The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

“You . . .” Her mouth opens spasmodically, and she begins to choke. Her hands reach for him, but the trembling increases, and Rabyn steps out of her grasp easily.

  “You should have been sweet to me,” he repeats as he stands and steps away from the bed, carrying the goblet.

  Dylla slumps, then topples forward, and her nude form, lying half across the green braided rug and half across the cold tiles, twitches and shudders for a time. She also moans softly, softly only because she cannot make a greater effort.

  Before long, twitches and moans cease.

  Then Rabyn pulls on his tunic and trousers, and a pair of gold threaded sandals, and walks into the antechamber where he rings the crystal bell and waits by the single flickering candle.

  “Yes, sire?” answers the page as he opens the door.

  “I would like to see Nubara. Now. Here.”

  “Now?” The servant glances toward the dark window, then at Rabyn. “Yes, sire.”

  The door closes.

  Rabyn goes back to the bedchamber and amuses himself for a time, waiting for Nubara.

  When he arrives, the hand of the regent does not have himself announced, but throws open the door and marches through and into the bedchamber.

  Rabyn smiles. “She wasn’t nice to me, Nubara. I don’t like people who aren’t sweet to me.”

  Nubara looks at the naked body on the floor. “Was that necessary, Rabyn?”

  “Lord Rabyn,” corrects the dark-haired youth. “She wouldn’t do what I wanted. She didn’t make me feel good.” Rabyn smiles. “You said she was only a peasant.”

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Rabyn.” Nubara’s voice is cold. “She still had family, and they will not be happy. Neither will their friends.”

  “Tell them she died of the flux. It does happen. Offer them a few golds as consolation. Every peasant loves golds.” Rabyn’s lips curl. “They see few enough of them.”

  “Would you be so kind as to help me dress the body? It might be easier to explain.”

  “I’m the Prophet, Nubara. I’m sure grandsire wouldn’t wish anything to happen to me. You know that, don’t you?” Rabyn pauses. “Her clothes are on the chair there.”

  Nubara compresses his lips, then walks to the chair and picks up the silken trousers. His eyes go to the still form. “What a waste,” he murmurs to himself.

  “She should have done what I wanted,” Rabyn repeats. “You will, won’t you, Nubara?”

  Nubara forces a smile. “Of course, Lord Rabyn, of course.”

  31

  Anna looked out the guest-chamber window at the low clouds and the driving rain, then walked back to the table and picked up a flaky roll—better than a biscuit—and began to eat slowly as she sat down.

  She finished the roll with a sigh, and topped off roll and sigh with a long swallow of water. Her eyes flicked toward the window and the rain outside.

  “You still wish to travel to Synope?” Jecks asked from the other side of the writing table.

  “After the rain lifts, assuming it does lift, yes, I do. I worry about Anientta, and I don’t like the idea of her controlling Flossbend.”

  “That is a hard ride of eight to nine days,” Jecks pointed out. “You know that there is little you can do about this consort of Lord Hryding’s right now. If you are worried about repairing the ford at Soprat, you could turn north at the wide bend in the Synor and travel straight north. That would save almost five days’ travel in returning to Falcor.”

  “Why are you so worried about time? You and Hanfor practically insisted nothing was going to happen for months—seasons, I mean.”

  “You have spent more time in Synfal than you had planned.”

  “There has been more to do than I expected.” Anna took another sip of water. “You want me to get back to Falcor to announce that Jimbob will inherit Synfal?” She grinned. “I thought we’d agreed that should wait a bit.”

  Jecks looked at the time-dulled oak of the table, then gave an embarrassed smile. “Menares sent a message scroll to you through me.”

  Anna frowned. Again . . . it had to be bad news. No one wanted to tell her that sort of thing directly.

  “What’s the trouble?” she said, reaching for another roll.

  “There are two troubles.” Jecks coughed. “You had best read it yourself.” He handed Anna a scroll.

  She began to read, skipping over the flowery salutations.

  . . . I have not made any contact with the ladies of Wei. This you must know and convey to the lady Anna. Yet they have taken it upon themselves to impart information, and I have enclosed their very message scroll as proof. The lady Anna must know this, and yet I fear that she will not believe I have acted in good faith.

  Still if what they have sent is true, and they have not lied about what has happened elsewhere in former scrolls, you both should know the contents. . . .

  My humble best to you and to the great and glorious regent, whose fairness has become legendary. . . .

  Anna laughed. “He knew you’d give this to me, the scoundrel.”

  “His last words are sung in your direction,” Jecks said. “They are true, but they are a plea.”

  True? What’s true is that no man around here would plead to a woman. Damned few, anyway. “He addressed his plea through you.”

  “Most men would.”

  “It would be better if they didn’t.” Anna managed to keep the words polite—barely—reminding herself that Jecks wasn’t the problem. He’d dealt with her directly from the beginning. Was that because he’d had a strong daughter? Had his consort been like Alasia? She pushed that thought away.

  “I would not wager against that.” Jecks smiled broadly.

  Anna smiled back, momentarily. “Let’s see what the ladies of Wei have to say.” She unrolled the second scroll.

  Menares, honorable counselor to the Regent of Defalk,

  We think it advisable that you inform the lady Anna, sorceress though she be, of a matter of grave import of which she may not be aware. The Sea-Priests of Sturinn have sent an envoy to Lord Ehara of Dumar, with a chest of precious stones and gold. Lord Ehara has already sent officers of his guard to Lord Dencer of Stromwer and Lord Sargol of Suhl. These officers bore coins and tokens of friendship.

  If Lord Ehara be acting on his own or at the behest of the Sea-Priests, that we know not. Neither is to the interest of Defalk, Nordwei, or Liedwahr. We trust you will follow your own good judgment and convey this information to your regent and sorceress.

  A sealmark without lettering—just a four-pointed star with an N above the topmost point—was set in black wax below the carefully scripted letters.

  “That is the seal of Nordwei,” Jecks said.

  Anna clicked her fingernails together. They were getting ragged again. Thank heavens she’d had a nail clipper in her purse, now in the large green leather pouch-wallet attached to her belt. She hoped she never had to use a knife the way she’d seen Jecks trim his nails. “Why would they send me that kind of message?”

  “It is in their interest that you fight for them.” Jecks shrugged. “If the Sturinnese can gain a foothold in Liedwahr, and one with a good port, such as Narial is supposed to have—”

  “Narial—that’s the one south of Dumaria?” Anna was trying to recall her too-recently-acquired Erdean geography.

  “That is the main seaport. The Falche is wide and deep and slow enough that smaller seagoing vessels can sail all the way up to Dumaria. I would doubt that the larger vessels of Sturinn could.”

  “The traders up in Wei want me to stop Ehara and the Sturinnese? Why would they think I’d want to get involved in a war there? Defalk is still a mess. Muddy roads, lords who don’t want a woman as regent, debts . . .”

  “They may feel you have no choice, and they would warn you.”

  No choice?

  Her face betrayed her thoughts.

  “If Lord Ehara uses the coin of the Sturinnese to buy rebellion in Defalk, you must fight—either in Defalk or Dumar.” />
  “What do the Sturinnese have against Defalk? We don’t have a port. We haven’t offended them.” Anna frowned.

  Jecks shifted his weight in the chair, like a boy with a secret. He even looked boyish for a moment, and Anna wanted to smile. Except he was uncomfortable, and that bothered her. She found herself clicking her nails again, and she clinched her fingernails into her palms for a moment, then forced a long slow breath before she spoke. “You’re worried about telling me how I’ve offended, the Sturinnese. What is it?”

  “It is not the Sturinnese. It is their Sea-Priests.” Jecks shifted his weight in the chair again. “Some seafarers, they have great concern about having women on board their ships.”

  “I doubt somehow that the Ranuans and the traders of Wei have those concerns.”

  “No, lady, they do not. The Sturinnese do.”

  “There’s more than that.”

  “They feel women are the agents of dissonance, and they chain them.”

  “They do what?” Anna wasn’t sure she’d heard Jecks. “They chain some of their women?” Something . . . something . . . someone else had told her about chains.

  “All of them, Lady Anna, from what I have heard. Some wear chains that are little more than adornment, but most wear heavy links.”

  “Chains as adornment. Adornment.” Rather than speak more, Anna stood and walked to the window. Lady Essan had mentioned that, and she’d hoped not to have to deal with the Sturinnese. Why? Why did she always have to deal with what she’d rather not? The perversity of the universe? Mercury in retrograde, except there wasn’t any Mercury in the skies of Erde. Darksong in ascendence? Was that the local equivalent? The red moon of darkness?

  As the thoughts cascaded through her mind, the rain still fell, and the gray clouds seemed to touch the dark and recently tilled fields.

  Had any place on earth chained all its women? She shivered. No wonder the traders of Nordwei were confident she would try to stop Ehara, if not the Sturinnese. Then, how much did the traders of the north know of her? Too much, it seemed.

  She turned back to Jecks. “You must know how I feel about women in chains.”

  “I cannot see you favoring the Sea-Priests.” Jecks’ tone was wry. “Or Lord Ehara, if he is bound to do their bidding.”

  “I thought things were bad enough with Konsstin threatening to take over Neserea.” She paused. “How do we know that this isn’t a ploy to get us tied up down here?”

  “That, we do not know, save that the Norweians have not sent their armies into any other land in memory.”

  “That means they aren’t likely to invade. That’s if things don’t change. They could still want us to fight a war to weaken us, or keep us from invading them.”

  “The Council of Wei has been known for such.” Jecks’ voice remained wary, but Anna wasn’t certain the wariness was from deliberation or concern that she might still explode over the customs of the Sea-Priests.

  “Lord Sargol still owes half his liedgeld,” mused Anna. “So does Dencer.” She half flushed as her stomach growled.

  “Lord Gylaron has paid none, is that not so?” asked Jecks, politely ignoring her audible signs of continual hunger.

  “There’s more behind your question. Doesn’t he hold the lands between Stromwer and Suhl?”

  “You mark my meaning.” Jeck laughed.

  “I’m not sure I do. I’m missing something. The two lords north and south of Gylaron have paid half their liedgeld, but Gylaron’s paid none. Dencer would like to see me dead, but he’s paid half. I don’t know anything about Sargol, but Ehara’s courting both of them.”

  “I doubt Gylaron is our friend.”

  “Nor Dencer. Nor Sargol.” She shrugged. “Let’s see what the glass will tell us.”

  Jecks rose.

  “No. I’d like you to watch. You may see something I don’t.”

  “You are not wary of revealing—”

  Anna laughed. “You’ve heard me sing enough spells. Those were far more deadly than mirror spells. You’ve probably heard your share of spells, anyway.”

  Jecks nodded, his eyes twinkling momentarily. “A few.”

  “So why don’t you sing any?”

  “Spellcasting is untrustworthy for the untrained.”

  “Like handling a blade?”

  “It is more dangerous, from what I have seen.” Jecks leaned back slightly in the straight-backed chair and steepled his fingers together. “Once, I’d not have said that. Now . . .” he shrugged.

  “Now?”

  “Barjim’s forces fell to sorcery, and so did those of the Evult’s.” Jecks’ brow furrowed. “What do you plan?”

  “To see what the mirror will show me. I have an idea.”

  Jecks nodded and sat back, as if to wait.

  Anna took a deep breath, then ran through one vocalise, then another. Her voice wasn’t as clear as it should have been. Allergies from the rain and the mold that had to infest the ancient pile of bricks that was Synfal?

  She cleared her throat and tried again. Finally, she picked up the lutar, then stopped at the quizzical expression on Jecks’ face. “You don’t see this in public, all the time it takes sometimes to be able to sing.”

  “I have seen you cast spells . . .”

  “Without all the preparation?” Anna nodded. “Half the time I’m afraid they won’t work when that happens. Sometimes they don’t. That’s how I ended up defending myself with a knife.” She shivered as she recalled how she’d gutted the poor young armsman whose only real fault had been following the orders of the wrong person.

  Jecks offered a half-nod, turning in the chair to be able to see the mirror.

  Anna turned to the dark wood framed mirror on the yellowed plaster of the wall. Her cleaning spell had not been enough to return the plaster to any semblance of white, assuming it had ever been white.

  “Mirror, mirror on the wall,

  show me now Lord Dencer’s hall.

  Within its gates, Wendella show me fast

  and make that spell well last . . .”

  In the silvered oblong on the wall was an image of a brown-haired woman. She sat, alone, almost slumped at a table in what appeared to be a tower room. Her hair was braided, but she turned and appeared to look at Anna and Jecks. The red eyes were sunken in dark circles. Those, and the barred window, told Anna enough.

  After a moment, the sorceress released the image with a quick couplet, almost a chant. A moment of dizziness followed, but the lightheadedness vanished almost as swiftly as it had struck.

  “You asked to see her, not Dencer.”

  “I had a feeling.” What Anna had felt was that Wendella’s situation would reveal more than seeing Dencer. Had it? She wasn’t sure.

  “Better that she had remained in Falcor,” said Jecks, leaning forward in the chair. “Dencer fears you have suborned her.”

  “That’s not likely. She hates me.”

  “He fears your sorcery.”

  “He fears any woman who will stand up to him.” Anna took another swallow of water and forced herself to eat the last roll. “Why do so many men fear women here?”

  Jecks cleared his throat.

  Anna waited.

  “There have always been more sorcerers than sorceresses.” The white-haired lord coughed.

  Anna let the silence continue.

  “The sorceresses have always been more powerful. The Evult . . . he was perhaps the greatest sorcerer ever—and you destroyed him.” Jecks forced his eyes to meet Anna’s. “All know you have yet to claim fully the power that is yours.”

  “I’ve almost been killed twice, and nearly killed myself more than that,” Anna pointed out.

  “No one else would have survived the smallest portion of your travail.” Jecks gave a strained smile. “Do you wonder that Dencer, or the Sea-Priests, or Konsstin, all fear you?”

  “I’ve never been out to build an empire. All I’ve tried to do is to preserve Defalk.”

  “When folk hate, t
hey do not think,” mused Jecks. “That is why a thinking warrior, if he can survive the first few moments against a madman, will triumph.”

  “If there are enough madmen,” suggested Anna, “like the dark ones . . .”

  “Then there is no time to think.”

  “Great.” Anna set down the lutar, realizing that it felt heavy, too heavy. “I need to eat—again. So do you.” She looked at Jecks.

  After a moment, he returned the smile, boyishly, despite his white hair, and Anna almost wanted to hug him. For that instant, the warrior lord was a cross between a teddy bear and a movie star.

  “I could use some food,” he admitted gruffly. “Not so much as a certain sorceress.”

  Anna walked to the door and opened it.

  Fhurgen stood there, waiting.

  “If you would, Fhurgen, could you have Captain Alvar join us here? And see if you can get someone to put together a platter with enough food for the three of us.” She didn’t want to try another spell without, eating. “Don’t you do it, either. Have the kitchen handle it.” She flashed a smile, trying to convey warmth.

  “We can manage that, Lady Anna.” Fhurgen’s dark eyes twinkled for a moment.

  “Thank you.” Anna closed the door and walked to the window to join Jecks. They both watched the rain, falling less forcefully, and more like a cold mist. She could sense just how close he was, and she started to reach out. No . . . you can’t muddy things. Play like the virgin queen. But she was all too conscious that she didn’t want to be a virgin queen or regent—not in the slightest.

  She stepped back and sideways to look at the mirror on the wall. The finish of the ebony wood around the glass showed bubbles and discoloration.

  Then she recovered the lutar. “I’ll try one more while we’re waiting for Alvar and food.”

  Jecks turned so that he could watch the mirror.

  Anna retuned before she sang the mirror spell.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

  show me now Lord Sargol’s hall.

  Within its gates, show Lord Sargol fast

  and make that spell well last . . .”

  The mirror swirled white, then blanked.