The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Menares was waiting for her outside the door. She nodded for him to follow her inside the receiving room.

  “Have we had any response to all those scrolls we sent? Or from the Matriarchy about Barjim’s debts?” She slipped the purple regency sash over her green tunic and trousers, wishing she’d thought more about color coordination earlier, but she was stuck with both colors for differing reasons. She even had a purple-and-gold vest that someone had made for her.

  Menares shrugged his heavy sloping shoulders. “Lady Anna . . . with the rains, and now the snow, the roads are muddy swamps. Messengers, wagons, all will be slow for the winter.”

  How had people on earth dealt with muddy roads? Paved them, but asphalt and cement weren’t exactly practical for Defalk. She frowned. Hadn’t Brill used sorcery to create a brick road to the fort at the Sand Pass? And the ancient Romans had built stone roads that had lasted centuries.

  Lord, she wished she knew more. “Until when?”

  “Spring planting, I would say. The roads might dry sooner. Then they might not. It has been many years since Defalk has had rainfall, Lady Anna.”

  In short, no one was prepared for mud, and she hadn’t even thought about what it would do to roads in poor, backward Defalk.

  “Menares . . . go talk to Tirsik. See if he can give the messengers ideas on where and how to travel through this mess more quickly. Then let me know.”

  Menares bowed and departed.

  Anna hoped that Tirsik, the stablemaster, could help Menares out. She looked at the murky water in the pitcher, then sang her water spell, watching as the swirling subsided into a clear whirl, before filling her goblet and taking a long swallow.

  The door creaked ajar.

  “Arms Commander Hanfor,” announced the stocky and blond Cens, another page from the time of Barjim.

  “Come on in,” Anna said.

  Hanfor’s weathered face carried a half ironic, half sour expression as he stepped into the receiving room.

  “What problems now?” asked Anna.

  “There’s nothing new, lady.”

  “You looked so disgusted.”

  “I feel like a graybeard with that title,” admitted Hanfor.

  “You’re more than an overcaptain, and you are the arms commander of Defalk,” she pointed out. “Is there some other term of office you’d prefer?”

  “The others are worse.”

  “Then you’re stuck being arms commander.” Anna gestured to the chair across the table from her and waited for Hanfor to seat himself. “Menares told me the weather had slowed our scrolls and messengers.”

  “Mud is hard on horses and men.” Hanfor added, “Especially those who have not experienced it.”

  “That’s anyone from Defalk who’s under twenty,” suggested Anna. “What do you suggest?”

  “There is little I can suggest. The rain the land needs. The roads . . . they could be better, but one cannot build roads in winter and rain.” The arms commander shrugged. “Who would build them? You have given me coins to pay armsmen I do not have, and cannot find. Not enough. If we cannot find armsmen, where will we find those to build roads?”

  “Or repair bridges or houses or . . .” Anna shook her head. “Even if our message scrolls do get through, when will craftspeople or armsmen arrive? Next summer?”

  “Not before spring for most.”

  Anna paused, then asked, “What did you want? I just hit you with my problems.”

  “We still have no weapons smith.” Hanfor stroked his beard. “Himar received a scroll from his brother who heard that the Ranuans have a ship loaded with blades that were destined for Elawha.”

  “How much?”

  “I do not know. A good blade fetches a gold, sometimes two.”

  “We could spare a hundred golds, perhaps two hundred, but wouldn’t we have to send a large guard?”

  “We could send twenty or thirty golds, and arrange to take the blades in Sudwei.” Hanfor laughed. “Now, after the destruction you rained upon Ebra, there cannot be that much of a market for blades there.”

  Anna chuckled. “Why not? Work out the details with Dythya and have her see me if she has a problem . . . or a better way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Thank you,” she answered. “If what Himar’s brother heard is true, it would give us more time to find a weapons smith. If not, we haven’t lost anything. Is there anything else?”

  “Not at the moment.”

  “But you’re worried about those blades?” Anna smiled.

  “Good weapons are hard to come by. As hard as to find those who can use them.”

  Especially in Defalk, thought Anna. “We’ll try to purchase what we can.”

  The arms commander bowed.

  Anna managed another swallow of water after Hanfor departed and before the receiving room door opened again.

  “The lady Wendella begs your indulgence,” said Resor.

  The last person Anna really wanted to see was Wendella, Lord Dencer’s consort, who remained as a hostage because Anna trusted neither Dencer nor Wendella.

  “Have Giellum or Blaz escort her in.” Wendella deserved an armed guard, if as nothing more than a more blatant reminder of her status.

  Resor’s eyes widened. “Yes, lady.”

  The brown-haired woman bowed low, carrying the child in her left arm. “Lady Anna.”

  Blaz stood behind her.

  “You asked to see me,” Anna said quietly.

  Wendella bowed. “I would ask your indulgence. My son has not ever seen his father, nor have I seen my lord in more than half a year. Nor my brother, the lord Mietchel.”

  “Lord Dencer is always welcome here,” Anna said truthfully. Her brother is a lord? Why didn’t I know that?

  “I would like to return to Stromwer and to my lord. Please, my lady Regent?” Wendella went to her knees.

  Anna ignored the gesture, distrusting it, knowing that over the fall and early winter Wendella had continued to bad-mouth Anna to whoever in the south tower would listen, until even the stern Drenchescha had told Wendella to cease her complaining, and the pages had been able to repeat Wendella’s words from memory.

  “She’s a bitch from the mist worlds . . .” And that had been one of the phrases that people had dared to repeat.

  “Lady Wendella,” Anna said, “Lord Barjim didn’t trust your lord, and nothing you’ve done—or said—has given me any reason to reject Lord Barjim’s opinion. Lord Dencer has continued to court both the Matriarchy and most lately, Lord Ehara of Dumar. I have found, if anything, that Lord Barjim was extraordinarily trusting for a lord of Defalk.”

  “You are a bitch! Go ahead, flame me! See where that will get you!” Wendella lurched upright, words and spittle flying from her mouth.

  “Blaz—” Anna began. Lord, she wanted to fry the impertinent bitch, but she couldn’t. That would have been within her rights, especially in Defalk, but it would have freed Dencer to wed someone else and to cause even more trouble.

  Blaz stepped forward, and Wendella backed away from the regent.

  “I’m going!”

  “No. You’re not going. Not for a moment.” Anna turned and riffled through the spell folder, until she had the sheet she wanted. Then she stood and took the lutar from its case, quickly checking the tuning.

  “No!” Wendella turned, then stopped as she saw Giellum at the door, behind Blaz.

  “Just see that she stays here,” Anna said tiredly, taking the grease marker and altering the spellsong she’d once used on both Madell and Virkan.

  “You can’t do anything to me. I’m a daughter of the Thirty-three.”

  Anna continued to mark the margins of the heavy brown paper.

  “No!”

  “You want to go home to Stromwer. We’ll be happy to make that possible.” Anna glanced at the notations and hummed through the melody, once, then again. Then she lifted the lutar and strummed the chords.

  Wendella lurched toward Anna, for an instant be
fore Blaz grabbed her.

  Anna began to sing.

  “Wendella wrong, Wendella strong,

  loyal be from this song.

  Wendella young, Wendella old,

  faithful be till dead and cold.

  “Consort of lord, mother of son,

  woman of means, this be done.

  Treachery prevent to all this land

  with your cunning and your hand.”

  “Nooooo . . .” As the notes died away, the dark-haired woman collapsed to her knees on the polished stones of the receiving-room floor. “No . . .” she sobbed, barely hanging on to the infant in her arms.

  Anna felt like she’d been shaken momentarily, and for a few moments, there seemed to be two images of Wendella before her, one colder somehow than the other.

  Forcing herself to ignore the strange reaction, Anna lifted the bell and rang it, then set the lutar on the chair beside the one she used. Even after the double image faded—something that hadn’t happened to her ever before—her head ached. It had the few times before when she had used personal spells, probably because they were technically Darksong, and Darksong didn’t always agree with her bodily harmonics—and probably would less and less, from what she understood. The strange double image confirmed that.

  Clearsong would have been easier on her, but it didn’t work on people.

  “Yes, Lady Anna?” This time Skent was the page who peered into the room, his eyes going from the sobbing form on the floor to the regent.

  “Would you have a message sent to Lord Dencer that the lady Wendella and his son and heir are free to return to Stromwer at her and his convenience?”

  “Yes . . . Lady Anna ”

  “If she has the coins for an escort, she may leave immediately. But draft a message for me anyway.” Anna’s eyes went briefly to Wendella. “And I’ll need something to eat.”

  Skent nodded and vanished.

  Anna shouldn’t have yielded to her temper, but she was so tired of spoiled lords and ladies, some of whom were worse than the most ungrateful students she’d taught, and that was saying a lot. The headache had not subsided. In fact, it was worse.

  “Waaa . . .” The child in Wendella’s arms began to cry.

  “You have killed me. . . .” sobbed Wendella, cradling her son and struggling into a sitting position.

  “Why? Because I bound you not to betray me or Defalk? If that’s so, Wendella, then you’ve admitted that my judgment of you and your lord is correct.” Anna smiled coldly. “You’re going home, and you’d better find a way to keep your lord loyal to the Regency and Jimbob. For your own sake, if not for Defalk’s.”

  “You are cruel . . . so cruel. . . .”

  “I don’t have time for games and intrigues.” Anna nodded to the guards. “And I have even less for the people who attempt them. Good day, lady.”

  A stone-faced Blaz took the dark-haired lady’s arm and helped her to her feet. Giellum opened the door.

  Alone momentarily in the receiving room, Anna took a deep breath. Then she set aside the lutar, replacing it in its case, and refiling the spell in the folder.

  She massaged her forehead, then poured another goblet of water. Both Blaz and Giellum had been shocked. Had it been because she’d used sorcery? Or because she’d let Wendella live?

  She rang the bell again.

  Skent peered in.

  “Have Blaz and Giellum step in for a moment, please.”

  The two guards stepped inside the receiving room, and the door clunked shut. Giellum swallowed. Blaz remained stone-faced.

  “I’m not upset or angry,” Anna said quietly.

  Neither guard moved.

  “But I do have a question for you. Blaz . . . do you think I was too lenient on the lady Wendella?”

  “It be not my place to judge.” The guard’s voice was hoarse.

  “Giellum?”

  “I . . . How . . . would . . . ?”

  “I know.” Anna sighed. “Anything you say would be wrong. That’s the problem with being a ruler, even a regent. No one wants to tell you what they think. If they agree, it’s flattery. If they don’t, it’s dangerous.” She smiled wryly. “So I’ll have to guess.”

  Giellum swallowed again.

  “Giellum . . . you don’t have to swallow.”

  That got another swallow, and Anna wanted to sigh in exasperation. Instead, she continued. “The lady Wendella was extremely rude.” She glanced at Blaz. “I think that’s something we can all agree on.”

  The wary look in Giellum’s eyes, and the fractional nod from Blaz confirmed that.

  “In fact, after I spelled her, she as much as admitted that she and her lord Dencer were disloyal to the Regency. Did either of you wonder why I let her go?”

  The lack of reaction confirmed her guess.

  “You did, but you don’t want to second-guess a regent. Think about this. If I had executed the lady Wendella, several things would have happened. First, Lord Dencer would immediately start telling everyone how I killed his wife and heir, and how I was out to take over all Defalk by replacing all the old lords. Then, he would be free to marry whoever he wants, possibly even some relative of Ehara of Dumar. This way, he has a struggle with his wife. If he kills her, and he may, probably with poison, it will take some time. I can certainly accuse him of proving his disloyalty, and I don’t have her blood on the Regency. He might even get the message and become more loyal.” She shrugged. “It’s a nasty business, but the fewer disloyal lords and ladies I have to execute outright, the stronger Lord Jimbob’s position will become.”

  Blaz gave the slightest of nods. Giellum had turned pale.

  “You look shocked, Giellum. Ruling isn’t all battles. A lot of it is positioning things so that your enemies look bad and unreasonable. Wendella and Dencer have been trying to make me look like the bitch of Defalk. We’ll announce to all the lords that we are pleased to return Lord Dencer’s consort and his heir to him and wish them both every happiness. It should confound just about everyone.” Anna took a sip from the goblet. “And you can tell anyone you want what happened. I will, and there’s no secret about it.” In fact, I hope you do tell just about everyone.

  She studied the two, catching the hint of a smile in Blaz’s eyes. Well, one out of two wasn’t bad, and maybe the older guard could get it across to Giellum.

  “Do you have any questions?”

  “No, lady,” said Blaz.

  “No . . . lady,” added Giellum.

  No sooner had her guards left than Resor opened the door again. “There is a player here, Lady Anna. He says his name is Delvor.”

  “I’ll see him.” No one else could, and at times like this she missed Daffyd. She really needed another player-master, but where would she find one?

  Blaz followed the would-be player into the receiving room and stood just inside the door, hand on his blade.

  The young man stepped into the receiving room and looked down at the floor. Lank brown hair—too long—spilled across his forehead. His fingers were white where they clutched his violino case.

  “You . . . summoned me, sorceress.” His thin voice trembled out of a thin face.

  “I requested players.” Anna waited. Yes, she had requested players, from everywhere and even with the promise of a healthy wage. And this trembling youngster was only the second since harvest—two in half a season, when she needed a good dozen, if not more. The first so-called player had carried a falk horn on which he couldn’t play “Come to Jesus” in whole notes. Anna’s eyes focused on the youngster. “Are you interested in being a player for the Regency?”

  “Yes, lady.” He looked down.

  “I take it that you are worried about playing for an unknown sorceress, but you need the coin even more than you worry?”

  The youngster just shivered.

  “What is your name, young player?” Anna hated it when she’d been given a name and didn’t remember it, but she’d never been that good with names.

  “Delvor, la
dy.”

  “Delvor, I don’t eat players. I do pay them well, if they can meet my standards. That’s a silver a week.” She paused.

  “A silver . . . ?”

  “Take out that violino and play something for me.”

  Delvor’s fingers still trembled as he fumbled out the old and polished instrument. The trembling lessened as he began to tune the violino.

  “Anytime you’re ready.”

  Slowly, he raised the instrument and the bow.

  After the first unsteady notes, the short melody was clear. Delvor didn’t squeak or shriek, and his fingering looked sure.

  From where he stood by the door, Blaz gave the faintest of nods. Anna wasn’t so certain.

  “All right.” Anna gestured for the violinist to stop. “How do you learn a new melody? Can you read notation?”

  The look at the floor answered that question.

  “I take it that you learn by ear?”

  “I can play what I’ve heard,” the player answered. He swallowed. “Sometimes, I must hear it more than once.”

  More than sometimes. Anna nodded, then cleared her throat. “I’ll sing a short song—just the notes, not the words. Listen carefully. I’ll want you to play it as well as you can.”

  Delvor lowered the violin and bow and nodded.

  “La, la, la . . .” Anna sang the water spell melody. That couldn’t cause any trouble, or not much, if it were passed on to others.

  Delvor cocked his head, listening.

  “Now . . . you try it.”

  The player picked up the bow. All in all, Anna had to repeat the song more than three times before Delvor could basically replicate it.

  She wanted to shake her head. Still . . . he had been able to pick it up. She supposed he would have a use, if only as the equivalent of third or fourth chair, not that sorcerers’ players were classified that way.

  “Delvor?”

  “Yes, lady.” The player hung his head.

  “There is a great deal you do not know. If you stay here, you will have a lot to learn.”

  Delvor licked his lips.

  “You may stay. You will receive a silver a week, and, until the rest of the players arrive, you will also be required to assist in other areas. Nothing heavy, but I may have you learn new skills or serve as a messenger. Do you understand?”