The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The dark-haired woman seems to smile at him, and he smiles back.

  “Yes, you taught me well. As that lizard Nubara will discover.”

  87

  The sound of heavy raindrops on the walls of Abenfel echoed into the dim study in the late afternoon.

  “How long is this rain going to last?” Anna asked, her eyes going to the closed shutters of the study. She felt almost trapped inside the dark-paneled room. The faint odor of wax and burned candlewicks made her nose twitch, even as she stifled another yawn. Would she ever stop feeling tired?

  Birfels shrugged, a faint smile breaking across his ruddy face. “Lady, I cannot say. When the winds come out of the east in the spring and early summer, it may rain for a week or more. The Sudbergs hold the clouds and the rain melts the snow on the high peaks . . .”

  Anna got the picture, or thought she did.

  In the chair in the corner, Birke smiled, but remained silent, as though he feared any statement would call attention to him and result in his dismissal from the de facto meeting of his elders.

  Anna wanted to grin, but didn’t.

  “Ehara, will he cross the Sudbergs in the rain, do you think?” asked Birfels. “Will the Sturinnese not prompt him to attack now that part of their fleet is beached in the empty Falche?”

  “There’s some water there,” Anna said. “We looked in the reflecting pool this afternoon.” Absently, she rubbed her forehead, although the headache from scrying had disappeared quickly, and she’d been fine when she’d groomed Farinelli. She still wondered what was upsetting Farinelli. Ever since her creation of the dam, the big gelding had been edgy. Did he sense her continuing exhaustion, a tiredness that had persisted for all too long? The gelding hadn’t been that way at such times before, though. She pursed her lips momentarily. There wasn’t much she could do.

  “From the Envaryl,” Jecks said. “Enough to wade in.”

  “Ehara and the Sea-Priests will not attack Defalk now,” said Hanfor. “They will wait until trouble draws Lady Anna elsewhere.” The veteran lifted his shoulders and spread his heads, offering an apologetic smile. “Only when she is committed in Ebra or against raiders from the High Grasslands of Neserea, only then will they attack.”

  “You cannot remain in Abenfel forever,” Birfels said.

  “No,” Anna admitted. “If I attack Dumar, then Ehara can ask for more aid from Sturinn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he asked for aid from Mansuur. He’s got enough gall. If I don’t attack now, or sometime soon, then he’ll attack when we can’t stop him, like Hanfor said.”

  “You do not depict a happy setting.” The Lord of Abenfel frowned. “You must neglect the rest of Defalk to stop attacks on the south, or you must abandon us . . .”

  “Not yet,” Anna corrected. “Dumar will not attack, even with the Sea-Priests’ help, for at least a year. They will bring more and more armsmen, until Dumar is more like a part of Sturinn.”

  “Unless matters change,” added Hanfor.

  And they always do, Anna thought, we just don’t know how. She stifled a yawn. She was better, but still tired, although she had ridden Farinelli several times in the past week before the downpour had started the day before.

  “What will you do, then?” Birfels asked.

  “If I had more armsmen, I’d attack Dumar,” Anna said bluntly. “I don’t. We’ll wait another week, if you don’t mind, to see what develops.”

  “And then?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Birfels stroked his chin. “Ebra?”

  “I can’t afford to have Konsstin or the Sea-Priests on three borders. So . . . we need to help out Lord Hadrenn. He’s pledged to Defalk.” That doesn’t mean I’m going there . . . not soon.

  “Ah . . .” Birfels nodded. “You would secure the east, then.”

  “At some time,” Hanfor said.

  “Hopefully,” Anna corrected. And that’s a faint hope, indeed, but all I’ve got.

  She wished that her dam had persuaded Ehara or the Sturinnese to leave, but apparently that hadn’t been a great-enough show of force. She repressed a snort. Not enough blood and gore and destruction.

  “We will see,” said Jecks.

  “Indeed,” added Birfels politely, lifting the wine pitcher. “Would you care for the good red?”

  “Yes,” said Anna, hoping the politics of Regency weren’t driving her to alcoholism, even as she lifted the goblet.

  IV

  ENDE

  88

  The stallion reared back, silhouetted by the frequent bolts of lightning against the night stormclouds,

  yanking the rope. The heavy and rough hemp burned Anna’s palms raw, sliding somehow around her hands, ripping, slicing the skin, even though she had wound the rope tightly so that she could keep her grip.

  The black beast screamed and turned, heading westward. Despite the fire across her hands and the knives stabbing into her head, Anna dug in her heels and stiffened her body.

  Still, she felt herself being dragged toward the river, toward the white water that surged only yards from the wild stallion that dragged her toward it, toward the whitecaps that roared more loudly than surf. She couldn’t let go of the rope. She couldn’t . . .

  THRRUMMM!

  Anna woke with a jolt, jarred almost bolt upright in the high bed, as if her entire body had been shocked by the force of the lightning strike that had seemed to shake the entire keep of Abenfel.

  She blinked, dazed, glancing around the dark room. Nothing moved in her bedchamber. Had it been just a dream? Or some kind of earthquake? Outside, the rain kept splatting against the stones of the keep. What had happened? It couldn’t have been just a nightmare, could it?

  In slow motion, or so it seemed, she swung out of the bed, and padded to the shutters, easing them open. Outside, the rain fell in sheets, so thickly that she could see nothing but rain.

  She watched for a time, but there were no other flashes or bolts of lightning, only a rumble of thunder that seemed distant, and receding. Then, although she listened for a long time, the only sounds were those of the rain splatting on stone and puddle, on roof and battlement, in big and endless drops. Even in Iowa it hadn’t rained so hard for so long.

  Finally, she closed the shutters, and yawned, tired as she had been for what seemed weeks on weeks.

  She slipped back to her bed, listening for a time as the rain continued to pour down in a soothing waterfall, as it had for the past four days. After what seemed a glass or longer, she drifted back into an uneasy sleep.

  Despite nightmares of rivers and stallions, when she woke, she felt refreshed, more alive, more awake than in days. She padded to the window and opened one shutter. Although the rain had stopped, the gray clouds, while thinning, blocked any direct sunlight. She nodded and headed for the bath chamber.

  Barely had she gotten out of the hot bath and dressed than there was a furious rapping on the door. Anna pulled on her second boot and stood.

  “Yes?”

  “Lady Anna?”

  She recognized Birke’s voice and opened the door.

  “The dam . . . the sorcery . . .” Birke burst out. “It has . . . You must see.”

  Even as she swallowed, Anna felt herself nodding. Somehow, she’d been pouring energy into the damned dam. That had been why she’d been so tired! The storm—or the harmonies—had broken that tie, and the dam.

  “You . . . look pleased?”

  “No. I know what happened.” Anna coughed, clearing her throat. “We can’t do much now. I’ll need to eat.”

  “There is . . . bread and cheese and things in the small hall,” the redhead said. “The others were gathering for breakfast.”

  “I’ll be down in a moment.” Anna closed the door, then searched for her belt wallet and threaded the green leather belt through it and the knife scabbard, the same battered but stiff leather one that Albero had given her in Loiseau soon after she’d landed in Erde. Less than two years earlier, and yet so long ago in so many ways
.

  She picked up the lutar and the leather case with the traveling scrying mirror before she stepped out into the hall.

  “I could carry the mirror, Lady Anna,” offered Rickel.

  Anna surrendered the mirror easily. Her guards knew she seldom gave up the lutar.

  Hanfor, Jecks, Birke, and Birfels were standing and waiting in the front of the small hall. In the rear were Fylena, Wasle, and Clayre. The dark-haired girl flashed a quick smile.

  “You shouldn’t have waited for me,” Anna said. “Let’s just eat.” She sat on one end of the bench, ignoring the empty seat at the head of the table, and reached for the bread.

  Birfels finally took his own seat, the one that he’d relinquished to Anna at every dinner, or supper, Anna corrected herself.

  After several mouthfuls, Anna paused and glanced at Birke. “How did you know about the dam?”

  “At first, I didn’t, but Riksar—he’s the wagonmaster, and he has a cot to the west—he told me that the water in the gorge had dropped by more than half.” Birke shrugged. “So I rode down to see. There is still a lake, but water is pouring over what remains of the stones.”

  Her mouth full of bread and cheese, Anna nodded.

  “It falls over . . . and it roars and the spray is like mist.”

  The sorceress frowned. It didn’t sound as though the dam had actually smashed apart, but she’d have to see.

  Rather than talk, Anna ate until she finally felt full. She should have been, after inhaling an entire loaf of steaming dark bread, a large wedge of cheese, and several handfuls of dried apples. She stood.

  So did everyone else.

  “If you’re not done, please finish eating,” the sorceress said. “I need to groom Farinelli first.” With a nod at the group, she picked up the lutar and slipped out and into the corridor.

  Rickel and Lejun followed her to the stable, Rickel still bearing the mirror.

  Farinelli tossed his head as Anna stepped into the stall, yet he seemed more at ease than he had in previous days, not sidestepping or flicking his tail at nonexistent flies.

  Although she didn’t hurry with her grooming, she found herself astride Farinelli in the courtyard, while others scrambled to catch up—except for Jecks and Hanfor, who were also ready.

  “I fear what we will see,” said Jecks quietly.

  “I don’t worry about what we’ll see here,” Anna said. “There can’t be that much damage in the gorge.”

  “Downstream, below the Great Chasm, there will be ruin if your dam failed.” Hanfor turned in the saddle as Alvar rode up.

  “We are ready, Arms Commander.”

  Anna glanced toward the stable, where Birke led out his mount, followed by Birfels. “In a moment, once they’re mounted.”

  Alvar nodded.

  Farinelli whuffed once, and Anna leaned forward and patted him on the neck, getting another, lower whuff in return.

  Because the trail was muddy, with pools of water in the low spots, the group rode at a slow walk. Still, Anna had mud splattered across the legs of her trousers.

  The slow ride took closer to three glasses than the two it had in drier weather, and the sun—trying to break through thinning gray clouds—was nearly overhead by the time they neared the partly cleared vista of the gorge that overlooked the dam—or what was left of it.

  “You see?” called Birke as he stood in the stirrups and gestured downhill.

  From where she’d reined up, Anna couldn’t see much of anything. She couldn’t miss the roar of falling water, or the spray that drifted above the gorge and trees.

  She dismounted, handed Farinelli’s reins to Fhurgen, and walked with Hanfor and Jecks down to where she could view the damage. Birfels and Birke joined the three as Anna studied the river and the gorge.

  From what she could see, the entire structure had . . . sunk, and tilted forward at a thirty-degree angle.

  Some few rivulets spurted out from the chasm walls, as if in those places where the chasm or rocks had weakened, but the dam itself was still intact—just repositioned so that the lake behind it was lower, a third of what it had been. The Falche poured over the repositioned dam, a cascade of water.

  “You have created a new cataract, the third great cataract,” Birfels said.

  Anna had to wonder what had happened in Dumar when that wall of water had swept down the Falche. Whatever had happened, it wouldn’t have been good.

  She took a deep breath. She had a lot of scrying, and thinking, to do.

  89

  ENCORA, RANUAK

  Veria knocks on the pale oak wooden door a second time.

  The door to the Matriarch’s private quarters opens.

  “You wasted no time, sister,” says Alya. “Mother said you would be here.” She draws the door full open and steps aside. “Father has brewed the fine green-gray tea.”

  “Thank you, sister.” Veria’s voice is stiff.

  “Thank the Matriarch.” Alya’s smile remains formal, her eyes cold, as the two walk through the circular foyer and into the tea room.

  “Veria. Please join us,” invites the gray-haired Matriarch with a pleasant smile upon her round face.

  “You expected me.” Veria slips into one of the two vacant chairs.

  “Of course. What has happened will affect the South Women greatly.” The Matriarch sips her tea. “Greatly. Your presence will allow them to understand what has happened.”

  “The sorceress tried to build a great dam with sorcery,” Veria begins, “and it failed—”

  “It took a mighty regenflut, and the dam did not fail; the ground around the dam failed.” The Matriarch corrects her dark-haired daughter with a smile. “Even now the dam holds together, and it will do so for longer than any of us will endure.”

  “Moth—Matriarch, does that not show her weaknesses still?” Veria’s fingers tighten around the pale blue cup.

  “Veria, if you will permit your aging father,” Ulgar says with a smile as he steps up to the table with a green-and-golden ceramic pot in his hand, “I will refill your cup.”

  “Thank you.” Veria’s fingers loosen their grip on the fluted cup that matches the pot, and she inclines her head. “Thank you, Father.”

  “The sorceress has weaknesses, as you say, Veria,” answers the Matriarch. “As do we all. The weakness was not in her sorcery, but in her failure to understand that the rock to which she anchored her sorcery was not so strong as either she or her spell. And the spell was pure Clearsong.”

  “Clearsong or no, it was a failure,” points out Veria.

  “Sister . . . that failure destroyed the entire fleet of the Sea-Priests,” says Alya. “Not a ship of those in Narial remains.”

  “Even her failures are successes,” says Veria. “This cannot continue. The harmonies will not permit it.”

  “The harmonies permit what they will,” suggests the Matriarch. “I feel that this failure was not the success you suggest. She will pay for it; she has paid for everything, and the harmonies do not permit us to escape. With the forces she has wielded, even less will they permit her to evade fate.”

  “Yet you support her?” asks Veria.

  Alya looks at Veria, but the dark-haired woman refuses to meet Alya’s eyes.

  “I support the harmonies.” The Matriarch smiles. “So does she, as she understands them. So should the SouthWomen.”

  “You said this would affect the SouthWomen,” Veria suggests.

  “It will. Lord Ehara and the Sturinnese cannot accept such a devastation. All their resources will go to Dumar. They will not treat with the freewomen of Elawha, and they will kill them immediately and as quickly as possible.”

  “You had said that such would occur because Sturinn was backing Bertmynn. Now you say that it will happen because the Sea-Priests are not backing Bertmynn.” Veria snorts—loudly.

  “They will no longer suggest. They will send more coins and fewer armsmen, and the price of those coins will be higher, and paid with the blood of the
freewomen and any who oppose Bertmynn and the plans of the Sea-Priests.”

  “You merely seek another way to forecast failure for those women who wish to be free.”

  “The women of Ebra will be free, in spite of your plots and blades, Veria. They will be free because of the prices that the sorceress will pay, and you will suffer.”

  “Are you threatening me?” Veria sets down the green fluted cup.

  “No, my daughter.” The Matriarch shakes her head sadly. “I know what the harmonies demand. They demand much, and they demand more of those who supply blades for others to fight their battles than of those who lift them for their own ends.”

  Ulgar slurps his tea noisily. As the others look at him, he adds, “That is why the sorceress will prevail. She does what she must, and then asks others.”

  The Matriarch nods, but her eyes are sad, and fixed upon Veria.

  90

  The sorceress glanced at the reflecting pool, then cleared her throat, beginning another vocalise. After three, her voice was firm, cords clear, and she lifted the lutar and sang.

  “Show in Dumar, high and true,

  what the raging flow did do. . . .

  Show me now, and show me all,

  of how it struck and what did fall . . .”

  Anna forced herself to lower the lutar gently, even as her eyes were drawn into the scenes in the reflecting pool, even as she heard the indrawn breaths of Hanfor and Jecks.

  A muddy sea tossed objects on an equally mud-drenched beach—spars, sections of rope, limp, doll-like figures in muddy white uniforms. Farther along the beach were the remnants of a ship, timbers shattered, jagged ends protruding from the waters like spears.

  “The Maitre of Sturinn will not be pleased,” said Jecks.

  That’s an understatement, and then some. Anna did not speak, letting her eyes take in the scenes that followed each other, so many that they could not all show in the pool at once.