Darksong Rising: The Third Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  The sorceress turned and looked westward. Another sunset … the clouds almost bloodred. Her lips curled into an ironic smile as she watched the red sky fade.

  110

  MANSUUS, MANSUUR

  “Sire … sire …” Bassil stands barely a yard inside the carved door to the Liedfuhr’s private study. Outside the windows, rain patters against the shutters, and a cool dampness seeps into the room.

  “What? Bassil …” There is a long pause. “Don’t tell me. You have even worse news from Esaria or Defalk?” Konsstin stands up from behind the desk.

  “Worse? I … ah … perhaps you should read it … I mean, them, yourself, sire.” Bassil extends a scroll, still sealed in wax and bound in purple ribbon. A second follows, sealed with severe blue wax and wrapped with a strip of dark blue felt

  “You have not opened them?”

  “They were addressed to you, and brought by the same courier from Neserea. There are two scrolls. One from the sorceress-Regent and one from one Hanfor, Lord High Counselor of Neserea.”

  “Two scrolls … both filled with trouble.” Konsstin snorts. “As if I had no other difficulties.” His eyes fix on the dark-haired officer. “Why did I ever listen to you? Why?”

  Bassil swallows.

  “Why? Answer me!”

  The officer squares his shoulders, then meets the Liedfuhr’s blistering scrutiny. “Because I have given my best judgment, whether it later proved wrong or not. Because I have never lied to you, and because that is greater loyalty than flattery.” The lancer officer swallows, and the sweat pours down his brow and cheeks.

  Abruptly, the Liedfuhr nods. “And you have the nerve to tell me so.” He sighs. “Best we read these.” He breaks the purple wax seal and unrolls the scroll.

  Bassil watches.

  The Liedfuhr’s frown deepens as he reads. Silently, he finishes the first scroll, then breaks the seal on the second, a much shorter length of parchment. Near the end of the scroll, suddenly, he laughs, and shakes his head. “Things could be worse … far worse.”

  “Sire?” blurts Bassil.

  “She has appointed a professional armsman as Lord High Counselor of Neserea, and she has gone back to Falcor—or somewhere. She has also suggested that I support the new regime in Neserea, and rather politely suggested that she’ll forgive my sending lancers into Defalk, but that she’ll do the same to them again if I send any there or into Neserea.” Konsstin pursed his lips. “She’ll probably live longer than I will, and that means Kestrin will have to deal with her for a time as well.”

  “But the second one?” prompts Bassil.

  “Oh … that is from the armsman. He was quite short, if most circumspect. He just said that Neserea regarded Mansuur as its friend, and Defalk as its protector, and hoped that I would understand why it must be so.” The Liedfuhr drops both scrolls on the shimmering polished wood of his table-desk. After a moment, he begins to pace back and forth. “What to do … what to do … ?”

  Bassil holds his tongue, waiting.

  Konsstin straightens, nods to himself. “It might work. It will work.”

  The lancer officer leans forward, as if encouraging the Liedfuhr to explain.

  “Aerlya … she’s sixteen,” Konsstin says. “If he has no consort, and I’d wager he does not. Is he not the one who was her arms commander?”

  “Who?”

  “This Hanfor.”

  “She had an arms commander of that name. That was what your envoys reported.”

  “Aerlya … she needs a consort, and what would be better than the new Lord High Counselor of Neserea?”

  “Sire?”

  “Bassil … if you are going to say something trite about Aerlya being too sweet … that’s the point. The envoys—I remember their report—they said this Hanfor was honorable. If he’s survived in Defalk and if he survives in Neserea, he’ll be most intelligent as well—his scroll shows that. If the sorceress trusts him, he’ll be a good man. A bit hard, perhaps, but good, and he will not treat women badly. Not after what the sorceress has done, he couldn’t have survived. And … he’ll know treachery. What an honorable man is most influenced by is by honest respect and, in a woman, sweetness. Aerlya is strong, but she’s not a schemer. Not too much, anyway.” Konsstin laughs. “And this Hanfor, he will have to balance between us, and Aerlya, she has seen enough scheming to respect honor.”

  “She may not love him.”

  “She may not. But he cannot afford to turn her down, and she cannot afford to turn down being the consort of a ruler. And her being his consort will ensure both his rule, and the succession of their children. So … Kestrin’s heirs will have a chance. While the sorceress lives, no one else will take Neserea.” Konsstin shrugs. “Even if that doesn’t work out, I’ll have grandchildren ruling both lands.”

  “Yes, sire.” Bassil’s face bears a faintly puzzled expression.

  “You’ll see,” predicts the Liedfuhr. “You will.”

  111

  Anna looked over the lane leading to the house—not really a hold—that now belonged to Lady Herene. The trees beside the packed clay were bare, and the cold wind out of the northeast swirled fallen leaves along the ground. The scars in the plaster and timber of the outbuildings had been painted or oiled over, and the air smelled merely of damp leaves and fall, unlike the odors of her last visit.

  Just two figures stood on the lower steps that led up to the dwelling Anna had rebuilt with her sorcery—Skent and a tall blonde woman.

  Skent bowed as Anna reined up at the foot of the steps, still trailed by Himar, Falar, and guards. “Lady and Regent.”

  “Captain Skent, Lady Herene.” Anna smiled at the dark-haired young captain, then looked at Herene, who stood behind him.

  “Regent.” Herene bowed. Her blonde hair had been cut shorter than the one time before when Anna had met her. Now it was not much longer than Anna’s.

  Anna dismounted, then gestured to the redheaded Falar, who quickly dismounted as well. “This is Falar. He has been serving as a captain for me, but he is also second in succession to the lands of Fussen.”

  “For now.” Falar smiled engagingly at Herene. “My brother but recently took a consort.”

  Anna gestured at Himar—still mounted. “Lady Herene … Arms Commander Himar.”

  Herene inclined her head slightly. “Arms Commander.”

  “Lady Herene,” answered Himar. “Lady Anna, if you would excuse me …”

  “Of course.” Anna watched as Herene’s eyes flicked back to Falar for a moment, then centered on the Regent.

  “Your messenger said you had come from Flossbend?”

  Anna nodded. “Another unfortunate duty. You may have recalled Lord Hryding?”

  Herene nodded.

  “After his death, his consort Anientta was holding the lands for his sons. She died rather suddenly. So did her sons. Then Lord Dannel attacked Falcor and tried to kill young Secca. After that, Lord Tybel’s younger brother Beltyr took over the lands. Tybel attacked us on our way to Arien to look into the matter.” Shading the truth a little there, you are. Anna shrugged. “So … now young lord Zybar, Tybel’s nephew, holds Arien, and Secca is the heir to Flossbend.”

  Herene shook her head. “Did they think you would allow that?”

  “They did not think,” Skent suggested.

  “That may be.” Anna shrugged, then belatedly handed Farinelli’s reins to Blaz. “But Defalk has to change, and they didn’t want to see that.” Anna smiled, half-sadly. “I am sorry that you have had to bear the grief of your sister’s death and the burden of restoring the hold, but I am glad to be here. You and your family have been encouraging from the beginning.”

  “You are always welcome. Always.” Herene returned Anna’s smile with one of her own. “You have given me a hold and a home to make, and though it comes from sadness, so does all of worth and value.”

  The sorceress couldn’t help but notice that Falar continued to watch the new lady of Pamr as she spoke. You had
n’t thought about these two … . She refrained from shrugging. If it’s meant to be …

  In the meantime, she had a tired gelding to unsaddle and groom … and yet a long journey back to Falcor. She forced herself to keep smiling.

  112

  WEI, NORDWEI

  The oil lamps on the Council Chamber wall cast a low light, but one strong enough that the faces of the five counselors are reflected in the black-polished and gemlike surface of the long table around which they are seated. Chill seeps from the stone walls as leader Tybra raps the ebony hammer on the ebony striking plate. Several darts of light flash from the black-and-silver seal suspended from Tybra’s neck.

  “The Regent-sorceress has once more done the unexpected. Counselor Ashtaar, would you explain?” Tybra turns to the spymistress. “As we have all received your scroll outlining the actual events, please confine your remarks to explaining how this occurred.”

  Ashtaar looks to her right and then to her left. “Before I explain, I would like to suggest that we consider building more warships.” She ignores the frowns and continues. “The real problem we have faced with the Regent and Sorceress of Defalk is that she is truly strange.” Ashtaar shrugs. “She looks as we do. She can be injured or wounded as we are. But she is not as we are. We thought she was merely after power, like Lord Behlem or his son, or the Liedfuhr. So did the Evult, Lord Ehara, Lord Rabyn, and many of Defalk’s Thirty-three—”

  “She is clearly after power. She has destroyed close to a third of the Thirty-three,” responds Virtuul. “She has replaced those lords with others and ladies who support her.”

  Ashtaar’s smile is cold. “No, I said that we thought she was merely after power. Unlike the others, this one sees power as a tool. Think … most rulers consolidate their power at home first. They eliminate rivals, force consortships, raise taxes and armies—and then they strike at their neighbors and seize lands and goods. Some engage in foreign campaigns as a way to pacify their people with either excitement or loot, or use the campaigns to place rivals in places where they may be more likely killed by enemy blades or shafts. Has she done any of that?” Ashtaar’s eyes rake those sitting around the long polished table.

  “ … not that we know,” comes a whisper from the end of the table, “or you would not have asked the question.”

  Ashtaar nods toward the figure cloaked in black and shadows. “No … she has reformed the way Ebra is governed—and destroyed all the lords and armsmen who could protest—and gone home. She has eliminated all the Liedfuhr’s lancers east of the Westfels, and most of the armsmen in Neserea, and then placed a good and honest man as ruler over that land. She did not invade it, though she could have swept all the way to Esaria. She destroyed Lord Ehara—and the Sturinnese fleet and all the Maitre’s lancers in Liedwahr. After placing Ehara’s widow on the throne—with her own arms commander to watch—she went home.

  “She has used her sorcery to mine gold and mint coins—and little of that has gone into warfare or luxuries. She has begun to send couriers with messages to every lord. She has begun to teach the heirs in Falcor, and she has been replacing those lords who are rebellious or stupid with others who are intelligent and loyal. She is no softhearted girl who would let the poor or the mob rule, either. Witness her actions in Pamr.”

  Ashtaar pauses, but no others speak.

  “How many lords in Defalk will stand against her? Five years ago, every one of the Thirty-three in Defalk was a man. Nearly a quarter are women today, and she controls more than half the lords outright. Has Defalk ever been so strong?”

  “If she lives …” suggests Tybra.

  “Why would any in Defalk wish to kill her? Any of sound mind? She rewards those who rule both well and fairly—and destroys those who oppose her. Were you a lord in Defalk, would you oppose her? She uses her sorcery to determine who plots against her. Would you risk such, Leader Tybra?”

  “She will not live forever,” says Virtuul, his deep voice almost lazy.

  “If she lives but a handful of years longer, will it matter? Already she molds the heir and all those around her.” Ashtaar laughs. “Besides … what if she teaches what she knows of sorcery to another?”

  “Kill her,” comes the whisper from the shadows.

  Ashtaar smiles sadly. “Do you not see? Every ruler south of us has said that—except the Matriarch. Where are they now? The sorceress will never attack us—unless we attack her. So … do we accept the changes she will bring … or do we attack her and destroy Wei now?”

  “We have those with poison … those with stealth …”

  Ashtaar glares at the shadowed figure. “If … if we succeed, then we would turn all of Defalk except Wei and Ranuak over to Mansuur. Do you wish that, Lady of Shadows? Do you wish Konsstin on our southern borders?”

  “You had said we should build ships, Counselor,” Tybra interjects quickly. “Why would golds spent on ships help?”

  “Liedwahr will never be the same. Sturinn will be. The Liedfuhr has more than enough armsmen to defeat the Sea-Priests—and Mansuur needs little trade. Ranuak will trade more and more with the sorceress and her allies. What will we do?”

  “You suggest that our fleet must contest the ships of the Sea-Priests, and from where will come the coins?”

  “From trade. Defalk will return to prosperity, and there is much it does not produce. We will trade more, and gain coins, and those coins will build more ships, stronger ships. We need not worry about our borders,” Ashtaar points out. “The sorceress makes a good neighbor but a deadly enemy.”

  “One woman and all is changed … changed utterly,” Virtuul says quietly.

  “One might even call hers a terrible beauty,” suggests the spymistress.

  Neither the Lady of the Shadows nor Tybra speaks, and the Council Chamber falls silent.

  113

  In the grayness preceding dawn, Anna sat at the writing desk in her chamber, quill in hand. Her breath steamed faintly in the chill air, as did the vapor drifting through the archway from the tub in the adjoining chamber. The two candles on the desk cast an uneven light, despite the polished-brass reflectors behind each.

  Although she had arrived in Falcor late the night before, too exhausted from making a day and a half journey in one to talk to anyone, she had found herself awake and tossing before dawn. A hot bath had only made her more alert—and restless. Her eyes went to the rectangle etched in black on the stones of the outside wall. Elizabetta. She could send a scroll to her daughter, and she would, but what more could she say—or do? Her daughter was growing up a world away. How do you tell her that you love her without it sounding trite? How can you tell her what you’re really doing? Can you say that you’re killing people to create a little more fairness for women—and generally privileged women at that? Or to keep a land together that might be better falling apart? Or that you’re tired of fighting the same battles in Liedwahr that you fought on Earth—except that you can force people to listen now?

  Awake as she was, she was too emotionally tired to write and send Elizabetta a message, and her daughter still wouldn’t get it any sooner.

  Finally, Anna looked at the scrolls beside her and the rough paper before her.

  Lord Hulber of Silberfels and the gold issue … more gram for the grasslands riders of the north … and whom to name as the next Lord of Mossbach. Should she seek thoughts from the Thirty-three as a political move? Or have Jecks feel people out? Or name Falar? But if Falar’s interest in Herene is real … ?

  After a time, she sharpened the quill and dipped it into the ink, slowly writing out the list … name after name … Arkad, Sargol, Dencer, Hryding and Anientta, Gatrune, Dannel, Ustal, Jearle, Tybel, Beltyr … and Brill. Don’t forget Brill. Almost a third of the Thirty-three—dead in the two years since she’d come to Defalk.

  Lord … even the Reign of Terror wasn’t that sweeping, was it?

  Thrap! She jumped at the single sharp knock on her chamber door.

  “Lord Jecks … if you
will see him.”

  “I’ll be happy to see him.” She watched the door open.

  “Lady Anna.” Jecks bowed. His eyes sparkled as he looked at the sorceress. “I was not sure you would be up this early after so long a ride, but Lejun said you had been moving around for some glasses. “I took the liberty …” He gestured to the serving girl bearing a large tray filled with two small loaves of steaming bread, eggs scrambled with cheese, white cheese wedges, and a large red apple. Jecks carried a pitcher. “This is hot cider.”

  “Thank you.” Anna didn’t have to force the smile as she cleared a space and moved some of the scrolls to the bench-chest at the foot of the bed. The girl set the tray on the table-desk and bowed. Anna directed a second “Thank you” to the server as the girl left.

  After filling Anna’s goblet with the hot cider, Jecks pulled up the straight-backed chair and sat across from the sorceress as she broke off a chunk of bread.

  Anna stopped eating after bolting two bites of bread. “Aren’t you going to eat anything? There’s plenty here.”

  “I had one of the loaves out of the oven,” Jecks admitted. “I was up early, and Dalila was baking.”

  Dalila—another indirect casualty of your sorcery. “If you’re still hungry, please have some.” She smiled. “Please.”

  Jecks smiled, the smile she enjoyed so much. After a moment, he took his belt knife and sliced off a small section of the hard white cheese. “Perhaps a little cheese.” Then he sliced several more sections. “And for you.”

  “Thank you. I’m sorry I didn’t want to talk last night,” Anna apologized. “I was exhausted.”

  “You rode two days in one.”

  “A day and a half, I think, but it felt longer.” She took a sip of the cider—better than water, but what she wouldn’t have given for coffee. “I couldn’t even think by the time I unsaddled and groomed Farinelli.”

  “You looked tired—and worried.”