The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Anna tried not to bridle at the male condescension in his tone. “Was it Lord Sargol?”

  “We do not know with certainty. I did not feel we should spare armsmen to chase those on the hilltop. Your safety was more important.” Jecks shrugged. “Once well . . . I thought you would be able to find out.”

  “If I got well, then I’d be able to find out. If I didn’t, you and Jimbob had bigger problems.” Anna forced a smile.

  “You surprise me, even when I expect it.”

  She did not answer immediately, but sipped more of the wine, wishing she were strong enough to orderspell just plain water. Could she have someone boil some? How would she know if it had been boiled enough, or put into something that was clean enough not to be contaminated? “I suppose we’ll have to do something about Sargol now.”

  “There is no hurry,” Jecks said.

  “You mean, there’s no hurry beyond the time when I’m strong enough to bring his whole holding down around him?”

  “You cannot bring down every holding in southern Defalk.”

  Anna understood that. She wasn’t sure she could, but even if she could have, razing them all except for Geansor’s keep wouldn’t help in welding Defalk together. She had the glimmer of another idea.

  The damned arrow had actually given her an answer—use sorcery to influence what was—like arrows. That approach would take far less energy. It took as much skill, but skill wasn’t her problem. Energy was. She pursed her lips. There might be a problem with finding archers, lots of them, but she didn’t need marksmen, just people who could put a lot of arrows into the air at the same time.

  She’d also need to craft some defensive skills. Why does everything keep getting more complicated? . . . Because it always does, no matter what, she answered herself.

  Before she could actually implement her ideas, she needed to get well, and get stronger. While she was healing, though, she could work out the spells.

  She glanced worriedly at Jecks. “The lutar?”

  “I put it in the chest there.” He inclined his head toward the carved chest at the foot of the bed. “It was not damaged.”

  Anna released her breath slowly, but it still hurt.

  Damn! If she had anything to say about it, one Lord Sargol and one Lord Dencer, and their allies, were going to pay dearly for their shenanigans. Except their actions were far worse than shenanigans.

  She could see Jecks stiffen as he watched her. Would it always be that way? Would men always back away when she looked determined? Why didn’t they understand that she had no choice? Even as they didn’t think they had to understand women, they always wanted women to understand.

  She snorted . . . softly.

  36

  Outside the keep of Synfal, rain sleeted from the gray clouds down onto the thirsty fields and the wet brick walls, a warm rain that turned into mist where it struck yellow brick. The shutters to Anna’s quarters were half closed—held that way by a casement bar, a compromise that allowed some fresh air without too much water splashing inside and onto the polished brick floor.

  At the writing table, Anna finally pushed away the pile of accounts that Dythya had sent with the scrolls that had begun to appear with a semblance of regularity.

  Of course, Gylaron hadn’t paid his liedgeld, nor Dencer and Sargol the remainder of theirs. Lord Vlassa’s heirs continued to quibble, and she’d heard nothing from Lord Birfels about whether Birke would return to Falcor for more education. She and Jecks had sent for Herstat, but even the message to Elheld summoning Jecks’ saalmeister-accountant would take days to get there.

  Time slipped by while she recovered. About the only physical things she could manage at first were an awkward one-handed grooming of Farinelli and short walks around the corridors, chafing at the time it took her wounds to heal. She knew that the Sea-Priests of Sturinn were probably weaseling their way into Dumar, while Lord Ehara continued his mischief in trying to subvert Defalk’s southern lords. Konsstin was up to something, massing more troops in Neserea, or worse. And who knew what the traders of Wei were trying?

  And you can’t afford more than an occasional mirror spell that’s shown nothing new. Or one for clean water. What a place—it takes magic even to get clean cool water.

  She recalled Shakespearean England had been like that, too. After a small shudder, she pushed the accounting paperwork to the corner of the table and reclaimed her spell folder. She concentrated on the crude brown paper, trying to work out the spell, murmuring the first words.

  “All the arrows we have shot into the air,

  have them strike . . .”

  She pursed her lips. Trying to create the spells without writing them made it too hard to remember all the parts. Finally, she lifted the grease marker and crossed out several words, humming the tune again.

  “Those arrows shot into the air,

  oh, make each strike one armsman there . . .”

  The first lines would do, if she could find another couplet that would define which armsmen were to be struck. After a long slow exhalation, she sipped the too-sweet wine, then swallowed.

  Then she froze. Arrows? What were arrows?

  “Shit!”

  The damned arrows were metal arrowheads fitted onto wooden shafts and fletched with once-living feathers. She cradled her head in a left hand propped on the writing table. She couldn’t even direct arrows without getting into Darksong. But how had they ensorcelled the arrow? . . . She wanted to shake her head. It had been a crossbow quarrel and all metal.

  She looked at the crude brown paper. Back to the drawing board—literally.

  Her right arm ached only slightly, if somewhat more at the end of the day. After more than a week, the gash on her chest, thankfully above her breasts—lower would have been a real mess—was beginning to heal, and all the bruises had turned faded green-and-purple.

  Sometimes, she felt as though all she did was either get wounded and recover, or kill someone and recover, and most of the time was spent trying to deal with some administrative mess or another.

  She had the gist of an idea—maybe—when someone thrapped on the door.

  “Yes?” She tried to conceal the irritation in her voice.

  “Lady Anna?” Fhurgen peered in. “Halde would request a moment with you.”

  Anna understood Fhurgen’s body posture. Her chief guard didn’t trust totally anyone of Synfal. “Escort him in.”

  She straightened in the chair.

  “Lady Anna,” Halde began almost before he stopped opposite the writing table. “In the past several years, Fauren and Lord Arkad left the higher fields fallow. Those were the ones where the ditches from the rivers did not reach. We have had much rain this past season.” The acting saalmeister of Synfal glanced down at the yellow-brick floor.

  “You’re thinking of planting them, but it will take coins and seed and time, and the crops will be later, and you should have thought of it earlier.” Anna waited.

  The dark-haired acting saalmeister flushed and said nothing.

  “Halde,” Anna said gently, but firmly, “I do not punish questions or honest mistakes, provided they aren’t repeated. I do get angry at people who do not speak what they mean and people who try to deceive me.” She paused. “What would you plant, and why? What would it cost? How late would the crops be?”

  The flush faded. “Lady . . . I would not plant maize. It drinks too much water, even in the wettest year. Wheat corn, I think, and some barley. The hard wheat can weather periods of drought.”

  Corn? Anna remembered from somewhere else that corn meant grains like wheat and barley and something else. The Corn Laws of England had been to protect British agriculture. She nodded after a moment. “Go on.”

  “We have enough seed corn, but it would draw down our stocks.”

  “Go ahead,” Anna decided, then added, “Heavy rains won’t hurt early in the year, will they?”

  Halde shook his head. “Rains at harvest, yes, they could destroy the crop. And a r
ain right after planting could wash away everything.”

  “We’ll take that risk. We’ll need the grain.”

  “Thank you, lady.” Halde stood silently.

  “What else?” Anna tried to keep from grinning. Halde had his way of conveying that he wanted more.

  “Some of the tenant women have asked that they be allowed to plant the silt marsh flats with melons.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Anna countered.

  “Lord Arkad’s sire allowed it, according to the record books, if they would provide one in five of the melons to the keep.”

  “But Fauren didn’t?”

  “No, lady.”

  “Why not?”

  “He told Vierk and he told me that we would spend more time arguing over melons than we would receive.”

  Anna laughed. “He was probably right. We won’t argue.”

  Halde looked at her quizzically.

  “Tell them they can plant, on the old terms. We’ll trust them. If I find that trust is misplaced, they won’t plant again.” She smiled. “You don’t have time to count melons. Oh . . . and tell the armsmen and a few others that half the melons that the keep gets will go to them one way or another. You can figure out how, later.”

  The skeptical look on Halde’s face at Anna’s last words made her want to sigh. “Halde, I don’t know that you’ll stay as saalmeister. I won’t lie to you. I do know that I can’t afford to waste talent and loyalty. My arms commander, the head of my personal guard, and Captain Alvar, all served Lord Behlem. My chief player served Lord Brill. You do a good job, and you’ll have a good position. Talk to any of my people, if you doubt me. Make up your own mind.” She took a slow breath. “Is there anything else?”

  “No, lady. Thank you.” Halde bowed and turned, followed by the silent Fhurgen.

  Before the door closed, she could hear Fhurgen’s voice.

  “Saalmeister, best you listen . . .”

  Anna smiled faintly, wondering what Fhurgen might say, and whether Halde would listen. Then she went back to the arrow spell. What about spelling the arrowheads? Would a spell that dragged the once-living matter of the shafts and the fletching be Darksong? She frowned. She didn’t know why, but she thought that might work. She could test it, at least.

  She had another version of the second couplet almost worked out when there was another knock on the door.

  Jecks stepped into Anna’s room, followed by Hanfor.

  “Hanfor?” Anna looked up from the table, but did not stand. “What are you doing here?”

  The gray-haired arms commander bowed. “Lord Jecks suggested I bring those armsmen I could spare, and I thought that might be wise. We can return with greater speed and reach Falcor before any others can reach it—though I doubt any will try.”

  Anna gestured to the chairs on the other side of the writing table. “I’m glad to see you, but that means trouble.”

  Jecks’ eyes twinkled momentarily as he seated himself. “You see, she is almost recovered.”

  “That’s the story of my life. Get wounded so I can recover and survive.” Her eyes went to Hanfor. “Which problem do you want to start with?”

  “There is another difficulty,” Hanfor said slowly. “It is not so great a problem as I feared. Now that you hold Synfal and Cheor.”

  She held Synfal? That was a laugh. Synfal held her. For the first few days, she’d even had trouble holding a mug or a knife to cut meat for any length of time. “Oh?” she offered cautiously.

  “The armory here has many good blades,” Hanfor added. “Enough to spare for our armsmen.”

  For now, thought Anna. “Still no weapons smith and no blades?”

  “No smiths have answered our scrolls.” The veteran paused, then added, “You recall the blades in Encora? All were sold before our offer was received. Or so we were told.”

  Anna frowned. “I don’t like that. How many?”

  “Over three hundred.”

  Anyone who wanted and could afford three hundred blades was definitely serious about something. Not that many people—or even lords—had five hundred to a thousand golds to spare. Anna certainly knew that. “Did our man find out who bought the blades?”

  “A trader in Encora. A Ranuan trader.”

  That bothered Anna, but it was a feeling she couldn’t attribute to anything logical. “What else?”

  “There are rumors that the Liedfuhr is sending more armsmen to Neserea.”

  “Just rumors?” She glanced at Jecks.

  He nodded.

  “What else?” she asked tiredly.

  “Bertmynn has attacked an outpost held by Hadrenn’s forces.”

  Anna frowned, trying to remember who was who. “Hadrenn’s the one who holds the west part of Ebra?” She pursed her lips, remembering Hryding’s messenger Fridric. “The one Gestatr went to serve, that’s right.”

  Hanfor inclined his head, waiting.

  “So we have troops massing on our western borders, an uprising in our own south, and a civil war starting to our east.” She forced a wry grin. “Have I missed anything?” Then she added, “Besides the fact that someone in Ranuak is buying lots of blades, and our neighbor to the southwest is being supported by an enemy that wants to see every woman in Defalk in chains?”

  “I think you have stated the situation clearly,” stated Jecks.

  Anna’s eyes hardened, even as she forced her voice into an unnatural sweetness. “You might recall that I suggested this would happen.”

  Hanfor and Jecks exchanged glances.

  She shrugged, glad that there was but a twinge in her chest. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll do what we have to. Hanfor . . . can you round up several hundred men who can shoot arrows? They don’t have to be accurate, just strong enough to get the arrows released with force in the right direction all at the same time.”

  “Most of our armsmen could do that now,” admitted the arms commander with a rueful laugh. “They just cannot hit anything.” He frowned. “I do not know about bows and arrows.”

  “Round up as many as you can.”

  Hanfor’s eyebrows rose.

  “If Sargol can spell one crossbow quarrel, there’s no reason why I can’t spell several hundred arrows in return.” You hope.

  Hanfor swallowed.

  So did Jecks.

  “Gentlemen.” Anna smiled. “I’ve learned that fighting here is a nasty business, involving poisoned arrows, assassinations, sorcery, and economic coercion. Surely, you do not think I should limit my efforts out of a sense of misplaced chivalry?”

  “But the armsmen . . . They are not . . .”

  Anna looked at Hanfor. “I know some didn’t have much choice, but they did choose. And if we don’t end this rebellion quickly, we won’t have a land left to protect.” She turned to Jecks. “You’ve led me to believe that destroying keeps and everyone in them is unwise. Is that still true?”

  The white-haired lord fingered his chin before answering.

  A stronger gust of wind hurled rain past the half-open shutters and onto the yellow-brick floor.

  Finally, Jecks answered. “If you were to destroy many keeps with sorcery, some of the lords of the north would feel you would turn on them. I cannot say how many.”

  “Would they turn if I were a man?”

  “Some would.”

  “Just not so many.” Double standard—again.

  Anna glanced back at Hanfor. “We either kill armsmen or lose support.”

  “Always the armsmen pay,” murmured the arms commander.

  It had been that way back on earth, too, Anna recalled. “It’s true on all worlds. That’s because people are people.”

  After another silence, Hanfor asked, “Have you other duties?”

  “No.” Anna softened her voice. “I am glad you came, and I do value your skill and advice. It’s just that we don’t seem to have many choices.”

  “That be not your fault, lady. I will do as we must.”

  Anna could hear the unspoken w
ords—“but I do not have to like it.”

  Hanfor rose. “By your leave.”

  “I’ll try to spare those I can,” Anna said.

  “You do, and they may fight for you.”

  Anna had thought about that, too.

  After Hanfor bowed and departed, Jecks said quietly, “It will get worse, first, I fear.”

  “All the lords are afraid that they’ll lose their privileges and power.”

  “In this uncertain world,” answered Jecks with a short laugh, “does not every man fear loss?”

  “Armsmen and peasants and women lose their lives every day. Lords worry about golds and power.” Anna sighed. “I suppose that if any of the others had power and golds, they’d fear losing them, too.”

  “You have seen the hard life, have you not?”

  Anna hesitated. “Yes and no. Earth is different. I’ve had to work hard, but I’ve never been poor the way people are here.” Then, Uncle Garven and Papaw had been close to it.

  “You have seen enough. And you have seen to know that change may be good.” Jecks shook his head. “In Defalk, for many years, change has always heralded trouble. Can you blame them?”

  Yes, but it won’t do any good. “They’ll have to learn.”

  “I wager you will see to that.” Jecks handed Anna a scroll, still sealed. “This should cheer you.”

  The sorceress glanced at it warily.

  “It’s from young Secca.”

  Anna broke the seal, noting the carefully impressed S on the blue wax, and the thin strip of blue ribbon.

  My dear Lady Anna,

  I must write this quickly. Please forgive the poor letters. You must get well. All of us feel you must.

  Now you are all I have. Please take care and eat a lot. I love you. I hope we can play Vorkoffe when you come home.

  Anna’s eyes blurred, and she set down the scroll on the writing table, shivering.

  “I thought you would be pleased.” Jecks’ voice was puzzled.

  She did shake her head, not able to see him through the tears. She’d lost her own little redhead—Elizabetta. And Irenia, and Mario. Now, she had another redhead, one she’d practically ridden off and abandoned. Was she going to lose her, too?