The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I will take that on, lady,” volunteered Fridric. “Until we find one. My father ran the stable in Aroch.”

  “Thank you.” Anna smiled.

  The smaller armsman flushed.

  Hanfor rode back from the lower section of the courtyard. “Lady, all are ready.”

  “I’ll be right there.” She nodded to the arms commander, then turned to Markan. “I’ve told you what needs to be done. You have those lists. Don’t hesitate to send a scroll to Herstat at Synfal or Dythya in Falcor if you need something.”

  “Yes, Lady Anna.”

  “Good.” She turned Farinelli toward the gate, and Jecks eased his mount beside hers.

  “He will find out how hard are those tasks you have laid for him,” Jecks prophesied as they rode down the causeway in the hazy morning light to join Hanfor at the head of the column.

  “We all find that out.”

  “A good armsman we could use, and the half-score you left with him and the wounded,” murmured Rickel from behind Anna.

  “We could,” Anna admitted, leaning forward in the saddle and giving Farinelli a solid pat on the neck. “Taking Suhl, we lost a score, one way or another. Would you like to lose that many again? Or hundreds, without sorcery, if Suhl rebels again?”

  Fhurgen, to the left of Anna, guffawed. “Winning battles, my friend Rickel, that is just the start. That’s why we’re armsmen. Be glad you are.”

  “The battles you don’t have to fight, Rickel,” Jecks added, “those are the ones that could save your life.”

  Anna could sense the young blond armsman’s embarrassment, and she turned her head to him. “Rickel . . . it takes time. Even I thought about just winning battles, just getting through them.” She laughed ruefully. “Sometimes I still do.”

  For how long?

  She had no answer to that question. So she smiled as she rode to join Hanfor, Jecks beside her, and her guards flanking and trailing them. Hanfor raised a hand in salute, and she returned the gesture, trying not to sneeze as the dust tickled her nose.

  Across the valley, past the raw earth of the mass graves that held most of those who had served Sargol, lay the road to Lerona.

  49

  STROMWER, DEFALK

  The bitch avoided Sargol’s traps—all of them. And her archers—they turned his armsmen into targets.” Dencer shakes his head, and the brown-and-gray hair flops onto his too-high forehead.

  “One attacks a sorceress most safely from afar.” The officer in crimson, standing before the wide table, bows his head slightly. “As you have prepared to do, Lord Dencer.”

  “Oh, spare me the compliments, Captain Gortin.” The lanky lord bobs his head. “Your master sent two companies of lancers to aid Lord Sargol, and she destroyed them with a few words of song and then turned his keep into a flaming abattoir.”

  “Yes, she did that.” Gortin’s words are neutral.

  “Well . . . Captain Gortin? What will you do? She is riding south to Gylaron’s keep.” Dencer pushes back the chair and stands, like a predatory heron, jaw forward, beady eyes on the lancer.

  “Let Gylaron face her. She lost some-score men at Suhl. She will lose more at Lerona.” Gortin smiles easily. “Then we will see.”

  “Will you send for more lancers?” Dencer lurches around the writing table and steps to the bookcase, where he extracts a small leather volume.

  “They could not reach Stromwer before the sorceress,” says Gortin.

  “So they could not. And what am I to do? Throw myself on her mercy? Die so that my ungrateful consort shall hold my patrimony?” Dencer smiles bitterly. “Where is Dumar’s friendship now?”

  “I am here, Lord Dencer. So are my lancers. We stand with you.”

  “Stand with me. . . . Ah, that sounds so reassuring.” The tall lord lifts the leatherbound volume. “Here. Tactics against sorcery. From Pelletara. ‘Do not allow a sorcerer close to your men. If possible, fight any battles in rain or snow, preferably in a heavy thunderstorm.’” Dencer looks at Gortin. “Perhaps your master can bring us a thunderstorm.”

  “Thunderstorms are possible here in the Sudbergs.” Gortin shrugs. “I question whether the sorceress would choose to attack in one. Or whether we could find one at the right glass to cover any movement we might make.”

  “For a representative of a mighty power, you offer little comfort.”

  “I am here to fight, Lord Dencer.”

  “Fight you will.” Dencer closes the book with a snap. “You may go.”

  “Thank you, Lord Dencer.” Gortin nods and turns.

  50

  Scouts report a wagon ahead, sir,” the messenger puffed to Hanfor, turning his mount to ride beside the arms commander.

  “A wagon?” The veteran’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Just a wagon. Three people in it. Two horses. Nice matched grays, sir. It be a fancy wagon, with brass trim.”

  Anna and Jecks listened. Anna blotted her forehead with a gray cloth that was reddish brown with road dust turned to mud by continual sweat under the hot late-spring sun. A line of puffy clouds dotted the southern horizon, but seemed no closer than they had at daybreak.

  “And, ser, there be some armsmen, three, four deks south of the wagon. They are not riding anywhere.”

  Hanfor turned to Anna. “Your wish, lady?”

  “Let me see what I can see.”

  As Hanfor called out orders, and the column slowed to a halt, and dust boiled around her, Anna dismounted, handing Farinelli’s reins to Rickel. She unstrapped the mirror pack and then the lutar. She walked away from the column, forward along the road shoulder until she was out of the dust. The mirror went on the scraggly grass, uncovered, and she took the lutar from its battered brown case and began to tune it.

  Rickel and Fhurgen followed, mounted, with Farinelli. The gelding whuffed and sidestepped as the two guards reined up.

  Jecks and Hanfor arrived, walking their mounts and standing back from Anna and the mirror.

  It took three vocalises to get her cords clear. By then Farinelli had settled down, and a dull muted buzz—the murmurs of waiting armsmen—filled the midday heat.

  Anna cleared her throat a last time, then sang.

  “Show from the south, danger to fear,

  all the threats to me bright and clear . . .”

  The glass showed Dencer’s keep, nothing more.

  She tried again, using Gylaron’s name, and the mirror remained silver.

  “The harmonies say Gylaron offers no danger?” hazarded Jecks. “Even with armsmen?”

  “That would be my guess,” Anna answered. “There’s nothing close here. Nothing from Gylaron, either.” She replaced the lutar in its case, then wrapped the mirror and strapped both in place on Farinelli. Then she remounted.

  “Let us approach carefully, with arms ready,” suggested Hanfor. “Your guards before you.”

  Anna nodded, and Fhurgen and Rickel rode to the fore. She coughed at the dust, and wiped more of the muddy film from her forehead. Then she had a long swallow from her second water bottle, almost empty.

  They rode another dek.

  Ahead, in the middle of the road, in a flat section deks from woods or hills, with just bean plants nearby, there stood a wagon. A solid man in maroon velvet, with a leather belt bearing an empty scabbard, sat on the wagon seat, open hands resting on his knees, palms up. His swarthy face was slightly sunburned. With him were a boy and a girl, neither older than ten, Anna judged.

  On the wagon bed were two chests. Each was open, and from each glimmered gold coins.

  On a low hill to the south were dark spots, mounts and armsmen, as the scout had said, a good three deks away. Anna tried to see more detail, but could only catch an occasional glint of sun on metal.

  “All that gold, and no guards?” murmured Rickel from behind Anna.

  “Who needs guards? There’s us here, and the Leronese at the hilltop. You want to try to make off with any of it?” asked Fhurgen.

  Beside Anna, Jecks g
rinned.

  The sorceress again looked past the wagon. The hill in the distance, and the armsmen on it, seemed the same. Gylaron’s armsmen, they had to be.

  Rickel and Fhurgen moved directly before her, their blades drawn. All stopped a good thirty yards from the wagon.

  “Lady Anna?” called the man on the wagon seat.

  “Yes,” answered Anna cautiously.

  “I am Gylaron. These are my two oldest. In the chests is all the coin that I have. All the golds of Lerona.”

  Anna shivered inside, fearing what might come, and not knowing exactly why.

  “I have received your scroll, but know you that I had made the decision to come to you before it arrived.” Gylaron coughed and continued. “Do what you will with me. Do what you will to my heirs. Hand over my lands to another. All I ask is that you not visit the fires of dissonance upon my people.” Gylaron’s eyes were bleak, but his voice was firm. “Do not do to Lerona what you did to the keep of Sargol.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Anna asked, even as she fumbled to extract the lutar from its case. “You have all your armsmen on the hill there.”

  “They are there to keep anyone from stealing the golds, no more.”

  Anna believed him, believed the bleakness and desperation in his voice. “Will you swear allegiance to the Regency and to Lord Jimbob?”

  “I will swear aught to save my people and my consort.”

  Anna fumbled with the tuning pegs, then managed to clear her throat. Her voice cracked with phlegm on the first note. She broke off, coughed it clear, and began again.

  “Gylaron wrong, Gylaron strong,

  loyal be from this song.

  Gylaron now, Gylaron old,

  faithful be till dead and cold.

  “Your heirs of lord, daughter and son,

  holders of lands, this be done.

  Treachery prevent to all Defalkan lands

  with your cunning and your hands.”

  All three figures on the wagon seemed shrouded in silver for a brief flash. All shivered.

  Anna shuddered herself as a knife slashed through her skull, leaving a dull and throbbing ache—and double images. Shit! One little loyalty spell and you can’t see or think very well. You can destroy a whole keep and you can’t ask for loyalty?

  “Lady Anna?” Jecks’ voice was low, concerned.

  “I’ll be all right.” She forced herself erect in the saddle, then nodded to Fhurgen. The guard let Farinelli carry her closer to the wagon. Both guards flanked her, their blades out, as she rode toward Gylaron. Jecks rode on the right of Fhurgen, and his blade was also bare.

  “Lord Gylaron.”

  “Lady Anna, I swear allegiance, by the harmonies, and upon the heads—”

  “No!” snapped Anna. “Not upon your children. Upon anything else, but not upon them.” She found herself, shaking, wondering about her reaction, wondering how she’d known what his words would have been. Her headache throbbed more momentarily, and she blinked, but the double image remained.

  Gylaron’s eyes widened. So did those of the children.

  “I . . . swear allegiance, by the harmonies, by my sire’s honor and spirit, to you, the regent, the Regency of Defalk, and to Lord Jimbob, heir of the realm.” Gylaron swallowed.

  “Thank you.” Anna took a slow breath, forced her voice to be firm. “I’m . . . sorry, Lord Gylaron. I can’t explain, but your children must declare their allegiance, and I don’t want your loyalty on their heads” She turned her gaze to the boy, who seemed older. “You are?”

  “I’m Gylan. I’m nine.”

  “Will you swear to be loyal to the Regency, Lord Jimbob, and the Realm of Defalk?”

  “Yes, Lady Anna. I swear . . . allegiance.” Gylan’s voice stumbled over the last word. “You won’t kill us?”

  “I have no intention of killing anyone who is loyal. There’s been too much killing.” Her eyes went to the child’s father. “I will not hesitate to kill those who are disloyal.” Then she looked at the girl, whose black hair was so dark that it nearly shimmered blue-black in the sun. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m Reylana. I’ll be eight at the season-turn.”

  “Will you swear allegiance? That you will be loyal to me and to Lord Jimbob?”

  “Da says I’m to do as you say.”

  Anna swallowed. “Promise me that you will be good and that you will be loyal.”

  “I always try to be good. I’ll be loyal.” Reylana paused. “Can we go home? I’m hot.”

  “I think that might be a good idea. In a moment,” Anna said, stifling a smile, before turning her eyes back to Gylaron and the chests. “You will send this year’s liedgeld and last year’s to Falcor to Counselor Dythya. Save the rest for your needs and your people.”

  Gylaron went to his knees, if casting a wary look at all the armsmen.

  “No, my lord. That is not all,” Anna forced her voice to be hard. “You will assemble all your armsmen, all those on the hill to the south, and all those in your keep. You assemble them without arms, and they also will swear loyalty to me and to Lord Jimbob. If one lifts his hand, all will suffer, and you will die. If they swear, then I will leave Lerona in peace, except for your obligations for levies and liedgeld, and those other duties of a lord of the Thirty-three.” She hoped she’d included everything, and her eyes flicked to Jecks.

  The white-haired lord nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “You would leave us in peace, after what . . . after Suhl . . . ?” Gylaron’s tone was openly disbelieving.

  “Lord Gylaron,” Anna snapped. “If you learn nothing else, learn that I keep my word, for better or worse. Sargol tried to kill me when I was on my way to Synope, not even on the road to Suhl. He refused to pay his liedgeld, and he laid traps along every road to his keep. What would you have done?”

  Gylaron lowered his eyes.

  Anna had another thought. “I may ask for the use of a fewscore of your armsmen . . . in service of the Regency. I will pay them.”

  Despite the double vision, she could see Hanfor nod.

  “Anything you wish, lady and regent.”

  Anna nodded.

  51

  You’ll let him go ahead of us?” Jecks had asked. “The children will stay with us,” Anna had answered. “With the loyalty spell and them, I’m sure Gylaron will arrange matters just as I requested.” She hadn’t been totally sure, but nothing was absolute. She’d learned that a long time before.

  They had reached the keep without incident, and Hanfor and Alvar had ensured a clear and safe route to the wall overlooking the keep’s courtyard. Anna knew she didn’t look all that prepossessing, not in faded green shirt and riding trousers and a battered brown hat. She had donned the spare purple tunic with gold trim.

  Gylaron bowed as Anna’s group, surrounded by Fhurgen and the other guards, their blades out, crossed the open space toward the inner battlement. Behind came Liende and the players, their instruments still in cases. Yuarl studied the old walls in wonder. Palian shook her head slowly. The young violinist Delvor just shuffled along. Duralt, the cocky-appearing falk-hornist, strutted behind Liende. Below, packed in the courtyard, stood the armsmen and servants and staff and everyone else, it seemed.

  “I told them that you had a message for us, and that we had reached an agreement that would not require a battle, and that I had agreed to swear allegiance to the Regency.” Gylaron’s swarthy mouth crinkled. “I did not reveal any more details. That was not difficult, since you provided none.” He inclined his head to the woman beside him, the one with the heart-shaped face Anna had seen in the glass. “Lady Anna, might I present my consort Reylan?”

  “You are as beautiful as your image,” Anna said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Why did you spare us?” asked Reylan. Her olive skin, flawless complexion, red lips, and black hair made her a beauty. “What trickery do you plan?”

  Flanking Anna, Fhurgen shifted his weight, easing toward the woman.

&nbs
p; “I plan none, except to ensure the loyalty of Lerona. A regent deserves that.”

  “Why? What business is this of yours?”

  Anna wanted to shake her head. Instead she took a deep breath. “Why is it so hard to understand? Defalk is threatened on all sides—”

  “Defalk has always been threatened on all sides.”

  “The Sea-Priests of Sturinn have cast their lot with Dumar,” Jecks interjected, “and Konsstin will be moving his lancers into Neserea.”

  “They are all gathered, lady,” announced Hanfor. “Best you not wait.”

  “We’ll talk more later.” Anna gestured to Lord Gylaron. “Join me.” Anna’s steps were deliberate, trying to compensate for the double vision that remained from the loyalty spell, as she stepped toward the wall overlooking the courtyard.

  Gylaron paused, then stepped with Anna to the edge of the inner battlement. Beside her stood Fhurgen and Rickel, each bearing a mid-sized shield, gathered from somewhere, each scanning the crowd in the courtyard below.

  Gylaron’s appearance, more than Anna’s, quieted the murmurs.

  Anna began to speak, trying to concentrate, to ignore the continuing double vision. “You have a wise and thoughtful lord. He has pledged support to the Regency, and to Lord Jimbob. Lord Sargol and his armsmen rebelled. They are all dead. Lord Arkad rebelled, but his people did not. Lord Arkad is dead, and his people live.” Anna turned to Gylaron. “The Regency supports and confirms you, Lord Gylaron.”

  With the last words, Anna stepped back, leaving Gylaron standing alone. A sighing crossed the ‘courtyard, and Anna could hear a few scattered voices.

  “The regent has been fair—and more generous than any could expect. Honor her.” Gylaron turned and gestured to Anna.

  Fhurgen released an audible sigh.

  Anna stepped forward.

  If the cries of “Honor the regent!” and “Long live the regent!” were not overwhelming, they were at least suitable, and Anna stepped back before they died away. So did Gylaron.