside, and they do not grow north of the Synor.”

  “I hope Hanfor’s had some luck in finding armsmen and blades for them to bear.” She shook her head. “We’d better make plans to leave as soon as possible.”

  “I feel that
is wise, lady.” Jecks cleared his throat. “I would also feel happier if you would wear a breastplate.”

  Alvar nodded.

  “Armor?”

  Jecks looked down. “If . . . Arkad had been younger . . . If you are caught unaware . . . you can recover from injuries to limbs, if anyone can.”

  “I suppose I should learn to wear a helmet, too?” She softened her tone and added, “I’m sorry. I’ll give it a try.”

  “You are Defalk, Lady Anna,” Alvar said slowly.

  Now she had to worry about armor? And another fight? She didn’t want to use sorcery against Dencer, but would she have any choice? He didn’t seem likely to listen to reason, and she certainly didn’t have a large enough army to avoid using it. In any case, she needed to be in Falcor . . . or somewhere not so out of touch as Cheor.

  She took a deep breath, then reached for the pitcher of wine. She needed it. She hoped she wouldn’t need it too much in the days ahead.

  32

  STROMWER, DEFALK

  Dencer opens the iron-bound door and steps into the narrow, stone-walled room.

  Wendella looks up from the table, then stands, and inclines her head. “My lord, what wish you?”

  “What wish I? What wish I? What sort of fool do you take me for? What wish I?” He lifts the leather quirt in his hand. “Do you see this? See you this?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Wendella’s eyes meet Dencer’s.

  “The sole good you have done, the sole good is my son! Better I had your tongue ripped out.”

  “My lord?”

  “You said you made no bargains with the bitch!”

  “I said I made none, and I made none.”

  “You lie. You lie as rushes on a peasant’s floor.” Dencer reaches out with his left hand and rips off the thin shift that Wendella wears. She stands erect, motionless as his second motion rips away her smallclothes, leaving a red scratch across her hip.

  “I told you no lies, my lord. I suffered captivity for you. Never did I agree to anything.”

  Smack! Dencer’s hand rocks the brown-haired woman’s head back.

  “Will you never stop lying to me?”

  “I . . . did . . . not . . . lie.” Her words are evenly spaced.

  “You lie as rushes lie.” He slashes the quirt-whip across Wendella’s bare buttocks, leaving a line of red. “You made a bad bargain with the bitch sorceress. Tell me you did!”

  “I made no bargains.”

  “Then why does Lord Ehara send an overcaptain to proffer friendship to that gray pig Sargol? Why does he spurn me with a stripling captain and a handful of golds? What bargain did you strike with the bitch?”

  “My lord, I offered nothing.” Wendella’s jaw remains firm, though tears seep from the corners of her eyes.

  “Liar!”

  Wendella does not speak.

  “Liar!” Thwipp! Thwipp! The quirt strikes again, and again . . . and continues until she lies on the stone tiles.

  Then the door shuts.

  33

  With the midafternoon sun streaming down, Anna took off the floppy felt hat and blotted her forehead. Although Jecks and the others still wore riding coats, she had doffed her jacket. That still left the breastplate and a feltlike pad and a light green shirt. All of that made her feel hotter. She hoped she could get used to wearing the breastplate. Or was this the first step in getting her used to a lot of armor? Did Jecks see her as an overage Maid of Orleans? Despite the heat, she shivered. She didn’t fancy following that example. She just wished she could stuff the armorplate into her saddlebags, along with the discarded jacket.

  She glanced ahead. The road clay remained mostly damp from the heavy rains, but two days of steady sunlight had dried patches to the point where hoofs raised some dust.

  Two days . . . and we’re still less than halfway to Soprat. Destroying the Evult’s army under Eladdrin had been the only way to stop the invasion of the Ebrans, but the spells necessary had also ripped out the ford, and Anna was definitely beginning to regret the destruction of the only decent crossing point on the Chean River west of Pamr. Some things don’t change. You make a mess, and you’re the one who gets stuck cleaning it up. Why do some people never have to pay for their mistakes? And why do you feel you always pay double?

  She shook her head. She doubted that she’d ever be able to answer that question. Once . . . just once in her life she’d offered a really thoughtless plea. Anywhere but Ames, Iowa! The harmonies or gods or fates had laughed and granted that wish, and poor dead Jenny’s spell had hurled her from earth to Liedwahr. How many years would she pay for that? With fights and angry men, and children she’d never hold again?

  She tried to push those thoughts away, at least for a time, and forced her eyes to the sprouts of green in the fields to the right of the road.

  While Alvar rode beside her, immediately behind rode Jecks and Jimbob.

  “Who will inherit the lands of Synfal, grandsire?” Jimbob’s voice was still a boyish tenor, but the redhead had started to grow, and Anna knew his voice would deepen before long.

  “That’s for the regent to decide, Jimbob. You watch how she handles it, for you may have to do the same one day.”

  “Why didn’t she just announce whoever she wanted?”

  “How would you feel if a ruler killed a lord and before the body was cold declared a new lord?”

  After a moment of silence, there was an, “Oh. I’d think she’d planned it all out.”

  “Do you think she did?” Jecks asked.

  “No. Even I know she doesn’t like killing. That’s why her hand got cut up.”

  For someone who doesn’t like it, you’ve certainly done your share, Anna thought. After brushing away a persistent fly, she looked to the north, at the line of trees less than a hundred yards north, across the rushes and marshy ground that bordered the river proper.

  That the road ran south of the Synor River, on the northern border of Lord Sargol’s desmaine, bothered her somewhat, but the marshes and swamps appeared even larger on the northern side.

  “It is dangerous to be too bloodthirsty,” said Alvar quietly, his voice barely audible above the sound of hoofs and conversations, “but even more dangerous to be too merciful.”

  “Have I been too merciful, Alvar?” Anna asked.

  “No, lady. You have not sought blood that did not need to be spilled, either.” The swarthy captain lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I worry. Some of the lords in this land see wisdom as mercy.”

  “You mean, they see failure to slaughter all of a rebellious lord’s armsmen as weakness?” Anna used a tattered green cloth square to wipe her forehead, then gave Farinelli a pat on the neck. “Hope you’re not as hot as I am, fellow.”

  “Even Lord Behlem was not that stupid,” Alvar said. “Dead armsmen cannot fight for you, and most armsmen will fight for whoever can give them silver.”

  “I hope you’re not sticking with me for my vast supplies of nonexistent silver,” Anna said with a laugh.

  “You do not waste armsmen. That is worth more than coin.” Alvar frowned, and his eyes narrowed.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “The tracks in the road. They came from that path there.” Alvar gestured back at the narrow lane they had passed, which emerged from a woods several deks to the south and crossed the tilled fields to join the main road.

  “Horses, and a cart, heading the same way we are,” added Jecks, easing his mount up to Anna’s left.

  Even Anna could see the clear outlines in the damp clay, once she looked down.

  “A big cart, sire?” asked Jimbob from where he trailed them, his voice serious.

  Anna wanted to smile at the politeness Jimbob demonstrated when he knew his words were heard by her, but she refrained.

  Jecks shook his head. “Their mounts are well-shod. Not traders.”

  Anna studied the tracks in the road. The wheels seemed to have created a fairly deep rut. “Is that a heavy cart?”

  �
��Heavier than most,” opined Alvar.

  “The wheels are too narrow,” added Jecks. “A wider rim is better for a working wagon on these roads.”

  “For supply wagons, too,” said Alvar.

  That made sense to Anna, although she’d never thought about how wide wagon wheels should be.

  “Too wide or too narrow is hard on the horses,” Jecks continued, half turning to Jimbob. “That’s why a lord needs good wagonmasters and wheelwrights.”

  Anna smiled, her eyes drifting along the road as it turned south and away from the river, presumably because of another marsh or soggy ground. Less than a dek ahead on the south side of the road rose a low hill, half covered with fresh-leaved trees in lines, an orchard of some sort. She peered ahead. A line of hills, each slightly higher than the one before, lay along the south side of the road. Most appeared to have orchards.

  “The peaches of the south,” confirmed Jecks.

  “How did you know that was what I was wondering?”

  “You near fell from the saddle straining to make them out.” The white-haired lord smiled. “Tybel is said to make a fine brandy from them.”

  Tybel? Anna strained to put the name with the lands. “He’s the Lord of Arien. We sent him a scroll about the seed grain. I don’t think we ever heard from him.”

  “Better that than hear as from Lord Dencer.”

  “I still don’t understand. Not really.” Anna reached for her water bottle and took a long and deep swallow. Even the minimal armor made her normal dehydration problems worse.

  “Lords only talk to rulers and regents when times are bad or when they want something.” Jecks laughed. “Best not to hear from them.”

  Except for close friends, isn’t it that way with most people? In Liedwahr, people are like people everywhere. “When you put it that way . . .”

  “They want something,” Jecks continued, with a look at Jimbob, to make sure the youth was still listening, “and if you deny them, they get angry. You grant it, and every other lord wants something, or gets angry because you granted something to the first.”

  “You make ruling sound hopeless,” Anna ventured.