The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Then start the spellsong.”

  Anna timed the music and lifted her voice toward the silent keep.

  “These arrows shot into the air,

  the head of each must strike Lord Sargol there—”

  Anna dropped her hand, and sensed the release of the arrows.

  “—with force and speed to kill him dead,

  for all the treachery he’s done and led.”

  Slightly light-headed, she watched as perhaps two dozen arrows flew over the walls of Suhl. Had she heard a slight clatter?

  The walls remained as silent as before.

  Anna turned toward Farinelli, and laboriously got out the lutar and the mirror. After tuning the instrument, she cleared her throat.

  “Show me now and show me near

  Lord Sargol bright and clear . . .”

  The glass was explicit enough. Sargol was clad in gray inside a stone-walled room, one with iron shutters—iron doubtless because he thought it proof against sorcery or some such. And it had been proof against the arrows. Sargol’s eyes glittered, but he was very much alive.

  Anna took a deep breath, feeling Jecks beside her, also studying the glass before she cleared the image. Now what?

  Her eyes flashed toward the hulking brick and stone keep of Suhl, its gates barred, its lord raging. She shook her head and turned to Jecks.

  “Now what do I do?”

  “I do not know.”

  Why? Why . . . because it’s the perversity of the universe. She turned and walked back to Liende.

  The chief player watched as the regent approached.

  “Liende, I’ll need the flame spell—again.”

  “Lord Sargol still lives?” The chief player looked down.

  “Unfortunately.”

  Anna waited as the players reorganized. Neither Jecks nor Hanfor said a word, though they exchanged glances—and kept exchanging them.

  Finally, in the late afternoon silence, with the brick and stone keep brazed in golden flat light of a sun that hung over the low hills to the west, Anna gestured to Liende and the players, then let her voice rise.

  “Those who will not be

  loyal to the regency,

  let them die, let them lie,

  struck by fire, struck by flame . . .”

  This time, the chords of Harmony did shiver the sky, and the ground trembled. Then came a wailing that should have been a counterpointed chord, except that nothing matched, not intervals, not key or scale or anything—the closest sound Anna had ever heard to pure dissonance, again a sound that no one else seemed to hear.

  Her teeth and jaw ached, and her eyes watered, first from the sounds, and then from the lines of fire that arrowed from the impossibly azure blue of the sky, endless line of fire after endless line of fire.

  Anna shuddered as she could sense a few of the fire arrows slash into her own armsmen. Bad spell. . . . How do you know all your own forces are loyal in their hearts?

  Sweat burst out on her forehead, a sweat of fear. Was she that loyal, even to herself?

  Even before the last chord, darkness had begun to gather around her, swelling, vibrating, alternating with light. Anna fought to hold on to consciousness, fought, and the darkness receded, ever so slightly, hanging at the corners of her eyes.

  Someone held a water bottle, and she drank before realizing that Jecks stood beside her and held it. Then she ate, heavy brown bread, dry like sawdust in her mouth.

  After that she sat down in the dust, unmindful of the sneezes that racked her, the fires in her eyes, and the knives that twisted in her stomach. Her eyes open in the late afternoon, she saw nothing. Her ears clear, she heard nothing. Too damned close to Darksong . . . far too close. Maybe it had been part Darksong?

  It couldn’t have been—no double vision. But that raised more troubling thoughts. She could destroy people—if the spell were worded correctly—but not change them? Walls could stop arrows, but not fire?

  In time, Hanfor returned to where she still sat in the dust. “Lady . . . Suhl lies open to you.” The arms commander bowed deeply. “None of those who survive gainsay your regency, nor that of Lord Jimbob. Even the two detachments of Dumaran lancers fell to the last man.”

  Anna shivered at his tone, at the blankness of face and expression, at the ill-concealed fear. “Thank . . . you.” After a moment, she added, “I didn’t want it to be this way. I offered terms. . . . I did.” The only ones I could. . . .

  Hanfor nodded, but she could sense his feelings that the choice had been hers, and it had been. Hers alone. She couldn’t blame Dieshr, the music department chair at Ames, or Avery, or Sandy, or the kids, or the economic pressures. She’d chosen the spells and used them.

  She tottered to her feet and looked at Suhl, looked at the open gates, sensed the horror she had created. The bodies—sprawling from the walls, seemingly lying everywhere—were the worst, with red-and-purple burns and blackened skin, with clothing scorched and seared.

  The stench of burned meat was everywhere, carried by the light and hot breeze.

  Anna forced the bitter bile back down her throat, with every breath. She slowly turned to a pale Jecks, who stood beside his mount.

  “Well . . . Lord Jecks,” Anna croaked. “Was it worth it? To save the delicate sensibilities of the northern lords?”

  Jecks’ face, white as that of a marble statue, paled even more, whiter than his-hair.

  With invisible starbursts flashing before her eyes, Anna could barely see, let alone stand. She let herself slump back to the ground and sat there.

  “Lady Anna . . . here is a blanket.” Rickel’s voice was soft.

  Mechanically, Anna shifted herself onto the blanket, then closed her eyes. The starbursts still cascaded across her now-dark field of vision, and she opened her eyes.

  Fhurgen handed her a chunk of bread. She took a small bite. Then she twisted and retched across the dust, adding yet another stench to those of fire and death.

  Fuck Defalkan conventions! I’m not doing this again. . . . Despite the violence of her thought, Anna wondered. In Liedwahr, with its emphasis on force, could she totally avoid the use of greater force? And how?

  How . . . in the name of God or the harmonies . . . or whatever?

  45

  Anna stood on the worn stones of the battlement of the front corner tower of Suhl, looking blankly over the valley. The surface of the mound Sargol had raised was bare, with no sign of the infernal crossbow. The tents had been struck, brushed clean, and stored in one of the keep’s storerooms.

  Three deep holes gaped in the ground—mass graves. Four wagons were scattered across the grass, each heaped with bodies. Under the watchful eyes of subofficers, armsmen stripped each corpse of weapons and valuables before lifting it onto the wagons.

  Caaaw. . . . A large crow flapped its wings in settling onto the other corner tower. Nearly a dozen of the scavengers circled over the meadow, under the wispy thin clouds scattered across the morning sky.

  Absently, Anna’s hand strayed to the wound on her ann. It was still red and itched, if less than before. Behind her, by the steps up from the lower wall, stood Rickel, his broad-shouldered form casting an even broader shadow. Another guard was at the base of the stairs.

  Boots scuffed on the tower steps, and Anna turned as Jecks emerged into the hazy sunlight.

  “Lady Anna, how do you feel?”

  “Close to human, until I look out there.”

  “You did what had to be done.” Jecks crossed the stones of the tower, then stopped next to the stone wall, perhaps two yards to her right. “Sargol would not have surrendered. He tried to kill you twice.” He paused. “And he would rather have stopped his ears against your spells of obedience.”

  “I suppose so.” She frowned. Obedience or loyalty spells were clearly Darksong, and her body and the harmonies were telling her their use was most definitely limited—if she wanted to survive. Yet . . . was the alternative slaughtering thousands? Did that make her any better than S
argol? Wanting to survive?

  She looked down at the bricks of the rampart walk underfoot.

  “You did what needed to be done. You showed mercy at Synfal, and that was first. You have shown what will happen to those who resist.”

  “What’s left of Suhl? Besides mass graves filled with loyal armsmen?” asked Anna abruptly. “A handful of shattered souls? Serfs and women too frightened to think. Three idiots, and a dozen infants, a handful of children. Three of them were Sargol’s.” She laughed, bitterly. “At least, he had heirs. At least, I don’t have to worry about finding someone else to make a lord of the Thirty-three. At least, they’ll be southern lords without delicate sensibilities.”

  Jecks’ face went stony again, and Anna didn’t care, or almost didn’t care. Her eyes focused on the wagons and the armsmen dumping bodies into the pits in the meadow. The light wind carried the faint odor of death.

  “You asked me how those lords would feel, lady. I told you.” His voice was hard.

  “You did, and you were probably right,” Anna said quietly. “I don’t have to like a situation where I must choose between letting Defalk disintegrate, slaughtering thousands, or dying trying to use Darksong.”

  Jecks did not answer, but stood by the battlement, turned so he faced neither toward her nor away from her.

  “My lord,” she prompted quietly, but firmly.

  “What would you have me say?” The words sounded dragged from his lips. “That I did not know how terrible your sorcery would be? From me, who has seen battles for all his life? I did not know?”

  Anna remained silent, and the methodical clank of spades and the dull sounds of teams moving wagons drifted across the tower. The wagons carried far too many bodies.

  “You saw the Sand Pass.”

  “Those were dark ones, not Defalkans.”

  Anna felt less sympathetic to Jecks. “They were people, Lord Jecks. Just as those poor armsmen I slaughtered the day before yesterday were people. They loved; they hoped; and they died.”

  “Lady Anna Think of your flame spells. Did you not direct them at those who rebelled. Only those who rebelled?” Jecks asked softly.

  “Yes,” she admitted.

  “Yet but a handful survived. What would you have? An entire hold seething in rage? This is not Synfal, where Arkad did not incite revolt, where no one raged against you. Arkad did not like the regency, but in his own way, he honored Defalk.”

  Anna forced herself not to answer, to consider his words first. After a time, she spoke, slowly. “Are you saying that so many died here because they violently opposed the Regency and Jimbob?”

  “That is what I believe.”

  The regent and sorceress leaned on the warm worn stone, resting her head on her arms. Lord, Lord . . .

  “Their ties are to these lands, to their lord, not to Defalk. They still think of themselves as Suhlmorrans.”

  “You said the Suhlmorrans had not ruled here for centuries . . . for hundreds of years.”

  Jecks shrugged, almost sadly. “Still, they call themselves Suhlmorrans.”

  “How can we ever . . .”

  “You already have.”

  “No. Enough lived that they’ll hate Jimbob and the Regency more.”

  “Not if you direct the heirs.”

  “Where will I get another administrator?” Anna asked. “Who will hold the keep? We can’t garrison it, not with Gylaron and Dencer left to deal with.”

  “You need not leave more than a handful of armsmen—the wounded among them. No one will dare attack here. There would be no advantage, either. You will declare that his infant son will be the heir, will you not?”

  “Have I any choice, realistically?”

  “No,” Jecks admitted.

  “Have someone draft up the statement, but don’t make it too specific, only that his heirs will hold the land. Don’t name names. I’ll sign it, and have a messenger take it to Synfal and let Herstat have it copied. He can send them to all of the thirty-three who haven’t risen—and to Hadrenn.” She hoped whatever reached her didn’t need too many changes, but she was still too tired to think as clearly as she’d like. The harmonies help her if she ever had to handle large battles on two days running.

  After another silence, punctuated with the clank of spades from the graves, Jecks asked quietly, “What will you with the golds in the storeroom?”

  “The same as always.” Anna laughed harshly. “The Regency gets some. I get a little. You get a little, and most of it stays here for Sargol’s administrator and heirs.”

  “What of your armsmen?”

  “You think they should get a bonus?”

  Jecks frowned at the word.

  “Something extra?” Anna corrected. “A silver each? Two? What would be customary?”

  “Two silvers would be most generous, and appreciated.”

  Anna tried to calculate. Roughly two hundred lancers, and the players should get more. That worked out to . . . what? Forty golds? She wanted to shake her head. If that were expected with every battle, she’d be paying several hundred golds, maybe a thousand before the whole mess was resolved.

  For some reason, the thought that she’d paid two golds for five yards of velvet crossed her mind—and an arms man who risked his life got a pair of silvers. Yet a bonus of a single gold—several times during the campaign ahead, and there would be a campaign, that was clear—that bonus would bankrupt Defalk. Cloth was always overly expensive in pre-technology societies. She frowned. Another excuse, no matter how true?

  Jecks waited silently

  “That sounds reasonable, but let’s talk to Hanfor. He has to lead the men.” She paused. “Any ideas on who could run this place?”

  “It would not take great experience,” Jecks offered. “Not at first. What about the sister and ward of Lady Gatrune?”

  Anna tried to remember the young woman’s name. Anna had met her at Lady Gatrune’s holding in Pamr, when Lord Hryding’s armsmen had been escorting Anna to Falcor to offer her services to Behlem after the Lord of Neserea had conquered Defalk. “Herene?” Tall and blonde, like Gatrune, but thinner than her older sister. Anna nodded to herself. “Herene.”

  “A woman here would be good,” Jecks said. “With a solid armsman and officer at her hand before long.”

  “So that the other lords would understand it wasn’t a power grab?” Anna also understood another element of Jecks’ logic. A male caretaker or administrator meant takeover—such as with Jimbob and Herstat at Synfal—while a woman meant continuity of the male heirs. She took a deep breath. You can’t change everything all at once.

  “They would be less threatened.”

  “I can see that.” Anna wanted to threaten them all, but she only said, “In this case, that makes sense. If something like this occurs again . . . we’ll have to see.”

  “That will be your decision, as always.” Jecks bowed slightly, his voice formal.

  “Let’s find Hanfor.” Anna turned from the battlement, blotting her damp forehead, and started down the steps, followed by Rickel. Two other guards swung behind her at the base of the tower. The sorceress had begun to feel that, no matter where she went, she was leading a parade.

  Hanfor stood on a mounting block in the courtyard, directing officers and armsmen. When he saw the two, he stepped down, shaking his head. “Sargol was not organized.”

  Anna had suspected that from the beginning of the fight two days earlier. “We won’t keep you, Hanfor, but Lord Jecks and I have been thinking. Would an extra payment of two silvers an armsmen be an appropriate reward for their efforts?”

  Hanfor’s face crinkled into a smile. “So long as you tell them now, and let them know that they will receive it when we return to Falcor. Otherwise, too many will find local spirits.”

  “Should I announce it, or should you?”

  “Normally, I would announce that.” The arms commander grinned. “But if you would prefer . . .”

  “I’d prefer the normal,” Anna said. “T
wo silvers when they return to Falcor.”

  “To be received when they are not on duty,” Hanfor added.

  Jecks smiled.

  “Of course,” Anna agreed. “You set the terms.”

  “You see, Lord Jecks, why so many of us prefer her reign?”

  “So do many of the lords. Would that all understood.” Jecks’ voice was dry, barely rising above the clop of hoofs, and the clamor of voices of the armsmen crossing the courtyard, and the wagons returning through the gates.

  “They will,” Hanfor affirmed. He glanced over his shoulder.

  “We’ll talk later,” Anna said, “about what we do next. After dinner?”

  “I will be there.” Hanfor bowed, and then turned to where Alvar stood, waiting.

  “The wagons?” asked the swarthy officer. “Can we use two of them to gather provisions?”

  Anna stepped back, letting Rickel, Jecks and her guards follow. “I need to talk to Liende, Lord Jecks. If you would excuse me?”

  “As you wish, lady.” The white-haired lord inclined his head.

  “Thank you.” Anna forced a smile. “At dinner?”

  “At dinner, my lady.” Jecks offered a pleasant smile in return.

  It took three inquiries to find the wing where the players were quartered, and Anna had tried two doors before she rapped a third time on the ancient oak.

  “Yes?” Liende opened the door, sleepy-eyed, hair rumpled. “Oh . . . Lady Anna. Oh . . . I was so tired.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” The sorceress stepped into the small room, shutting the door, and leaving Rickel and the guards in the brick-walled corridor. “I feel that way still.”

  Liende glanced around the room, her eyes touching on the single chair and the pallet bed. Anna pulled out the chair and sat. The player perched on the edge of the bed.

  “Your pleasure, lady.”

  “I’ve been thinking, Liende, and I wanted to talk to you. I don’t want to repeat what happened here at Suhl,” Anna said. “Perhaps Sargol and his armsmen deserved it for their treachery earlier . . .”