The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Your wish, Lady Anna?”

  At times, especially in dealing with players, Anna wished for a little less deference and a bit more warmth. You’ll have to get used to it, she told herself, forcing a smile. “We will be traveling to Cheor in several days. I would like you and the players to accompany us.”

  “I can only vouch for the two building spells right now. We might have the third one ready by then.” Liende did not meet Anna’s eyes.

  “It’s harder than you thought,” Anna said.

  Liende looked down.

  “It’s hard because I’m asking more than Brill did,” Anna said quietly. “I’m asking you to use harmonies, and that makes it a lot harder. It makes stronger spells, but it’s not easy.”

  “You are not saying that to ease my fears?”

  The sorceress shook her head. “I mean it. I talked to Brill about harmony, but he wouldn’t consider it. He said it was too dangerous, but I think that’s because he wasn’t trained with harmonies. He didn’t understand harmony.”

  Anna had realized that for most people on Erde, even players, the term harmony had a far more general meaning in Liedwahr—something akin to “not creating dissonance” rather than the earthly technical musical meaning of parallel chords or supporting lines of music distinct from the melody line. Then, she supposed a lot of people on earth thought of the word in the same way.

  “He did understand much,” said Liende. “And he would use Darksong. Mayhap he had reason to distrust this . . . use of harmony.”

  The sorceress had to remind herself that Brill had been Liende’s lover, and that Liende would hear little about his shortcomings. She paused, then spoke carefully. “Any sorcerer can only do so much. Lord Brill could do many spells I have not even tried. I have been trained in some he did not know. All the spells I have used with the lutar are based on chorded harmony.”

  Liende nodded slowly. “You risk more than your players.”

  “Can you have your players ready?”

  “We will be ready with those spells, lady.”

  “That’s all I ask.” That was all she could ask, Anna reflected, and, as usual, it wasn’t really as much as she needed. “Thank you.”

  She headed back down the tower stairs.

  Instead of remaining in her office in the receiving hall, she stopped there only long enough to reclaim the lutar. She carried it up the main stairs. She felt strong enough to engage in some limited sorcery, although she wanted to be at full physical strength when she began the journey to Cheor.

  The smooth waters of the reflecting pool confirmed that she had gained back some weight. Her eyes were no longer sunken, nor her cheeks so hollow.

  She took the lutar from its case, fingers caressing the smooth wood. Her eyes burned momentarily as she thought of its maker, poor Daffyd, entombed in lava in the valley of Vult—all because he’d summoned her to revenge his father’s death.

  With the grease marker, she made the changes to the mirror spell, then hummed through them—without the words. Then she strummed through the chords. Finally, she put it together.

  “Water, water, in this my hall,

  show me now that Konsstin who seeks my fall.

  Show him bright, and show him fast,

  and make that strong view well last.”

  Konsstin still wore the sky-blue tunic, but no cloak. The Liedfuhr sat behind a dark wooden desk, outlined by the light from windows behind him. A map—what appeared to be Liedwahr—was spread before him. As he studied the map, he frowned, but his lips did not move.

  Anna strummed the lutar again, singing the brief couplet to end the view in the pool.

  Konsstin apparently remained where he had been, Mansuus, presumably, but was studying a map. In preparation for what? Anna wished she knew.

  She checked the lutar—it still had a tendency to slip out of tune—and changed the spell for Dencer.

  Dencer was riding, wearing a breastplate and carrying a lance. Anna watched the image in the pool only long enough to see that he was practicing thrusting the lance at a target as he rode by it. He’d been working hard. That was obvious from the red face and the shimmer that indicated sweat.

  The sorceress released the image with the couplet and exhaled. One was studying maps and the other improving warlike skills. Not conclusive, but not exactly reassuring. But unless she wanted to spell all her strength all the time following them in the pool, it was about as good an indication as she was likely to get at the moment.

  Wasn’t anything easy?

  For you, of course not. She immediately felt ashamed of the thought. Lots of people had it far harder than she had. Like poor Dalila, exhausted, with nowhere to turn, and ashamed of having to prostrate herself at Anna’s feet.

  The sorceress pursed her lips. What else had she meant to check? Oh, the question of harmony. She looked at the books on the shelf—the ones she’d moved in right after she’d finished the reflecting pool. The first handful of the leatherbound books were those Brill had let her use in the workroom he’d lent her at Loiseau—Boke of Liedwahr, The Naturale Philosophie, Proverbes of Neserea, Donnermusik.

  She pulled out Donnermusik, searching for the sections that had alluded to harmony, hoping her memory had been correct, but worried about Liende’s dubious looks.

  . . . harmonic variants be most important as a musical consideration, for they must in truthe effect a change of musical resemblement through the constant repetition, with most suitable variants, of the bass pattern . . . through trommel. . . .

  . . . the relationship between the thunder, and that needs must be represented by the falk horn, supplemented by a continuous bass provided by a trommel, and the lightning . . . must be joined by a melodic line of the violincello. . . .

  She remembered those lines and skipped ahead to another section. Nothing there, except more discourses on storms. Another few pages . . . Where was it?

  Anna took a deep breath. You’ve got to slow down. You won’t find anything just flipping through pages that are half Old English and half bastard German.

  Another breath, and she forced herself to read more deliberately. Ten pages farther on, she found what she thought she’d remembered.

  . . . in truthe the greatest of sorceries shulde result from dissonant clothing played with gewalt equal to that gewalt of the spell melodie. . . . The players of each parte needs must kraft their resemblements. . . . Any endliche resolution . . . must needs embodye harmonic consonance. . . .

  Her head aching from puzzling through the archaic language, she slowly closed the book.

  Leaving the lutar in the scrying room, she slowly walked back along the corridor toward Lady Essan’s room, trying to ignore the guards that followed her.

  “So . . . another venture you be off on,” said the white-haired widow, even before Anna settled into the chair across the low table from Essan.

  “Why do you say that?” Anna took a handful of the sugared nuts from the dish, then another, realizing that, again, she was hungry.

  “Synondra told me that you rush hither and yon, back and forth. That stern arms commander works with Mies to make sure of the finest wagons and teams, and blades clash all the time on the practice quarter. My ears are still sharp, would-be daughter.”

  Anna laughed. “Just like a mother. You know what I’m about even if I haven’t told you.”

  “And you were saying, sorceress-girl, my daughter you’d be.” Essan grinned over the brandy goblet.

  “So I did.”

  “What be on your mind, seeing as much there’d be you would be doing?”

  “What do you know about Lord Arkad?” Anna asked.

  “He was a problem for Donjim, and he must be one for you, too. You asked about him a time back.” Lady Essan sipped her brandy.

  “He hasn’t paid his liedgeld,” Anna admitted.

  “If any lord could afford liedgeld, Arkad could. Donjim envied those lands, you know, but Arkad always supported him. He even sent more levies than he had
to for the second peasant uprising. I didn’t ride with Donjim then. I should have, broken leg or not. Donjim wasn’t ever the same after that. He died right after he returned.” Essan fussed the embroidered pillow behind her back.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You had nothing to do with it. Long before your time, sorceress-woman. You were having your own children then, like as not, never dreaming you’d be here.”

  Anna certainly hadn’t ever expected she’d end up on a world she once would have regarded as a total fantasy.

  “He couldn’t understand it. No, he couldn’t, my poor Donjim. Twenty years of peace, prosperity, and the very peasants he’d supported rebelled.” Essan snorted. “Some foolishness about land reverting to the lord if a man had no direct heirs. All stirred up by those high and mighty women in Encora, I thought.”

  “Do you still think so?”

  Essan laughed, more a cackle than a true laugh. “I was right, and I was wrong. It was women from Encora, but not the Matriarch, or the traders, but those crazy ones, the Sisters of the South. They were so crazy their own Matriarch had to turn her own guards on them. The Sturinn thing, you know. Did I tell you about that?” Her eyes glazed over momentarily. “That be the problem with growing old. You talk, and you don’t remember.”

  “You said that some group . . . the Sisters of something . . . stormed a ship from Sturinn. . . .”

  “Sisters of the South—they were the ones. They sent blades to the women of Stromwer and Sudwei and Lerona. Terrible mess, it was. Now, some say, the crazy women have a new name, the South Women, excepting they’re still the same, not even remembering what happened to the last bunch.” Essan took a hefty belt to drain the apple brandy in the goblet, then refilled it from the crystal decanter without looking at Anna. “Terrible, it was, back then, and old Wassir’s son used those very blades to try to overthrow his father. That was Aaslin, not Geansor. Blood everywhere, Donjim said. Wassir died, and Donjim killed Aaslin himself, and Geansor near died. Might have been better had he. Geansor’s other brother, the youngest one, he was killed by raiders, but that came later.”

  The more Anna heard, the worse it got. If Lady Essan were right, then all her consort had gotten out of twenty years of decent rule was heartbreak and revolt. If she were wrong, then Defalk had been in turmoil for far longer than the past decade. Neither thought was exactly comforting.

  18

  DUMARIA, DUMAR

  Three men enter the audience chamber, led by a tall and rangy man in a heavy brown woolen jacket. Under the open jacket, he wears a short-sleeved white tunic, and white trousers. His face is tanned. The two men who accompany him are also rangy and tanned.

  Ehara stands before the gilt chair upholstered in red velvet. “Greetings! Welcome to Dumaria.”

  “We are pleased to be here.” The tall man answers in a heavily accented voice, bowing. “I am Sea-Marshal jerRestin.” He gestures to the two who flank him. “Sea-Captain jerKillek and Sea-Captain jerHallin.”

  “A small token for the warm welcome we have received.” The Sea-Marshal lifts the small chest he carries and offers it to Ehara. “From Sturinn to Dumar.”

  Ehara, looking burly before the rangy Sturinnese, accepts the chest, a wooden box no more than two spans long and one wide that is almost lost in his overlarge hands. The sides of the chest are carved with intertwined serpents rising out of a mother-of-pearl surf, and the top bears the crest of Dumar—the mountain ram on a tor, wrought in rubies and gold. “You are welcome, and my thanks for such an artistic treasure.”

  “Please open it.”

  Ehara does, and glances at the unset rubies, diamonds, and pearls in the small container. “A most generous and artistic treasure.” He closes the case gently. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of your company and such a small token of appreciation?”

  “We merely wished to meet the famous Lord Ehara.”

  “My fame as ruler of the smallest nation in Liedwahr has carried all the way to the lands and isles of far Sturinn?” Ehara laughs self-deprecatingly.

  “Your fame has carried farther than you would have imagined, Lord Ehara,” returned jerRestin.

  “What have I done that merits such notice?” Ehara’s eyes narrow ever so slightly.

  “We understand that you are considering efforts to strengthen your northern border, Lord Ehara,” suggests the Sea-Marshal, the accent in his voice stronger.

  “I’ve never mentioned such an action to anyone.” Ehara smiles easily. “Are you Sea-Priests able to read the tides of the future?”

  “When the tides run strongly and pluck at the very harmonies of Erde, then anyone who stops to look can see where they will take the unwary.” The Sea-Marshal offers a bland smile.

  “What is this disturbing tide of which you speak?”

  “We understand that the Regent of Defalk is also a sorceress, and one who would change all of Liedwahr. Surely, that is a tide you would watch . . . and have watched.”

  “I wasn’t aware that the Sea-Priests bothered themselves with the petty affairs of poor and distant Liedwahr.”

  “We look on Dumar as a bulwark against this riptide of destruction that will change all you—and we—hold dear. That is why we offer a mere token of friendship and appreciation.”

  “I see.” Ehara tilts his head to the side fractionally, still holding the carved chest. “And in return for such generosity . . . what must poor and lowly Dumar provide to mighty Sturinn?”

  “Only friendship, Lord Ehara. Only friendship.”

  “You value my friendship highly.”

  “It is said that those who share enemies must be friends. Our fortune-seers have declared that the Regent of Defalk is our enemy.” JerRestin shrugged. “Since she is also your enemy, we must be friends and allies.”

  “What of the Liedfuhr of Mansuur?” Ehara’s voice carries a tone between bemusement and curiosity.

  “The Liedfuhr is preoccupied with his own concerns and has expressed little interest in the friendship of Sturinn.” The rangy Sea-Marshal shrugs. “We must seek friends among those who would have friends.”

  “So you must. So must we all.” Ehara laughs once more. “And I bid you welcome, welcome as friends and allies.” He sets the chest on the red velvet of the chair, then steps off the dais and embraces the Sea-Marshal, who refrains from flinching.

  19

  After discussing the last of the arrangements for the next day’s journey toward Cheor with Hanfor, Alvar, and Jecks, Anna waited until the receiving-room door closed. She stood and stretched, then took a deep swallow of cold water from the goblet, draining it.

  As she lifted the pitcher to refill the goblet, her eyes went to the window, and to the gray-and-white clouds she could see. What else did she need to take care of before she left?

  It had been two days and she still hadn’t seen Daffyd’s sister Dalila. That didn’t seem like Dalila, but, then again, with all her preoccupations, Anna might not have seemed that approachable.

  With a deep breath, she lifted the bell and rang it, standing and gathering herself together.

  Her dark-haired page, Skent, appeared.

  “Skent, would you take me to the room where Dalila is?”

  “She’s in the players’ quarters, like you told me, Lady Anna. And I have made sure she and the child have gotten food.” Skent’s lips pursed.

  “You’ve had to take it to her?” asked the regent.

  “Yes, lady. She won’t leave the room—except for the jakes.” Skent flushed. “I guess . . . I mean . . . I don’t know.”

  Anna laughed wryly. “I understand.” She added, “Thank you. I knew I could count on you, and I appreciate it.”

  Skent flushed. “You . . . you keep your word.”

  “I try.” You try . . . but how long will you be able to? You said you’d be there for Elizabetta, and . . . She pursed her lips and forced herself to keep walking. Only Skent, of all her pages, would have trusted her enough to say that, a good harbinger for what she
hoped of him.

  They crossed the courtyard, the wind whipping the purple sash Anna had forgotten to remove and leave in the receiving room. Behind them followed Giellum and Blaz.

  “The second door, lady.” Skent gestured.

  After marching up the narrow staircase, Anna rapped on the door to the second-level room.

  Dalila opened it, falling back. “Lady . . . I am . . .”

  Anna shook her head as she stepped inside and closed the door, leaving Skent and the guards in the narrow passageway. “Dalila, you’ve seen me in your robe and dusty boots doing laundry. Do you think I’ve changed that much?”

  The brunette’s eyes remained on the plank floor, and her shoulders slumped in a posture of defeat. Behind her, on the bed, sleeping in a faded gray blanket, lay the baby.

  Ruetha looked up from the floor by the single wide pallet. The girl’s fingers clutched a rag doll, and she hugged the cloth figure to her, taking her eyes from Anna.

  “I said we’d talk, Dalila. I’m sorry . . . things have been busy, but . . . I’m here.”

  A soft snore came from the bed, and Anna smiled as she glanced at the sleeping infant. The smile faded as her eyes returned to the defeated-looking Dalila.

  “I should not . . . I would not have come . . . but where could I turn? If it were just for me . . .”

  Anna could hardly imagine walking for weeks on end with two children. She could remember once, when her own mother had taken Anna to visit the back holler where her grandparents lived, how her mother had carried the heavy suitcase along the half-dry creek bed for a hundred feet or so, and then come back and carried Anna those hundred feet, time after time. And that had only been for a few miles!

  “You have to think of the children. Mothers always do.” And now you can’t. The image of the black-lined rectangle on the wall of her room slipped into Anna’s mind momentarily.

  Again, Dalila did not look at the sorceress or speak.

  “Tell me what happened.” Anna feared she already knew. “When did he leave? What happened?”