Anna fastened the lutar in place before taking the reins from Fhurgen. Then, she shook her head. They still needed to deal with the boulders and the nets. What were you thinking, woman?
She gestured toward Liende. “We’ll ride closer. That will make it easier.”
Then she remounted. As they started toward the gorge, Hanfor called out orders to the armsmen, and Rickel and Fhurgen moved up to flank Anna and Jecks.
This time, Anna reined up somewhere between one hundred and two hundred yards from the high-walled opening to the gorge.
Jecks studied the rocks above intently. “I see nothing.”
“Nor I,” added Hanfor.
“Players!” called Liende.
Anna took several swallows from her water bottle while the players ran through their warm-up, then dismounted and walked down the road until she stood several yards before the group.
“We stand ready, Lady Anna.”
Anna cleared her throat, then nodded.
“The short flame song. On my mark. Mark!” Liende’s voice echoed hoarsely through the canyon.
There was no hurry, not for the moment, and Anna tried to make the words easy, without strain.
“Nets break and fray,
boulders to dust away . . .”
With a roar, the nets fragmented, and a cascade of reddish dust plummeted down the cliff, welling up in a cloud that drifted southward into the narrow confines of the defile.
“One down,” she murmured, turning back to the big gelding, where she took out the portable scrying glass and set it on the shoulder of the road. She unpacked the lutar again, checked the tuning.
Jecks dismounted and eased close to her, to a spot where he could see the mirror. Hanfor eased his mount closer.
Anna waited for them to stop, then sang the spell seeking dangers.
“Show from the south, danger to fear,
all the threats to me bright and clear . . .”
The mirror silvered, then split into images. Anna blinked. There were four—no, five—sets of nets with archers above them, and the circular oil-caldron fort.
“Six more times?” She shook her head.
“They won’t have any reinforcements,” Jecks said.
“I don’t have any, either,” she answered. Lord, six more sets of spells! With that, she packed up the mirror, and then the lutar, and walked past Farinelli to find Liende.
The chief player stood by her mount, packing her horn case.
“I may need some help,” Anna said slowly. “There are six more sets of nets, and I’ll probably have to use the mirror to find some of them.”
“We are yours to command.”
“I know,” Anna said tiredly. “This isn’t what anyone signed up for. But there aren’t that many players . . .”
“And there is but one sorceress to save Defalk,” Liende finished. “You ask more of yourself than of us. What spells will you need?”
“The flame spell. For the archers and men that guard these rock nets. I don’t like it, but if they haven’t surrendered with all the time that has passed, they won’t.” And I can’t do it with the lutar. She shouldn’t have tried the first spell.
Liende shook her head. “No sorcerer I know could sing it once and have it succeed without players.”
“Thank you.”
“We thank you.”
Anna smiled faintly and turned, walking slowly back to Farinelli. Six more times? She squinted as she remounted.
“Why could she not cast a spell against all evils?” asked Delvor as he packed away his violino.
Anna wished she could just sing a blanket spell that would protect them against everything, but she’d found nothing was that easy. After a moment, she answered. “First, because spells only work against a specific evil, and I have to be able to visualize—see in my mind—who or what that is. Second, the spell has to name the evil and provide a means to stop it Third, it can’t be too big a spell, or it would kill both you and me.”
“Even so, without the first spells, we would have been buried in arrows and boulders,” answered Jecks. “All the armsmen from the keep could have gone up there and shot down.”
He didn’t mention that they’d still lost the one scout before Anna had called fire on the handful of guards who had been out of range of the loyalty spell of—Had it been a week before?
Anna glanced back along the column, to the wagon that carried the body, but it was lost in the dust.
“How many more?” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Jecks answered.
“None, if we are lucky. One cannot count on luck in warfare.” He smiled grimly. “You still wear the breastplate?”
“Yes. It itches.” She blotted her forehead, then her neck. Her back itched as well, right between her shoulders where it was impossible to reach. She squirmed slightly.
“Better that than another arrow. Twice have you escaped death . . .”
“I know. The third time might not be as fortunate.”
Hanfor coughed. “Lady Anna?”
“Yes, Hanfor?”
“We must proceed with care. . . .”
“The next danger won’t be until the next set of rocks. We’ll have to go slowly. The mirror doesn’t show detail that well.”
“Then your guards—” Hanfor broke off.
“They’ll ride before me,” Anna conceded.
“With shields?”
“With shields.”
At times, she felt like a pampered poodle—guards, shields, warning glasses. She understood, but it didn’t make her feel better.
“Long day,” she murmured.
“Not so long as last week,” Jecks answered.
Somehow, that didn’t console her much, not when she recalled the lines of fire and the dead archers . . . and the dead Hassett and Kaseth. She fumbled for the water bottle and had another drink as she rode slowly into the gorge that led to Stromwer.
63
ESARIA, NESAREA
Rabyn and a small blonde woman sit at the small white marble table in the corner of the Pavilion of the Prophet. Between them is a tray of candied nuts, honeyed dried figs, and glazed apple slices and a basket of lemon bread. Rabyn fills both goblets from the pitcher of dark wine. “This is from Ferantha. It is quite good.” A boyish grin fills his face. “Nubara doesn’t think I know the best wines come from the valley.”
“They always talk about the wines of the south Mittfels.” A delicate clinging tinkles through the pavilion as a gentle puff of a breeze off the Bitter Sea fluffs the young woman’s fine blonde hair.
“Ferantha is where they make the wines they don’t sell. The ones they keep for us and for the great houses,” Rabyn continues. “Did you know that, Krienn?”
The young woman glances toward the harbor, where a ray of sun flashes through the mixed cumulus clouds to strike and whiten the sail of a Norweian ‘trader. Her dark brown eyes flick back to Rabyn, and she smiles quickly. “No, I didn’t know that.”
He lifts his goblet, as if to drink, but then sets it on the table, and instead, takes one of the honeyed figs. “I am young, but I listen, and I know much more than Nubara would ever guess. Or you.” He follows his words with a wide-eyed smile.
“You are, the Prophet,” she answers with a smile, also nibbling on one of the figs. The fingers of her left hand lightly clasp the base of the goblet of wine she has not touched. “I imagine there is much you know.”
“I learned most of it from my mother. She was . . . exceptional, you know. She made sure I knew everything.” Rabyn smiles. “Everything.” His fingers brush the candied nuts and then delicately extract one of the glazed apple slices.
“It is said she was remarkable.” Krienn takes an apple slice and chews it quickly—after Rabyn has swallowed his.
The young prophet lifts his goblet and sips before speaking. “She was. She didn’t explain. She showed me.”
The blonde woman waits until Rabyn has taken several sips of the wine before taking the sm
allest sip of her own.
“And . . . someday, I will have revenge on that sorceress.” The youth picks up one of the candied nuts, holds it up to the late-afternoon light. “I have already persuaded Nubara to send a company of the Mansuuran lancers to Elioch, and to raise another company of Neserean lancers, armsmen under my cousin Bertl.”
“Is he a good leader?” Krienn asks.
“Bertl? He’s not as good as Relour. That’s why I wanted Relour in Elioch. I threatened to behave badly, in public. And I whined a little, and asked why sending one company of lancers to give the sorceress something to think about was so bad.” Rabyn smiles brightly, then pauses. “She is blonde, you know? The sorceress, I mean.”
“Ah . . . she is?” Krienn reaches almost absently for a nut, eats it quickly, then takes another sip of wine.
“She is.” The dark-haired prophet nods, sets the nut he had not eaten on his green-and-cream napkin, and takes another small sip of wine, so small he barely wets his lips. “She is a demon from the mist worlds.” He smiles warmly. “But your eyes are brown, not blue. You are from Nesalia, and that is far from the mist worlds.” He lifts the goblet and sips again. “You are small and pretty, not tall and angular.”
“Thank you, Prophet of Music.” Krienn tilts her head slightly. She takes another nut, distracted, and chews quietly. The tip of her tongue barely touches her upper lip, then vanishes.
“I would like you to see my collection of Ranuan silks,” he offers.
“You do know a great deal more than your years,” Krienn answers. “Ranuan silks? On your bed?”
“They are beautiful. They offer great pleasure,” he says smoothly.
“I am sure that they do.” Krienn’s eyes go to the archway, then to the closed door that leads to the main part of the palace, a door barred from inside. “You would know more than I.”
“Trust me.” Again comes the boyish smile.
As they rise, Rabyn steps back and gestures toward the archway. His eyes flicker to the candied nuts, the nuts which he has not sampled, and he smiles, coldly.
He steps up beside her, smiling, his hand on her bare shoulder, as they step through the archway.
64
The road through the gorge was no more than ten deks in length, and yet, with six stops and a dozen spells, the sun had touched the western walls of the valley, turning the dark clouds purplish, before Anna and her armsmen rode through the open gates of Stromwer, after Alvar and a score of armsmen had inspected the keep—at Hanfor’s insistence.
“Stromwer lies open and loyal to you,” Alvar had announced.
Anna hoped a bath, a good hot bath, also lay open—except she had unfinished business. Business she hoped she could complete, half-dazed and double-visioned as she was, although she had used no Darksong on the emplacements in the gorge. Just the good solid brute force of Clearsong . . . bloody Clearsong. She was punchy and found herself holding back hysterical laughter at the idea that Clearsong magic could be so much more bloody than Darksong.
The dark clouds offered a faint drizzle by the time Anna reined up outside the keep’s stable, in a courtyard ringed with her armsmen.
“All are loyal,” Hanfor announced.
Score one for my last effort at Darksong. “I’m going to groom Farinelli.” She glanced at Alvar. “Have the saalmeister or seneschal or whoever ready to meet me in the hall.”
“I can do that.” Alvar smiled.
Jecks and Hanfor both frowned.
“Lady Wendella . . . if she’s still alive.” Anna dismounted and led Farinelli into the stables behind Rickel, who carried his blade bared. She forced her steps to be deliberate.
“We are your servants!” called a thin-faced man in gray leathers from his knees on the straw.
“I accept your allegiance,” Anna said. “I also remember that you pledged the same to Lord Dencer.”
“Lady . . .”
“Serve Defalk, and no one will suffer,” Anna said more softly.
Their eyes wide, two stable boys looked at the big gelding as Anna led Farinelli past. By the time Anna had groomed Farinelli and ensured he had grain and some water—not too much—a full-fledged downpour greeted her at the stable door where Fhurgen and Jecks waited.
“The saalmeister is in the corridor there,” Fhurgen announced, pointing through the rain to the arched doorway that stood fifteen yards away, across the rain-slicked cobblestones and the scattered puddles. “Alvar is with him.”
Anna glanced across the rain-pelted courtyard, then at Rickel and Fhurgen. “Better dust than mud on the road, I guess.”
“Far better, lady.”
Anna walked through the rain, fearing she might fall if she ran, ignoring the roll of thunder and a single flash of lightning.
Four figures waited in the corridor—Hanfor, Alvar, Jecks, and the saalmeister. Anna wiped the water from her hair and face, knowing she scarcely looked like a regent, but more like a damp and shaggy dog, a thin-faced, dark-eyed, and haggard shaggy dog. She didn’t even want to think about how she smelled.
Unlike the stablemaster, the saalmeister was heavyset. Dark circles ringed his eyes, a sign, Anna felt, that he had suffered from the conflicts of the loyalty spell.
“Darflan, this is the Lady Anna,” Alvar announced.
Darflan went to his knees. “We serve you and the Regency.”
“You can stand,” Anna said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Where is the lady Wendella?”
“The . . . lady . . . Wendella?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard of the lady.”
“Ah . . . where Lord Dencer left her. We did not know. It was said . . .”
“Enough. Take us there, and bring the keys.”
Jecks glanced at Hanfor. Alvar shrugged.
“Two loyalty spells are enough for anyone,” Anna said. “Oh, where is the heir, her son?”
“In his nursery, lady.”
“Get his nurse and bring him here.”
That got another exchange of glances between Jecks and Hanfor.
“She is his mother.” Anna didn’t feel like explaining.
“Now . . . lady?”
“Now.” Anna’s voice chilled. She was damp, sweaty, tired, and wasn’t much interested in explanations.
Darflan nodded and waddled quickly down the corridor.
“Alvar,” Hanfor said. “If you would make arrangements with the cooks for feeding our armsmen? I had not gotten to that.”
“Yes, ser.” Alvar turned and headed back down the steps.
“I’m sorry,” Anna said.
“That is my job, not yours,” the veteran said quietly.
The nurse, in faded brown, a squirming child in her arms, bustled toward Anna and her entourage, with Darflan at her side.
Anna glared. The nurse’s bustling confidence transformed into a bow. “Regent . . . lady . . . you wished to see young Condell?”
“I did.” Anna looked at the child, already sporting a dark thatch of curly hair. “Please follow us.”
The nurse glanced to the saalmeister. The saalmeister nodded.
Don’t look to him, Anna wanted to snap. “Let’s go.”
“Yes, Regent.”
The saalmeister led them down the main corridor to the end, then up two flights of steps and back along a narrow corridor. His blade out, Rickel flanked Darflan while Fhurgen trailed. Jecks kept a hand on the hilt of his own blade. The nurse followed most of them, just ahead of Fhurgen.
Darflan paused at another narrow staircase.
“Go on,” Anna said.
The steps up to the tower were narrow, even narrower than those in the north tower of Falcor where Anna had stayed. Darflan stopped at the second landing.
“Unlock it,” Anna ordered.
When the iron-barred door was open, Anna took the key ring from Darflan and stepped inside.
A hollow-eyed Wendella looked up from the pallet. The sunken eyes were ringed in lines. “Have you come to gloat?”
&n
bsp; “No. I’ve come to set you free.” Anna motioned to the wet nurse, who stepped forward. “Your son, and heir to Stromwer.”
“For how long, sorceress?”
Anna looked at the pale and emaciated figure. “We need to get you healthy.”
“Do not try to tempt me.”
“I’m not tempting anyone,” Anna said quietly. “Dencer is dead. I hold the keep. Your son is heir. He will inherit his father’s lands when he is old enough.”
“Why do you play with me?” Wendella’s eyes remained on the cold stones of the floor.
“I am not Dencer,” Anna snapped. “You should know me well enough to know I don’t play games. You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to like your situation. You’re bound to be loyal to Defalk and the Regency, and you’re smart and tough. I’d rather have you running Stromwer than some lord’s pampered second son.”
Wendella’s eyes widened slightly. “For how long? Until you hold all Liedwahr?”
“That’s not my intention.” Anna smiled. “But if it were, I’d need you even more.” She nodded to the wet nurse. “Let her hold him.”
The nurse eased the child into Wendella’s arms.
Anna tried to ignore the tears that oozed from the brown-haired mother’s eyes. At least she can hold him, see him. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. No one whipped and tortured you—not physically, anyway.
“Your rooms are ready for you,” Anna said. She stepped back. “They are, aren’t they, saalmeister?”
“They will be, Regent.”
“Immediately.”
Darflan bowed.
Anna turned to the nurse. “Lady Wendella’s wish is your command. In anything.”
“Yes, Regent.”
Anna turned back to Darflan. “Leave the door open and escort Lady Wendella to her quarters when she is ready. Offer any assistance she wishes. In anything, and make sure she gets a good meal immediately. And hot water for a bath when she wishes.”
Wendella looked at Anna, shaking her head. “I cannot pretend I like you, sorceress. You cannot buy my loyalty.”
“I have your loyalty,” Anna said. “I respect you, but I don’t like you, and I never will. But you will run Stromwer far better than Dencer. If you don’t, I’ll find someone who will until your son can.”
The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 39
