The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“It was treacherous to attack you unprovoked.”

  “I don’t understand why.” Anna shrugged. “I wasn’t even heading toward Suhl.”

  “He was fearing that you were.”

  The sorceress nodded.

  “And he claimed the lineage of Suhlmorra.”

  “He wanted to re-create the kingdom of Suhlmorra?” asked Anna.

  “So it is said.” Liende offered a tight smile.

  The regent shook her head. The last thing Defalk needed was fragmentation into more small countries. “Anyway . . . I hadn’t wanted to use such terrible spells. . . .”

  “Even with Lord Brill. . . .” Liende looked down.

  “No. Lord Brill was too gentle.” Anna laughed, then cut off the laugh before it turned hysterical. The thought of her as a ruthless and bloody butcher was insane. It was also true. “Too gentle.”

  “Yes,” agreed Liende. “But Defalk needs you.”

  Defalk needs a woman butcher? What does that say about Defalk? Or you? “I will try to do what we need with less violence.”

  “That may not be possible, Lady Anna.” Liende offered a sardonic smile.

  “I know. We’ll try, though. I’ll be giving you two more songs, short ones, that I hope will help.”

  “No one can play before the morrow. Kaseth . . . he may not play for another day, yet. His fingers shake.”

  “We won’t leave Suhl until all of you are ready to play.”

  “Thank you, lady.”

  Anna wanted to scream. Thank her for what? For butchery or common sense or both? She just stood. “You’re welcome. Take care, and let me know if any of you need anything.”

  “We are well quartered and fed.” Liende rose, slowly, as though she were stiff.

  Anna nodded again, then slipped out into the corridor.

  46

  Anna’s boots clumped heavily on the worn stone floor tiles of the dim corridor. Her nose itched, and she rubbed it. Like everything else in Suhl, the corridor held the faint odor of mold and must. Even five years of drought hadn’t been enough to destroy that—or the recent rains had revived the spores quickly. She rubbed her nose again, trying not to sneeze.

  “The family quarters and the nursery are just ahead, lady,” said Fhurgen. “We’ve removed . . .”

  “They need an honorable burial,” she said tiredly. “And stone markers or whatever’s customary.” Her head still throbbed; her legs ached; and sharp pains stabbed through the balls of her feet with each step.

  “Honorable?” asked Hanfor. “After his treachery?”

  “He and his consort paid for it, didn’t they? There’s no point in disgracing the dead.” Anna stopped and looked at the hollow-eyed Jecks. “Is there?”

  “An honorable burial in the lords’ plot would serve many purposes.”

  And mollify the sensibilities of my squeamish northern lords. “Fine. Let’s set that up.” There was so much to set up with only a few handfuls of retainers remaining. Yet Anna couldn’t afford to have Suhl go down in ruins, not when her goal was to rebuild Defalk, not destroy it. Great start you’re making.

  “The nursery.” Hanfor gestured to the open door.

  Anna stepped into the long narrow room, with its narrow embrasured windows and weathered inside shutters. Only Jecks accompanied her. She glanced at the three children—the dark-haired girl and the two brown-haired boys—then at the short and stocky woman who stood behind them protectively.

  “I’m not about to hurt them,” the sorceress said, even as she could sense the nursemaid’s doubt. Still, the woman had survived, and that meant she wasn’t disloyal. Or that her first loyalties were to the children. “They weren’t the ones who tried to kill me.”

  “Lady, Lord Sargol was a good man.” The nursemaid’s voice quavered.

  Anna respected the opinion, and the courage it took to voice it. “He was good to his people, I’m sure. He wasn’t good for Defalk or those who lived around him. And totally good lords don’t refuse to pay their liedgeld and attempt to kill regents who aren’t even threatening them. Nor would he have died if he hadn’t been planning treachery. You weren’t, and you’re alive.”

  The maid’s eyes widened slightly, as though she had not thought about that.

  “Tell me the children’s names.”

  “Keithen is the older boy. He’s five. Resthor is his brother. He’s two, almost three, at eight-week of summer. Dinfan, she be the daughter. She’s eight, I think

  Anna turned to the girl. “Dinfan, do you know who I am?”

  “Da, he said you were a harpy of discord.”

  That’s one for honesty. “Some people have said that. It’s not true. I’m the Regent of Defalk.”

  “He said you were bad.” The girl’s voice was unsteady, but she held her chin firmly, almost defying Anna, much as her own Irenia had. Irenia, the accident, the funeral—they all seemed so far away, so distant.

  Anna swallowed, trying to keep her composure before she spoke. “I have done bad things. So has your father. So do most people. So, child, will you. That doesn’t make us bad people.” Anna waited, still measuring the girl.

  “Will you kill us, too?”

  “No. You, if you learn enough, will hold Suhl. If you don’t, one of your brothers will.”

  “Women aren’t lords.” Again, that defiant echo of Irenia.

  Anna forced a smile. “Lady Gatrune holds Pamr. Lady Anientta holds Flossbend. I am Regent of Defalk.”

  For the first time, Dinfan’s eyes dropped.

  “You are your father’s daughter. You must learn all you can. Perhaps, when you are older, you will come to Falcor to learn. Then you will know more when you are old enough to hold Suhl.”

  There was no answer. Behind her, the nursemaid’s eyes widened. “Do ye play with the child, lady?”

  “No. I don’t play games. Lord Sargol didn’t understand that. Some of the other southern lords still don’t. Suhl is Dinfan’s so long as she is responsible and loyal to Lord Jimbob and the Regency. I hope you will make that clear.” Anna paused. “I will ensure she, and her brothers, have a tutor until they are old enough to come to Falcor. You will ensure they are loved. You will not tell them tales. You may tell them that their father rebelled and tried to kill me, and for that I slew him.” Her eyes fixed on the nurse. “Do you understand?”

  The nurse shivered. “Your will is law, Regent.”

  “Take care of them well. Their people will need them.” Anna nodded.

  The nurse bowed.

  “Good-bye, Dinfan.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Anna gave a last smile and stepped back into the corridor, back to her entourage.

  “I don’t have the faintest idea where to get a good tutor, but we need to find one.” Anna looked at Jecks.

  “You will not foster them at Falcor?”

  “They’re too young right now.” And I’m not even there, and Lord knows when I will be. “In a year or two for the girl, or three if she’s young for her age.”

  “I will have Herstat and Dythya inquire after tutors.”

  “Good.”

  She walked slowly back to the small hall she had appropriated for her receiving and work space. Somehow, no matter where she went, there were messages and paperwork and people to see . . . and scrolls that seemed to follow her across the countryside.

  The hall, like most in Defalk, had but high windows in the rear. Hanfor stood waiting, just inside the door, bowing momentarily.

  Anna inclined her head.

  The lit candles in the four wall sconces added minimal illumination to what little of the gray day’s light seeped through the windows. The table was square, old, battered, and could seat six people. Four armless chairs were drawn around it. Anna slumped into one, glad to get off her feet. “Please sit down.”

  She poured a goblet of wine better than what she got at either Loiseau or Falcor, or even at Synfal, then took a long sip. Jecks followed her example.

  Hanfor sat and pursed his lips.<
br />
  Dinfan seemed bright enough. She might be another possible match for Jimbob. She shook her head—thinking like the rest of the thirty-three lords of Defalk, or Machiavelli. What else could she do?

  “She’s only four years younger than Jimbob,” she ventured.

  “I thought you had young Secca in mind.”

  Anna blushed. “I did. I do . . . but I guess . . . I’d like there to be some choices. I don’t want to have consorts who can’t stand each other.”

  “Alasia liked you,” Jecks mused. “Don’t know as I understand it all. . . .”

  “We don’t have to decide that now,” Anna said quickly. “There could be others.” She turned to Hanfor. “You look concerned.”

  “You were most effective, Regent Anna.” Hanfor paused. “We lost but ten men, and another ten are injured.”

  “That’s still a score,” Anna said. “Is that what you’re trying to say? That we can’t afford even little losses like that for many battles?”

  Hanfor shrugged. “I do not like that, but it has taken all winter to find five score additional armsmen.”

  “If you rout Lords Gylaron and Dencer, blades will flock to your banner,” Jecks said.

  “People always support you after the dirty work’s done.” Anna took another sip of the wine. It felt good to be off her aching feet and legs. She hadn’t walked that much, but they’d always hurt when she’d gotten tired, and she was still tired, damned tired. Or, should she say, dissonantly tired? “Now what? How are we going to get enough people here to keep this place going?”

  “The tenants will farm as always,” Jecks said.

  “It must take a staff of fifty to keep this pile of brick and stone operating, even on a minimal basis, and that doesn’t count armsmen. We’ve maybe got a score of retainers left.”

  “There are many at Synfal,” mused Jecks. “Not that all were well-used.”

  Anna considered that. They certainly hadn’t cleaned the main hall. Then, maybe Arkad had gotten to be like Howard Hughes, a recluse who let things close to him fall apart. “We’ll have to send a message to Herstat to arrange for some of them to come here, the younger ones mostly, with some whose children are grown. We’ll have to see what skills are missing, first.” Another inventory, and she and Jecks would probably have to do that. She sighed. “Have the scouts found out anything about Gylaron’s lancers?”

  “There are no signs. Those who survived rode south.”

  “In a day or so, when I’m feeling better, I’ll try the glass.”

  “That might be best,” offered Jecks.

  “I have scouts on the roads and the hilltops,” Hanfor added. “They have seen no one.”

  “Let’s hope they don’t.” Anna took another swallow of wine. Lord, she missed really good wine, and hot baths where she didn’t have to spell the water herself. And . . . She shook her head. Don’t get into that.

  Thrap.

  The three heads turned to the door.

  “You have some messengers here, of a sort,” announced Fhurgen, with a grin.

  Anna frowned. “Messengers?”

  “You should see them, Lady Anna.” Fhurgen kept grinning.

  “All right. Send them in.”

  The short black-haired armsman stepped into the chamber, followed by a taller brown-haired figure. Both wore somewhat faded greens.

  “Fridric . . . Markan?” Anna paused. “What brings you here?”

  “We bring a message from Lady Anientta.” Markan extended a sealed scroll. “And a score of armsmen who seek your service.”

  “My service?” Anna rose from her chair to accept the scroll, then glanced at Jecks, who smiled openly, then at Hanfor.

  Markan shook his head, then pushed back a lock of brown hair. “Things are not as they were at Flossbend. Stepan has left to join Gestatr in Synek.”

  “Does Gestatr serve Lord Hadrenn?” Anna reseated herself.

  “How did you know, lady?” asked the brown-haired armsman.

  “I didn’t, but some things are beginning to make sense.”

  Jecks’ eyebrows lifted.

  “Are you sure you all wish to serve the Regency?” Anna asked.

  “We would not be here, otherwise.”

  Anna nodded, then broke the sealed scroll and began to read. “Regent Anna, Lady and Sorceress, and Protector of Defalk . . .”

  Anna wanted to groan. Still the flowery openings that Anientta seemed so fond of and that meant to Anna that more trouble lay ahead.

  We were pleased to have your most gracious confirmation of our status as protector and administrator for Jeron. . . . We will do our utmost to fulfill your trust in us. . . . In this regard, you should be pleased to know that my sire, Lord Tybel, has graciously provided some considerable assistance. . . . Onfel, second officer of his guard, and one of his clerks . . .

  Secca has been most courteous in sending an occasional scroll and is pleased to be in Falcor, and for this we are all most thankful for your generosity. . . .

  . . . as always, both Jeron and I stand ready to do your bidding in any endeavor in which we may be of assistance. . . .

  The wax seal remained that of Lord Hryding, and the signature read, “Anientta, administrator of Flossbend, for the heir, Jeron.”

  Anna nodded and turned to Markan. “I accept your service. I take it that Onfel was not to your liking?”

  Markan smiled so faintly the expression was not a smile. “Say, Lady Anna, that we were not exactly to his liking.”

  “A picked guard of Lord Tybel?”

  “Who could say? We felt that our . . . services might be better used elsewhere.”

  Anna smiled. “We can use your services. Markan, this is Arms Commander Hanfor. I should have introduced you sooner, but I’m tired, and I’m not thinking very well.”

  Both Markan and Fridric bowed.

  “Honored, ser. We have heard much of note of you.”

  “Honored,” murmured Fridric.

  Hanfor shook his head. “Good men we can use.”

  Anna looked at Fhurgen, still standing in the doorway. “Why don’t you have someone get them settled?” She glanced to Markan. “Then Hanfor will talk with you and we’ll see exactly how you can be best used.”

  “Thank you, Lady Anna.” Markan smiled more widely.

  After a moment, so did Fridric.

  When the door had shut behind them, Jecks laughed. “You have not put down all the rebellious lords, and already they flock to you. A score—will not that help, Hanfor?”

  “That will help.”

  Jecks frowned. “Who is Gestatr?”

  “Gestatr was Lord Hryding’s chief armsman. Fridric told me more than a season ago that he’d gone back to his home in Synek.”

  “And Hadrenn holds Synek?” Jecks finished. “You think that is why you received that scroll from young Hadrenn?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You had a glint in your eye,” observed Jecks, “when you looked upon the older of those two.”

  Jealousy? wondered Anna. “I do. Markan is responsible and trustworthy. I was thinking about leaving him and Fridric here to run things.”

  “You know this?”

  “Markan was my escort from Lord Hryding’s to Falcor after the Sand Pass battle. He was the lead armsman at Flossbend after Gestatr left.”

  Jecks nodded. “That is a horse of another color. One can place a lead armsman from one hold in another, and none will object, young as he may be.”

  “Young . . . he “may be effective longer,” Anna pointed out, “and he understands guarding a lord’s household.”

  “There is that,” agreed Jecks. “And he will favor you and Jimbob.”

  “Exactly.” Anna rose and went to the door. “Fhurgen? Will you summon Markan and Fridric back? Or have someone do it, please?”

  The black-bearded guard smiled. “You have a task for them?”

  Anna nodded, her lips in a wry smile.

  The head of her personal guard laughed softly.
“I will get them.”

  “While they’re summoning those two,” Anna told Jecks, “I’ll draft a scroll to Herene, and I suppose to Lady Gatrune, too, explaining why I need Herene.”

  Jecks nodded, and Anna wondered what else she’d forgotten.

  47

  The woman in the mirror wore faded green trousers and tunic, and had a smudge on her left cheek. The blonde hair was cut short, shorter than a bob. The fine features were those of an older woman, but the lightly tanned and flawless skin, the trim and muscular figure, and the clear eyes belonged to an eighteen-year-old—except for the darkness behind them. Three days not on the road and regular nightly sleep had erased the worst of the dark circles.

  Anna grimaced. So did her reflection in the near-full-length wall mirror. The wooden mirror frame’s wood was age-darkened so much that it resembled oiled ebony, and the shallow carved vines were nearly invisible.

  The sorceress readjusted the lutar, ran her fingers across the strings, and then twisted one of the tuning pegs ever so slightly. She cleared her throat and began the spell.

  Behind her, Jecks and Hanfor stood, uneasily watching the cloudy silver surface of the antique mirror as the notes echoed slightly in the cavernous bedroom Anna was using for her scrying.

  “Mirror, mirror, in your frame,

  show me Gylaron in his

  fame,

  where’er he may ride or be,

  show him now to me.”

  The mirror displayed Gylaron—swarthy, solid, but not quite stocky, with a trimmed and pointed black beard. He stood in a surprisingly small wood-paneled bedchamber talking to a heavyset black-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and dark eyes.

  “She does not appear pleased,” offered Hanfor.

  “No.” Anna studied the images, first of Gylaron, who shrugged and signed dramatically as she watched, and then of the woman, apparently his consort, from the dark red velvet she wore. Tears rolled down the consort’s cheeks, but her hands remained folded in her lap.

  Anna released the spell and took a deep breath.

  “He looked worried,” said Jecks.

  “A man about to attempt a desperate venture,” suggested Hanfor.