Jecks offered a wry smile. “Never will I cease to be amazed, even at the smallest of matters involving you, my lady. You summoned me?”
“Yes.” Anna inclined her head toward the pool, and stepped into the room.
Jecks followed. “I can see you.”
“That’s because you’re here with me,” Anna explained. “Ever since I got the message from Lady Gatrune, I’ve been trying to scry the chandlery as often as I can. This is the first time when something was happening.”
She picked up the lutar, checked the tuning, then chorded her own accompaniment as she sang the spell.
Mirror, mirror, in your frame,
Show me the chandler in his fame,
Where’er he may stand or be,
Show him now to me.
The pool silvered, then shivered and turned a deep black, before an image swam into place. The view of a single room in the chandlery wavered, almost to curling in on itself, except it didn’t. Darksong?
“It looks … wrong,” Jecks said slowly.
“Wait.” As Anna watched, the view split again into two images of the interior room that contained the drummer and the chandler and two other men. The darker and more sinister image also showed the statue of a naked blonde woman, extraordinarily beautiful and lifelike. The brighter image depicted the same scene except with a crude clay figure.
Jecks swallowed. “Drums … the obscenity …”
“Darksong, I think,” Anna said. Or worse. She sang a release couplet, and the pool returned to its blank silver state.
“Never has good come from drums,” Jecks murmured.
“I think we should stop in Pamr.”
“How would you deal with this chandler?” asked Jecks. “Turn him to flame like his sire?”
“You don’t think that would be a good idea? Why not?”
“Did not Lady Gatrune tell you what difficulty she and Captain Firis had in obtaining any information?”
Anna nodded. “You think that this Farsenn has used Darksong like the Evult … to turn the town against me?”
“The men, I would guess.” Jecks gestured at the pool. “Would women be ensnared by the statue of a woman?”
“I’d doubt it.”
“And if this Farsenn discovers you are coming to Pamr? Would he use Darksong to raise the men of the town against your armsmen? Will you then destroy Pamr—or the men in it? Will you leave the lady Gatrune without the means to pay her liedgeld?”
Anna winced. “That wouldn’t make me any better than the Evult, would it? Or Behlem? Or Sargol? But if I sent a force to bring him back to Falcor, wouldn’t he just use Darksong on them?”
“I would think so. Anyone who would use drums …” Jecks shook his head.
Another impossible situation. If Farsenn has spelled all the men, or even most of them, and you use sorcery against Farsenn, then you destroy Lady Gatrune. If you don’t, sooner or later, you’ll have bigger problems.
“You do not have to decide now,” Jecks pointed out. “You can do nothing until you reach Pamr. If you insist on going to Mencha … and onward.”
“We’re going. If I let others decide what happens, then I know things will be worse.” Long experience had already taught her that, well before she had come to Liedwahr. Anna tried to ignore the bleakness in her own voice.
27
The sun had barely cleared the horizon when Anna entered the receiving room and sat down at the conference table and began to write. She’d awakened early, unable to sleep with all the thoughts and ideas for what she had to do running through her mind.
First, she had to finish her newsletter so that the fosterlings and pages could start making versions for each of the Thirty-three. And she needed to get Hanfor to make plans for lancers to act as couriers. She picked up the quill, then looked for the penknife to scrape the nib and sharpen it. Then she had to stir the ink, and then clean the quill again when the first attempt deposited a black blob on the brown paper. Finally, she began to write.
After a time, Anna glanced down at the rough paper that tended to soak the ink and turn her letters into fat blobs … but she didn’t want to use parchment or the good paper for drafting the first of her scrolls to the Thirty-three. She scanned the words remaining from what she had crossed out and rewritten.
… Fighting may soon take place in Ebra. As you may have heard, the Lord Bertmynn of Dolov is sending armsmen against the freewomen of the city of Elahwa … . Lord Hadrenn of Synek has pledged fealty to the Regency, placing himself and his lands between Defalk and Lord Bertmynn. Bertmynn is receiving golds from the Maitre of Sturinn … .
She slashed out part of the line and changed the wording to read “appears to be receiving.”
“A newsletter sent as a scroll and written for bureaucrats,” she muttered as she continued. “Don’t forget the fosterlings, either.”
… the liedburg of Falcor is now home to more than a dozen fosterlings and pages from across Defalk, who are receiving tutoring in a wide range of subjects. Some fosterlings come from as far as Abenfel, Sudwei, and Dubaria … .
She set down the quill. What else? After a moment, she began to write again.
… the Regency continues to receive information from the Council of Wei … the Liedfuhr of Mansuur has pledged that he will respect the lands of Defalk and has backed that pledge with a token gift to the Regency … has also indicated that he will support his grandson as the new Prophet of Music of Neserea … .
How long it had taken her, she wasn’t certain, but the room had warmed considerably by the time Jecks eased through the door.
“Lord Jecks …”
“My lady.” Jecks bowed. He wore a padded brown doublet, stained in several places, and rudely mended in others. “Lejun says that you have been here since dawn. Have you eaten?”
“I had some cheese and bread.” Anna thrust the ink-spattered and much-corrected missive text at the hazel-eyed and handsome Jecks. “If you would read this …”
Jecks took the heavy brown paper and began to read, then looked up. “This … this is what you would have the fosterlings and pages copy and send to all of the Thirty-three?”
“Sort of. Each one will start off with a personal note to each lord or lady, then this part will be in the middle, and then the closing will be personal.”
Jecks nodded and went back to reading. After a time, he looked up. “Perhaps … I would not suggest …”
“Go ahead,” Anna replied with a smile.
“You might mention that the tribute from Dumar arrived before it was due, and that the debt to the Ranuan Exchange has been paid, so that lords might have greater freedom to borrow there.”
“I’d meant to mention the Exchange debt … but it slipped my mind when I was writing. The coins from Dumar—that will make some happy, and have some asking to have their liedgeld reduced.” She snorted and picked up the quill, absently sharpening it before dipping it into the ink. “They ought to have it increased.”
“You are not considering such?”
“It’s not acceptable, but the liedgeld doesn’t bring in enough coins to defend Defalk, or build bridges and roads … or much of anything. It’s fine, except if you have enemies, droughts, or problems, and from what I’ve seen Defalk’s never been without most of those. So … next year, we’ll inch up the liedgeld, and mine will go up more than anyone else’s, and you can tell everyone that.”
“Some will not be pleased … .” he observed.
The Thirty-three will never be pleased … not until Defalk returns to a time that never was, that exists only in their memories. “They may not be.” She smiled. “So you should be thinking of ways to convince them that they’re better off under the Regency with a higher liedgeld. For one thing, they’ve all held their lands—except for Lord Arkad—and that wouldn’t have happened under either the Evult or Lord Behlem. Maybe … a reminder from the Lord High Counselor?”
“Do you still intend to go to Ebra?”
“I am on
ly going to Mencha for certain … .”
“Why … if I might inquire? Your lands do not require attention that urgently.” The hint of a smile crossed the lips of the white-haired lord.
“I have an idea, one that might help Defalk a lot.” If it works. “And it won’t put anyone in danger.”
“You are not sure it will work?” Jecks raised his eyebrows.
“If it doesn’t, it won’t hurt anyone.”
“Saving you.” Jecks frowned. “Defalk needs its Regent. Do not hazard yourself.”
“I’ll try.” Anna paused. “What do you know about Lord Hulber? Of Silberfels?”
“Less than most of the Thirty-three. The line is old, older than even the Corians, and Hulber has always paid his liedgeld and answered the calls for levies—but never offered more … or less. I have never met him, nor had Barjim or Donjim. Not to my knowledge.”
“Hmmmm … what about his lands?”
“He is said to have one fertile valley on the Chean, and the rest fit for little but forage for sheep. His consort is the youngest daughter of Lord Clethner’s sire, perhaps ten years younger than Clethner. You recall him?”
“Lord Clethner? I met him at Elheld before I went to Vult.”
“He was impressed with you, and he may have written his sister. How close they are, I would not hazard.” Jecks paused, then added, “If you will excuse me … this morning Himar and I are instructing both the lancers in the penal detail and the fosterlings.”
“The doublet. I should have realized,” Anna said. “Don’t let me keep you.” Then she asked, “How is Jimbob responding?”
Jecks shrugged. “He is doing as I expected.”
“Not quite sullen, and going through all the motions without being overtly rebellious.”
“You understand.”
“Unhappily, yes.”
Jecks bowed again, then turned and left the receiving room.
Jimbob—what could she do about the spoiled brat he had apparently become? Or had always been? Despite taking the punishment of a lancer penal detail, the youth wasn’t listening to Jecks … and had clearly withdrawn more into himself.
The problem was that there really wasn’t anyone else to inherit Defalk—the acceptability of everything Anna and the Regency were doing rested on the idea that she was doing it to preserve and enhance the succession. Without Jimbob, there was no succession, and without the succession … She didn’t even want to think about the mess that would occur. Not now.
She took a long and slow deep breath, and set aside the draft message to the Thirty-three. Next she needed to work on the spell for mining or refining—through sorcery. She reached for another sheet of the rough paper and dipped the quill pen, ignoring the blot of ink that dropped on one corner of the brown paper even before she began to write.
After what seemed more than a glass, Anna looked at the draft spell … or what was the beginning of it.
Search, search, search the ground
deeply all around,
verily, verily, verily,
gold will here be found … .
Bring, bring, bring the gold,
straightly to the mold,
verily, verily, verily … .
But how would she end the spell? She took a deep breath and then a sip from the goblet.
“You need a break.”
Finally, she stood, and made her way out of the chamber and up the stairs to the south wing … and Lady Essan’s chamber. Lejun and Kerhor followed her, stationing themselves outside Essan’s door when Anna entered.
The white-haired woman sat erect in the sunlight falling through the window, then turned her head at Anna’s presence. Anna still found it hard to believe that she was the widow of the man who had ruled Defalk before Jimbob’s father.
“Lady Essan, I’m sorry. It’s been longer than I’d have liked since we last talked.” Anna turned the straight chair across from the ancient rocker where Essan sat, then seated herself, looking straight at the older woman.
“You are the sorceress-Regent, my dear near-daughter … .” Essan smiled faintly. “This be a hard land that asks much of those that rule, and most of the glasses of their lives.”
“There isn’t much time,” Anna admitted. “It always seems that way.”
“Synondra tells me that you and Lord Jecks put Barjim’s brat on a punishment detail. Be it true that he spat at your Lord High Counselor?”
“Yes,” Anna admitted.
“Donjim would have flayed the skin off his back, and considered that merciful.”
“Jecks had him whipped.”
“Good! Feared your Lord High Counselor was getting too soft on the brat.” Essan squinted through the sunlight at Anna. “Know ye that young Jimbob has been talking about sending you off to Mencha once he’s old enough?”
“No … but I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Boy doesn’t know what strong is … or what he owes you.” Essan shook her head. “Enough of ungrateful young wretches. You need more like that young Skent. Proper and dutiful fellow he is … make him an undercaptain, you should, then a captain if he has it in him. Then when you consort him to Cataryzna … he’ll have the experience and the reputation to hold the lands.”
Anna laughed. “Is there anything that doesn’t come to you?”
“Leave an old woman her secrets. ’Sides, that be so obvious that I’d have told you if you were not already minded to do so.” Essan took a sip of the ever-present apple brandy. “Is there any other gossip or tidbit that this old brain of mine can offer?”
“You do know more about the past than anyone else I’ve met in Defalk,” Anna smiled.
“That be because the hard times took all the other old folk.” Essan sniffed.
“What have you heard about Lord Hulber of Silberfels?”
“There were always rumors … that lineage is strange … mountain folk from before the Corians …” Essan said, almost as if musing to herself.
Great … gnomes out of Oz burrowing under the mountains in a world where music creates magic. Anna merely nodded, waiting.
“ … been said once that the old folk were miners … but none have seen such … nor much of their lords …”
28
ESARIA, NESEREA
Rabyn slips into the light and airy workroom. Nubara follows. Both stand and study the three polished drums, each not quite as tall as is Rabyn. The floor has been swept spotlessly clean, and all the tools removed from the workbench and polished before having been set on the shelves adjoining the bench.
Beside each drum is a high stool, and a pair of wooden mallets is laid on the seat of each stool.
The gray-haired crafter bows. “They are finished, sire. As you requested. Exactly as you requested.”
“We will be the judge of that.” Rabyn barely looks at the older man as he steps around him and stops by the first drum. His fingers stroke the polished wood, now so smooth that it reflects the dark-haired Prophet’s image as if the drum were a mirror.
Nubara sees his own reflection beside that of the Prophet and smiles, belatedly.
“I saw that, Nubara,” Rabyn says easily.
The crafter steps back involuntarily.
“Let us see how these sound.” Rabyn takes the mallets from the stool of the drum closest to the workroom door, then seats himself on the stool. He taps the stretched hide that covers the drum frame. A low rolling boom fills the workroom. He nods and slips off the stool, replacing the mallets. After repeating the process with both of the remaining drums, Rabyn returns to the second drum and reseats himself on the stool with a sly, serpentlike smile.
Nubara frowns, his eyes going from the Prophet to the crafter, who remains standing by the workbench, his head bowed.
Lifting the mallets, the young Prophet tries one rhythm, then a second. Finally, after several other attempts, he nods to himself, and a driving and thundering, rolling beat fills the workroom. Rabyn begins a chant, not exactly a song, but more than a simple r
efrain, with a thin tenor that is clear and rises above the thunder of the massive drum.
Heed, heed, heed, the beating of the drum;
break, break, break the heart whose end has come …
The crafter’s eyes widen and he swallows, then drops to his knees, clutching at his chest, gasping for air.
… turn, turn, the body into dust!
The rolling thunder that has filled the room dies away, and Rabyn carefully climbs down from the stool and replaces the mallets. “You will have the workbench and the woods removed, will you not, Nubara? And you will make sure that no one touches the drums.”
“Ah … yes, honored Prophet.” The Mansuuran officer licks his lips. “I … did not know you could do … such.” He looks at the heap of dust on the workroom floor. He swallows. “Did you not promise … ?”
Rabyn laughs. “I promised to pay him well, and in gold. For his dislike of me, I have paid him. The golds will go to his ugly daughter, and she will be freed. So will her mother. You will tell them that he developed the bloody flux and a pox, and we had to burn his body. I promised him five golds. Give them ten … with great care.”
“Yes, honored Prophet.”
“Remember, Nubara, I am a ruler who keeps his promises.” The serpentlike smile follows. “All of them.” Rabyn strokes the side of the drum, lovingly. “A most wonderful drum, and it will do exactly as I wish.”
Nubara looks down at the pale paving stones of the workroom floor, then lifts his eyes to the Prophet, meeting the younger man’s glance evenly. “With drum and Darksong, best you be most careful of what you wish, Prophet.”
“I always am sure of that, Nubara. Just like my mother was. Always.”
29
Anna slowed as she heard voices in the side corridor leading to the receiving room. She glanced back at Lejun and Rickel. The taller blond Rickel nodded and slowed.
Darksong Rising: The Third Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 16
