The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Lord Sargol? Not Lord Dencer?” Keasil’s bushy gray eyebrows lift in inquiry.

  “Lord Dencer would be our agent. He has made it quite clear how he would be both agent and overlord in southern Defalk.” Ehara shakes his head, in mock sadness. “That is why Captain Gortin rode to Stromwer. He looks younger than his years, and that was not by accident. I am not fond of agents. They place their interests above mine.”

  “That can be so.”

  “It is so. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sire.” Keasil frowns as he guides his mount clear of the marble walled fountain that sits alone in the grass.

  “You look displeased.”

  “Oh, no, sire. It is just that . . .” He pauses and guides his mount closer to Ehara’s. “Your pardon, lord, but if I am to act properly . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Would it not be wise if I had a general idea of what message I am to convey?”

  “A scroll to Lord Sargol.” Ehara reins up short of the first line of trees.

  The officer inclines his head to Ehara. “I will do my best, ser.”

  “I will probably convey my felicitations. A good word, felicitations. My felicitations about the situation in which he has been placed. I might suggest I sympathize with his uncertain condition, mentioning in passing a sorceress unfamiliar with his particular situation as a regent for a boy whose forebears were scarcely distinguished. That might be viewed as unsettling, even without having neighboring lords with loyalties regarded as close to rebellious by such a regent. And I will offer him friendship.”

  “That is all?”

  “That is what you need to know, Keasil.” Ehara smiles. “The scroll will be spelled. Don’t try to read it.”

  “Yes, ser. No, ser, I won’t, I mean.”

  “I know what you meant.” Ehara smiles. “No more talk of scrolls and messages. Let us ride.”

  25

  After Fhurgen walked through the chamber, blade out, Anna glanced around the guest quarters—a large room with an adjoining bath chamber. Like everything else in the hall, they smelled, as if the bath chamber had never been used, but they smelled less than either Fauren’s quarters or those of the late Lord Arkad.

  The walls were yellow brick, covered with plaster that had once been whitewashed and now looked more like dirty yellow, either from the brick showing through or from an accumulation of dirt, smoke, and grease. The light from the two narrow windows was further darkened by heavy brown drapes that drooped from wrought-iron brackets set above the casement and by inside shutters. Two wooden armchairs were pushed against the outer wall.

  A double-width bed, with a dirty brown quilt and two lumpy pillows, a bedside table with a candle and smudged glass mantel, and a writing table with a wooden straight-backed chair completed the bedchamber furnishings.

  The regent’s boots scraped, as though on sand, as she crossed the brick floor to the nearest window and pulled back the drapes and opened the shutters.

  “Khhhchew!”

  Anna rubbed her nose, then sneezed twice more, before opening the shutters of the second window. “Damned dust . . . bed’s probably worse.”

  Fhurgen had retreated to the half-open door, watching as Anna studied the room, one hand touching the full black beard momentarily.

  She turned as another set of boots echoed down the corridor.

  Jecks stepped into the room, followed by the redheaded Jimbob. “We have inspected the strong room and the lower levels.”

  Had it taken her that long to disinfect the wound and inspect the top floor of the keep?

  “How be the hand?”

  “It hurts.” Anna shrugged, her eyes going to the dressings. “Other than that . . . Other than being stupid . . .” She shook her head. “This place stinks.”

  “No worse than many,” Jecks said.

  “I’ll have to have it cleaned up to sleep here.” She eased herself into a straight-backed chair.

  Jecks nodded. “There is much to be done here.”

  Anna had the feeling Jecks wasn’t talking about cleaning. “Does Alvar have the hold under control?”

  “Your spell did that. Your armsmen hold the gates and the ramparts, but the servants are obeying willingly. So are the few crafters.”

  “Good.” Anna started to rub her forehead, to massage away the headache, but doing it left-handed felt subtly awkward.

  “Lady Anna?” Jimbob’s voice was uneven.

  “Yes, Jimbob.”

  “Might I ask . . . ?”

  “How Lord Arkad managed to lift a knife against me?”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “It’s simple and it’s complicated,” Anna said tiredly. “Spells like the one I cast on the holding only work on a mind that’s healthy. Lord Arkad was not well. I don’t know if he was spelled or old or insane, but he didn’t know that what he did was against the spell.” And you didn’t cast it to make an attack physically impossible.

  “Everyone talks about how your spells stop people or kill them.” The youthful face screwed up in puzzlement.

  Jecks started to open his mouth, and Anna shook her head, then took a deep breath, trying to gather her thoughts. She really needed something to eat. “Jimbob . . . someday you will command, an army. It might happen that a lord will refuse to pay liedgeld. I hope not, but these things can happen. He has an army—many armsmen, and many other people behind his walls. What will happen if you use all your armsmen—or sorcery—to kill that lord and all his armsmen and people?”

  “They’ll die.”

  “And who will harvest the crops? Who will ever wish to surrender to you, if they know they’ll die? How many of your armsmen will die? How will you replace them?”

  “I’ll use the golds from the rebel’s strongbox.”

  Jecks nodded. “And then more lords will rebel. Will you destroy them? And if you do, who will stand behind you?”

  Jimbob’s eyes went from Jecks to Anna to Jecks, as if he could not believe that his grandfather was supporting Anna.

  “Jimbob . . .” Jecks said softly. “Armsmen and sorcery do not create crops or golds. They can sometimes seize it, but such seizures must be seldom, and every man must think that you were right to use armsmen and sorcery.”

  “But Lord Arkad was evil,” protested Jimbob.

  “You’re right,” Anna said, “but I’m a stranger in Defalk, and I didn’t know he was evil. Do you think most of the other lords thought he was evil?”

  “They will now.”

  “Some will,” Jecks said. “Some will yet protest the regent’s efforts to secure your future. All would have been angered if the regent had brought the hall down around Lord Arkad and his seneschal.”

  “All of them?”

  “All of them,” Jecks repeated. “Now . . . off with you. The regent and I need to talk.” The white-haired lord of Elhi glanced toward Fhurgen. “Can you ensure him a guard?”

  “Yes, sire.” Fhurgen grinned.

  “And find us some wine and something to eat?”

  “Yes, Lady Anna” Fhurgen was still smiling as the door closed.

  Once they were alone, Anna shifted her weight in the chair.

  “It is good he is away from Galen,” Jecks said.

  “I wondered when I met . . . his tutor.”

  “We do what we can. I should have spent more time with Jimbob when he was at Elheld, but I trusted Galen. Now . . .” Jecks shrugged, then seated himself on the brick window ledge closest to the writing table, ignoring the chairs.

  “You suggested we needed to deal with more than a few things.” Her nose still wrinkled at the smell as a gust of wind swirled from the windows through the chamber. “There’s who gets the holding.” To whom could she entrust the custody of Lord Arkad’s lands? Arkad had no heir, not according to Jecks. None of her would-be protégés were old enough nor experienced enough. “And what else?”

  “You should settle that soon,” Jecks said. “I also question whether we should continue to Synope.”


  “We have a day or two to consider that. First, we have to deal with this mess. We can’t just leave Synfal without someone in charge,” she mused. “What do you suggest?”

  “You could rightfully administer it,” Jecks answered. “You could have someone act as saalmeister or seneschal.”

  His emphasis on “rightfully” did not escape her and confirmed what she had in mind. “No. It has to be someone clearly perceived as being of Defalk. Right now, it has to be a man.”

  “You were considering a woman?”

  “There will be ladies in the future, but I doubt Defalk is ready for such a shock for the first lord I replace. Besides, I can’t even find someone to run my own estate.” She lifted her right hand to set it on the table, and managed not to wince. She didn’t think any muscles or tendons had been cut, but it still hurt. “I was thinking that we’ll need both an heir and an administrator.”

  “Both?” Jecks lifted his white eyebrows.

  Anna smiled. “What about Jimbob as the heir?”

  “What?”

  “Make Herstat the saalmeister and administrator in Jimbob’s absence.”

  “My Herstat?” Jecks laughed. “You will take every talent I possess.”

  “Not every one.” She made a gesture that she cut short as the combination of double vision and pain reminded her of her wounds—seen and unseen. “These are rich lands, and they will give him income and a greater impression of independence. . . .”

  “He is young. . . .”

  “They’re his upon his maturity. Have Herstat present a yearly report to me and to any lords interested enough to come to Falcor to hear it. Any changes or improvements Jimbob wants to make will have to be approved by you and Herstat.”

  “Not you?”

  “Definitely not me, and everyone should know that.”

  “Again, Lady Anna, you surprise me.”

  “Why? One of Donjim’s and Barjim’s problems was that they didn’t have enough income and were too beholden to the Thirty-three.”

  “When others discover your intentions . . .”

  “It will only confirm what they want to believe,” Anna said wearily. “Besides—tell them that Jimbob benefits, not me.” She cleared her throat. Something in the air was affecting her allergies. Brill’s youth spell hadn’t taken care of that problem. “I don’t think we should announce it for a time, maybe not until we return to Falcor. I should be considering who will be the heir.”

  “Some would find that indecisive.”

  “Let them. If I announce Jimbob right now, everyone will say that it’s all a pretext for me to take over lands of the old guard and use Jimbob as a puppet. That’s another reason why you’ll need to get Herstat here quickly, before I announce the new heir.” She rubbed her nose, hoping she wouldn’t sneeze. “Did you find out who was Fauren’s second in charge, or whatever?”

  “His name is Halde,” Jecks ventured, his voice thoughtful. “He waits in the corridor.”

  “You sound puzzled.”

  “Best you speak to him first.”

  Anna nodded. Jecks wanted her to form her own view.

  Halde was dark-haired, with a trimmed beard that concealed his comparative youth. He couldn’t have been much past his early twenties. “Lady Anna, Lord Jecks.” He bowed, deferentially, but not obsequiously.

  “What was your position here in Cheor?” Anna asked.

  “I was an assistant to Fauren, the saalmeister, lady.” Halde’s light gray eyes met Anna’s. “I did as he asked.”

  “What sort of duties?”

  Halde glanced warily from Anna to Jecks. “Whatever Fauren asked. I was in charge of the account books, and the strongbox room. And of all the supplies for Synfal. Irkiik, he was the one who inspected the fields and collected the tariffs. He also could use the scrying glass a little. Onnbor maintained the armory and trained the guards.”

  “Did you agree with Lord Arkad’s decision not to pay liedgeld to the Regency?”

  “I was not in a position to question the lord, lady. Fauren would caution us that even the saalmeister dared only so much.”

  “Where is your family?” asked Anna.

  “My mother lives with my uncle in Cheor. He is a cooper. I have no consort.” Halde offered a quick and wry smile. “Fauren did not leave us much time for dalliance.”

  “What do you think should happen to Cheor?”

  “You must decide that, lady. I would hope that those who served will not be punished severely.”

  Anna nodded to herself. Whether they knew it or not, all those in Synfal had indeed been punished. Her spell would hold for all but the mad, at least as long as she lived. “I hold Cheor until a new lord is appointed. For now, Halde, you will act as . . . saalmeister.” Anna struggled for the word. “Someone must ensure Cheor continues to prosper. If it does, and you perform well, I will find some suitable reward.”

  “You are most charitable, lady.”

  “No. Despite Fauren’s faults, it is clear that Cheor was well run. People know their business and seem happy. Generally, that means a good . . . saalmeister. I will let the hold know.”

  “Thank you, my lady.” Halde turned to Jecks. “Grace to you, Lord Jecks.”

  “What do you think?” Anna asked after the door closed behind Halde.

  “It is the best choice for now.”

  “Once Herstat takes over, and learns all he needs to know, we’ll have to replace Halde, I think.”

  “You would punish him?”

  Anna shook her head. “Find a job for him in Falcor or somewhere. I just think that the top people here should be loyal first to Jimbob, and then to Synfal.”

  Jecks rubbed his chin. “That will take time.”

  “Which we don’t have,” Anna admitted. She hoped things with Halde would work out, but something had to be done, and she just had to trust her instincts . . . again.

  “What other thoughts have you?” Jecks smiled. “Besides taking every good servant I have?”

  Anna frowned. “If there is a large surplus in Arkad’s strongboxes—or his late seneschal’s—I think half should go to the liedstadt to fund our efforts . . . this expedition. There’s no reason the liedstadt has to pay for rebuilding Defalk.”

  “Two-thirds,” suggested Jecks. “Leaving a third will make you seem generous. By rights, you could claim everything of a rebel lord. You could take up to half personally.”

  Anna smiled crookedly. “Could I claim a few hundred golds half-personally, to pay my liedgeld? Or would that upset the Thirty-three?”

  “I am certain that no one would object to the regent using a small part of the spoils to pay yet more coins to the depleted treasury of the liedstadt. Especially not after rebuilding the major bridge at Falcon.”

  “All right.” Anna hated the maneuvering. “We’ll pay me three hundred golds for sorcerous construction, and that comes from Arkad’s treasury, and two hundred goes back to the liedstadt for Loiseau’s liedgeld.”

  “Take a thousand,” Jecks said. “The servant who handles Arkad’s accounts said there are more than six thousand golds in the chests. Your crops and levies may not be that great this year.”

  “A thousand?” Anna sighed. He was probably right about that. If she didn’t start building some of her own funds, she’d be in the same position Barjim had been and the one she was trying to get Jimbob out of. But it bothered her, and she wasn’t sure why. “Let me think about it.”

  Jecks smiled. “You may think as you wish. It is a decision only you can make.”

  Like everything anymore. Anna wanted to groan, but regents and sorceresses didn’t groan. They smiled, like singers. So she did, still trying to ignore the disconcerting double vision.

  26

  MANSUUS, MANSUUR

  Three ships from Sturinn are docked at Narial, and a group of the Sea-Priests traveled to Dumaria to meet with Lord Ehara.” Bassil inclines his head.

  “I told you, Bassil! Doesn’t anyone see tomorrow’s sunrise?”
Konsstin turns toward the windowed door that leads to the study’s balcony. “They refuse to treat with me, or with the northern traders, and here they are sneaking into Dumar. They’ll establish a regular trade route. Then they’ll undercut the shipping tariffs charged by the traders and provide grain cheaper than the bitches of Ranuak . . . or than our farmers and the traders of Cealor. That’s for now.”

  “How do you know that? All your seers know is that Ehara met with the Sea-Priests.” Bassil’s voice is resonant, but neutral, and he continues to stand before the desk even though Konsstin has walked toward the balcony door.

  “A sea-tiger doesn’t turn into a cow because it says it does. Sea-tigers don’t change their stripes just because they’re in Liedwahr and not Sturinn.” Konsstin purses his lips, puts his hand on the door lever, then lifts it without opening the balcony door, and turns.

  “What will we do?”

  “What would you suggest, Bassil?” asks the Liedfuhr. “We cannot match the Sea-Priests upon the ocean.”

  The raven-haired aide frowns, then scratches behind his left ear. “Yet if you attack Dumar, after sending fiftyscore lancers to support your grandson . . .”

  “No one will even pay any attention to what I say about Sturinn. They might even send assistance to Ehara and the dissonant sorceress of Defalk.” Konsstin offers a sound between a laugh and a snort.

  “Do you have any choice? You must attack and take Defalk before the Sea-Priests can turn Dumar into their first conquest in Liedwahr.”

  “Your words make the task appear so easy, Bassil.” The Liedfuhr snorts. “The Evult squandered five hundred–score in armsmen, and Vult is buried under molten rock. I have no desire to follow that example. Do you?”

  “You would rather attack Dumar?”

  “It would be much easier.”

  “But the sorceress . . . ?”

  Konsstin fingers the trimmed silver and brown beard. “We appeal to her sense of survival—and her instincts as a woman. For now.”

  Bassil shakes his head, his eyes narrowing as a shaft of light from the setting sun momentarily blazes through the western windows.