The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Of course, Lady Anna. Of course.” He sounded as though he had finally realized exactly who she happened to be, but Anna had to take his hand and actually put the coins there.

  He looked down at the two golds as if he could not believe they were real.

  “They’re real. No sorcery.” Anna looked to the girl. “Thank you, Kirla.”

  Kirla bowed. “Thank you, lady.”

  Anna smiled. “I’ve always wanted to come here. I just never had time.” She didn’t know what else to say. So she inclined her head slightly, still smiling, and left.

  Outside, once she had remounted, Fhurgen leaned toward her.

  “They will tell everyone, and that will be good.”

  Good? That she had paid for what she needed, and not taken it? Anna took a deep breath, thinking again about the high cost of the velvet, then waved to Kirla who stood in the arch of the doorway. The thin-faced girl returned the wave with a deep bow.

  Anna managed to smile, even as she thought how much there was to do—in so many ways.

  16

  WEI, NORDWEI

  The dark-haired spymistress glances from the desk-table where she sits in the black high-backed chair toward the single wide window. Through the open window, Ashtaar notes the rebuilt harbor piers that define the well-dredged juncture of the river Nord with the Vereisen Bay and the two-masted Norweian ships loading at those piers.

  The door opens, and a woman with close-cropped golden hair steps inside, walking slowly toward Ashtaar. She bows.

  “You may sit, Gretslen.”

  The seer sits.

  “What have you to report?” Ashtaar’s fingers slip around the polished black agate oval on the desk.

  The blonde seer bows her head slightly, then straightens. “The soprano sorceress has finally created a reflecting pool in the liedburg at Falcor.”

  “That is worthy of note?”

  “She has begun to gather more players.” Gretslen clears her throat almost silently. “We cannot see the pool, nor her when she employs it. It is as if she is not there.” Gretslen’s green eyes flicker downward. “This has not happened before.”

  “Where this sorceress is involved, a great deal seems to have happened that never occurred before.” Ashtaar’s fingers caress the black agate in her hand.

  “Yes, Ashtaar.”

  “What else?”

  “The sorceress re-created the bridge across the Falche at Falcor, so that the city will not be isolated from the fertile lands east of Falcor. A hundred masons would have taken a year to do what she did in an afternoon. Even her it prostrated, but she has recovered. She plucked the very harmonies in doing that.”

  Ashtaar’s eyes leave Gretslen and go to the unfinished bridge across the Nord, the one being rebuilt to replace what had been destroyed by the Evult’s other flood—the one he had loosed on Wei.

  Gretslen waits until Ashtaar’s eyes refocus, then continues. “The bridge will outlast Falcor.”

  “An eternal bridge?” Ashtaar turns her hand to look at the black agate oval, caresses it a last time one-handed, and then sets it back on the desk. “More, if you please.”

  “The Lancers of Mansuur have arrived in Esaria, and the SouthWomen of the Matriarchy are pushing to isolate Ranuak from the rest of Liedwahr.”

  “Again . . . how droll. The last time that happened in Ranuak most of them died. People never learn. What of Ebra?”

  “The lands in the east around Dolov have sworn to Bertmynn. Hadrenn has asked for no pledges, but many around Synek would follow him because of his lineage.”

  “Do we know how much coin the Liedfuhr Konsstin has sent to Ebra?”

  “There have been messengers with heavy purses, going from Mansuur to both Synek and Dolov, but no strongboxes that Kendr or I have scried.”

  The spymistress’s brows wrinkle for an instant. “You have missed something, Gretslen. I do not know what it may be, but I sense trouble, great trouble, for us.” Ashtaar’s smile is cold. “I am not a seer, nor have I your talent, nor Kendr’s. I only know. Watch the sorceress closely, and Konsstin. They are the great players here.”

  Gretslen bows her head. “As you wish, Mightiness.”

  “I wish I were,” murmurs Ashtaar, in a voice so low that only she can hear the words, before adding in a louder tone, “You may go, Gretslen.”

  17

  Anna forced herself to finish the last of the heavy dark bread and the white cheese. The look in the mirror that morning had shown her that some little bit of the sunkenness in her cheeks was beginning to vanish. Lord! How much food did it take?

  She swallowed and glanced across the worktable to Hanfor. “How many armsmen should go with us to Cheor?” She took a long swallow of water from her goblet, then refilled it from the pitcher she’d orderspelled earlier in the day.

  “As many as possible,” he answered, running a scarred hand through his gray thatch.

  “You said that before,” Anna said with a laugh. “How many is that? Fivescore? Six-?”

  The arms commander fingered his gray-and-white clipped beard. “If I send Alvar with tenscore to accompany you, that will leave sixscore here. That is, sixscore that are trained, with another threescore that I would not trust anywhere—not yet.”

  The sorceress and regent wanted to laugh. Her standing army consisted of a few more than three hundred armsmen—not all of them even trained—and Konsstin had just sent a thousand trained lancers to Neserea. “We need more armsmen.”

  “We need more armsmen, even more recruits,” Hanfor admitted. “And more arms. Konsstin has fiftyscore lancers in Esaria, and I would wager that Nubara will move them to Elioch as soon as possible. That doesn’t count the two hundred–score armsmen left in the Prophet’s forces. We’ve barely twenty-five–score everywhere in Defalk. More than a few score of those I wouldn’t want anywhere near a fight. Not yet.”

  “We’re going to need more than three times that, you said.”

  “I did.” The arms commander fingered his white-and-gray beard. “And I could use fiftyscore—or more. Easily.” He laughed harshly. “Except we have no weapons and no weapons smith for that many.”

  “No word from Ranuak?”

  Hanfor shook his head. “The roads . . .”

  Damn the roads! “What about the levies?”

  “If all the lords honor their commitment to the lied-stadt, you could marshal two hundred–score in levies. I wouldn’t want even to try to use them in one place.”

  “You could put some under Jecks, and some under Firis,” Anna suggested. “Aren’t there other lords who are trustworthy?”

  Hanfor raised both eyebrows.

  Anna nodded. There might be, but neither of them knew who they might be. Perhaps Jecks did, but right now, they didn’t need to know. Yet. “Besides the roads, why can’t we get more recruits?”

  “You have been too successful, lady.”

  Anna looked at her arms commander.

  “When crops are bad, when trade is poor, then the peasants, the farmers, the younger sons, they will accept the risk of arms for food and shelter and the few coppers paid raw recruits.” Hanfor offered a wintry smile. “There is rain again in Defalk. They hope the crops will sprout and all will be well again in Defalk.”

  Another instance where she was a victim of her own success. Anna wanted to groan. “Don’t they see it won’t last if we can’t protect Defalk?”

  “You are the mighty sorceress. You will protect them.” Hanfor’s tone was sympathetically ironic.

  “No. You’re right. They don’t care. No one’s ever cared for them.” Anna frowned. Where was there adversity?

  “What about Ebra? Could we have Jerat . . . Has that group left for Mencha? The ones to regarrison the Sand Pass fort?” she asked, remembering that detail inadvertently. “Are you counting them?”

  “They leave the day after tomorrow. Jerat is pleased; his sister lives there.” Hanfor smiled. “He knows enough to start training any recruits he may find, and
he has some extra coins to pay them. That’s another score, and I didn’t reckon them in the numbers I told you because half wouldn’t be that much good in a battle. They’ll be some help in repairing the Sand Pass fort.”

  “Do you think Jerat can find some more armsmen or recruits? Across the border in Ebra?”

  “There were more than a few who disappeared after the Sand Pass battle. I told him to be very careful of any men who wanted to join who looked experienced. I will suggest that after he obtains those he can in Defalk, to make inquiries in Ebra.” Hanfor laughed harshly. “He will be careful, but I’d wager he can round up a score or more easily.” The veteran shrugged. “After that, we will see.”

  A score? What was that against the hundreds of scores of Defalk’s enemies? Anna wanted to shake her head. Instead, she repressed the gesture . . . and found she was clicking her nails again. A wry smile crossed her face. The nail-clicking had driven Sandy crazy, she thought, but he’d never said anything before he’d left. Not like Avery who’d given her a lecture on repressed anger.

  She forced her thoughts back to the immediate problem—armsmen. Even if Hanfor could find another fifty-score armsmen or the equivalent of lancers, how would she pay them?

  “Every score counts, and it is better to build a force slowly, and train them as you wish,” pointed out the arms commander. “You can also call on the levies of the Lady Gatrune and of Lord Jecks. They are almost as good as professional armsmen.”

  “That’s only another thousand.”

  “You are their commander, and that counts for far more,” Hanfor said. “Far more.”

  Perhaps . . . if everyone doesn’t attack at once from every border. “If I can employ sorcery,” she answered. “I’d feel better if we had a force that could stand off one enemy without me.”

  “Before the end of the year, we will,” promised Hanfor.

  “I wish I had your confidence, Arms Commander.”

  “I have seen what you have done to large forces who opposed you. Men will fight for you who would not have fought for Defalk before.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Anna took another swallow of orderspelled water. Even in the chill of winter, she needed more liquids than others. Then, that had been true on earth as well. She’d always been prone to dehydration.

  The graying veteran took a sip of wine from the goblet Anna had provided, then looked at his empty plate. “I will groan all the way back to the stables, and you ate twice what I did.”

  “I wish I didn’t have to.” Anna smiled. “The stables?”

  “I am leading the lancer training this afternoon.”

  Anna felt guilty for keeping him. Like her, he was trying to handle too many things. Except he didn’t complain, and she felt she was always complaining, if only to herself.

  “Lady Anna?” Skent stood in the doorway.

  Anna nodded for the page to enter, recognizing somehow that he needed a moment with her. Hanfor stood, but Anna raised her hand, gesturing for him to wait a moment.

  “There is a woman in the courtyard. She has a babe and a child, and she says she is the sister of the player Daffyd.” Skent offered a puzzled look.

  Anna’s guts churned. Dalila. Daffyd’s sister and the woman who had taken her in when no one else would after the Sand Pass battle—and whose consort had tried to rape Anna. Anna shook her head. She’d placed a spell on the man—Madell—and had worried about it ever since.

  Then, while she was recovering from the battle with the Evult, Anna had sent some golds and a message about Daffyd’s death, but Dalila wouldn’t have traveled to Falcor, not unless something was wrong, terribly wrong.

  “I’ll see her. Now.”

  “Perhaps I should go,” suggested Hanfor.

  “Not yet. Something might have happened in Synope.”

  As Anna recalled, Dalila was brunette and stocky and stood barely above Anna’s shoulder. The pertness Anna remembered was gone, replaced by hollow eyes and exhaustion. Her face was smudged with dried mud, and her trousers ragged above shoes barely held together with thongs. Dalila cradled an infant, mechanically rocking the child. The dark-eyed, dark-haired Ruetha clung to her mother’s dusty and tattered cloak. Ruetha’s cheeks were streaked with dirt, a combination of dust and tears, Anna suspected.

  “Dalila,” the sorceress began, “what happened?”

  “Lady . . .” Dalila sank to the polished stone floor and bent her head, as if unable to speak.

  “Dalila,” Anna said slowly, “you’re welcome here. You welcomed me, when I had nowhere to turn, and you’ll always be welcome. I don’t know what happened, but you are welcome.”

  Only the faint shudders betrayed the silent sobs.

  After a moment, Anna spoke again. “Is there . . . trouble in Synope? Because of Lord Hryding’s death?”

  A choked “No,” was the only answer, followed by more sobs. Dalila did not look up.

  Anna lifted the bell, rang it, and waited for Skent, then addressed the dark-haired page.

  “Skent . . . Dalila and her children need food. They’ll be staying with us. For the moment, after they eat, put them in one of the larger rooms in the players’ quarters for now. And make sure they have some water and some towels to get cleaned up.” Anna paused, and added, “Dalila took me in when no one else did. I’d like you to take care of all of this personally.”

  Skent nodded, his face impassive.

  The sorceress stepped forward and reached down, slowly helping Dalila rise.

  “Lady . . . I . . . be . . . so . . . No one else . . .”

  “Dalila . . . I told you, and I meant it. You are welcome here.” Anna squeezed the too-thin shoulder gently. “When you are fed and rested, we’ll talk some more. Now you and Ruetha and the child need food and rest.”

  Dalila began to sob again.

  Anna hugged her. “You’ll be all right. You’ll be safe.” What else could she say? “Now, go with Skent. He’ll make sure you get fed, and you have a room to rest and recover.” Her eyes went to the page, fixing him. “They’ll need to eat regularly. Make sure they get fed with the players for now. But they must eat. All right?”

  “I understand, Lady Anna.” Skent’s eyes went to the pair, softening as they rested on Ruetha.

  Anna helped Dalila to the door, and Ruetha tottered beside her mother, one hand still holding the tattered cloak.

  “And see that they have some clean clothing, too.”

  Skent nodded again.

  When the door closed, Anna found Hanfor smiling.

  Anna raised her eyebrows in inquiry.

  “You do not forget kindnesses, lady, and you repay your debts. I am glad I decided to remain in Defalk.”

  “So am I,” Anna said. “But I’m not sure I’ve repaid all the kindnesses I’ve received.”

  “You will.”

  Anna wondered. “Will you make the arrangements for which armsmen will accompany us?” She paused. “Lord Jecks and Jimbob will be going with me.”

  “Twelvescore, then,” Hanfor said firmly. “I held back some to protect the young lord.”

  “I’ll be taking the players. I hope I can do some repairs along the way.”

  “You are still determined to travel to Synope after Cheor?” Hanfor asked.

  “If I don’t have too much trouble. I’d thought about stopping at Arien to see Lord Tybel, but Jecks thought that might not be a good idea, not after dealing with Arkad.”

  “He suspects you will have to use sorcery on Arkad.”

  “I hope I don’t.”

  “If you really believed that, Regent Anna, you would not have to undertake this journey.” A faint smile creased Hanfor’s lips as he stood.

  Anna grinned sheepishly.

  “I will talk to Mies, to make sure you have two good supply wagons.” Hanfor inclined his head before he left.

  Alone, Anna walked to the window and looked down on the courtyard. Didn’t the paving stones ever dry in the winter?

  Had Madell driven Dalila out?
Why hadn’t anyone been willing to help her? Synope had to be three weeks by foot, if not longer with two children. Anna could feel herself seething. Every time she thought she’d come to understand and accept Erde, something like this reminded her how much women were looked down upon and abused.

  “It’s still that way on earth,” she murmured to herself. Some places were worse than Defalk, although she didn’t recall anywhere as bad as—where was it?—Sturinn? Where they still chained women? She shivered, hoping that she didn’t have to deal with those people anytime soon. That would take more than simple sorcery.

  Sorcery . . . that reminded her. She’d need players if she meant to do road and bridge work on the trip to Cheor. She hurried out of the receiving room, this time with Giellum and Lejun following her.

  Anna crossed the courtyard, placing her boots carefully on the damp stones. Had she really understood how much rain Defalk had gotten before the Evult’s sorcery had created the drought? Defalk in winter seemed more like . . . parts of Oregon, perhaps? Except it had more sunlight. Already the water level of the Falche where the Fal and the Chean met was two-thirds of what the older armsmen said was normal, and, based on the shape of the banks and the traces of old river beaches and the dried-up oxbow lake to the northwest of Falcor, they seemed to be right.

  Liende wasn’t in the rehearsal room, nor in her own room. Anna finally caught up to her on the top of the north tower.

  The player looked out on the grayness that was Falcor in winter, with thin trails of smoke rising from scattered chimneys. Liende turned at Anna’s boots—or Lejun’s on the stones.

  “Regent . . .”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Anna turned to her guard. “Lejun . . . if you would wait at the foot of the top stairs.”

  Lejun nodded stiffly and eased out of sight.

  The sorceress had begun to understand why public figures became recluses, especially those who were more than figureheads. Then, sometimes, when so many things seemed beyond her control, she felt more like a figurehead than a real ruler.

  Anna stepped toward the red-and-white-haired player.