The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Oh . . .” Behind her was a muted cry, and a sound of someone falling.

  She turned, still coughing, as the arrows continued to rain down on the rock-walled platform, even as the few clouds began to darken, the ground seemingly to rumble. Fiery spikes flared from the skies, bright enough to dazzle her eyes, and with the spikes came cries . . . and screams from below. Screams that Anna ignored as she saw the body.

  On the ledge sprawled one of the more newly recruited players. A crossbow bolt had gone straight through his neck. Even as she scurried toward the figure, with blood that had welled up everywhere, Anna could tell it was too late, probably a slashed carotid artery. The odds against something like that were tremendous, but somehow, warfare didn’t always take odds into account.

  Shit . . . damn . . .

  Anna looked over at Liende, trying to recall the young violist’s name. Hasset—he’d been one of the cheerful ones. Blond, curly-haired, laughing, and he was dead. Like that. How many? How many more?

  As she questioned, both the fire lances and the screams died away, and only the odor of burning grass and burned flesh drifted upward from the valley. Only? Anna swallowed, trying not to cough again, afraid she’d end up retching if she did.

  After a moment, she turned her eyes to Liende. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

  “I know.” Liende sighed. “It is war.”

  War—was that what she was good at?

  Several of the players swallowed as they looked down.

  “We’re not done.” Anna caught their eyes. “You need to get ready for the next spell . . . or what we’ve done won’t mean anything.” Her eyes went to Liende. “Out by the wall. It’s safe there now.”

  “Places,” coughed Liende. “By the wall.”

  Anna walked slowly back to the overlook. Both Fhurgen and Rickel had lowered their shields. Jecks stood by them.

  Below, streaks of black seared the earth. Small patchy fires burned in several places. Man-sized heaps of charcoal dotted the green meadow. Three horses galloped free. The others had been less fortunate, sharing the fate of their riders.

  Poor damned horses . . . but you can’t keep coming up with spells for everything. . . . Except that the problem was that spells had to be relatively short, and that meant that people—and horses—suffered. Then, that was true of blades, arrows, and nuclear weapons.

  Anna cleared her throat.

  The remaining nine players straggled out onto the walled ledge. Kaseth, almost tottering, still clutched his violino. Delvor marched out almost defiantly, followed by Yuarl and Duralt, still half strutting.

  Typical brass player . . . Anna forced her mind back to the keep below. “The new spell . . . the loyalty spell. On my mark.” With the players behind it, rather than just her lutar, she hoped that the effect wouldn’t be as draining on her and more effective on Stromwer.

  “Mark!” Liende gestured and began to play herself.

  Anna went into the song, without words, without preamble.

  “Folk of Stromwer, weak or strong,

  loyal be from this song.

  Be you young or be you old,

  faithful be till dead and cold.

  “Your heirs of all, daughters and sons,

  workers of lands, while time runs.

  Treachery prevent to all Defalkan lands

  with your cunning and your hands.”

  The slash of pain was so intense, the pounding through her skull like so many jackhammers, the flares in her eyes so hot, that she could feel her knees fold like an instantly-struck set.

  And the darkness was not cold or distant, but hot, prickling.

  She could feel herself twitching, moaning, and unable to move, before the hot blackness swept over her and swallowed her.

  59

  IENCORA, RANUAK

  The dark-haired woman strides past the guard outside the door and into the sunlit study. Her eyes fix the gray-haired Matriarch, ignoring the older man in the straight-backed chair across from the writing desk.

  “Veria, I had asked not to be interrupted. I presume you have information of great import.” The Matriarch’s words are level.

  “Matriarch, you said that this sorceress used only Clearsong. You said that she was with the harmonies.” Veria’s cold eyes fix on the cherubic face of her mother. “All Liedwahr felt the dissonance of this . . . abomination.”

  “I have no doubts that the sorceress meant well, daughter.” The Matriarch’s face clouds.

  “ ‘Meant well.’ You will find an excuse for everything that she does. Did not the Prophet of Music mean well? Did not the Evult mean well?”

  “You take on too much, daughter,” says Ulgar quietly, rising from the chair.

  Veria’s eyes flash. “You would see nothing but perfection in every word—”

  “What happened to the sorceress?” asks the older woman. “If you will . . .”

  “She lies prostrate. The seers say she may not live. Nor should she, with that force of Darksong!”

  “And if she does? Do you think she will attempt it again?” The Matriarch turns in the padded desk chair.

  “If she can. The woman has no ideals. She is not a woman for us.”

  “Oh? Was she raised as you to understand Darksong and Clearsong? Did she have someone tutor her in the finer points . . .”

  “Matriarch . . .”

  “I think you should leave, Veria.” Ulgar steps forward, and his eyes are hard. “We do not know what happened, not well enough to judge, and you wish to judge.”

  “I have every right to judge Darksong—and I will.” Veria bows. “Good day, Matriarch.”

  As the door closes, the Matriarch glances to her consort. “You should have let her speak.”

  “No. She is only looking for ways to hurt you.” Ulgar’s eyes go to the door.

  “I cannot explain it, Ulgar.” The Matriarch sighs softly. “I know that whatever the sorceress did was to avoid more bloodshed. She does not like to shed blood. She is still young at heart, and she would use her skills to change souls to save bodies. As we know—and as Veria will not see—you cannot use the harmonies in such a fashion.”

  “You think she used Darksong to avoid bloodshed?”

  “That is my surmise. The glasses that pass will tell.” The Matriarch shakes her head. “Harmony rests on what is, not on good or evil. What is, the whole basis of Clear-song, does not allow easy decisions. It was ever so for sorcerers and sorceresses, and that is why those few who survive become great. Only the great survive. It is a hard, hard lesson for the young to learn, or for those who have come from elsewhere.”

  Ulgar glances toward the window and the street below, where a dark-haired woman hurries toward the harbor. “It is hard for all of us.”

  60

  Hot . . . Anna was hot all over. Except she was freezing.

  “Cold . . . hot . . .”

  Her eyes felt as though they had been replaced with a mixture of hot coals and ice, and she had no idea whether it was morning or midday or deep night.

  She shivered violently.

  Out of the darkness words rumbled, and more words.

  “Drink,” someone said, and she drank, and kept drinking until she felt wetness running down her cheeks.

  “Enough, lady . . . enough . . .”

  The words trailed off, and she found herself back in the darkness where she burned and froze, sweated and shivered.

  Some time later, her eyes opened slowly . . . as if she had terribly violent allergies or they were swollen so much that they could barely open.

  Two figures leaned over her—one a warm, kindly, white-haired figure, the other a cool, sneering, gaunt and bitter man, also with white hair. Yet both were the same, and both were Jecks.

  Each held a mug, and she felt one mug held wine, the other poison.

  “You must drink more. The wine holds honey.”

  Which mug? Or were they one and the same? She tried to close one eye, but still two images of Jecks remained.
/>   Finally, she grasped for the mug and swallowed the contents in a series of convulsive gulps.

  Jecks—the two Jecks—took the mug. One smiled sadly, and the other smiled evilly. “You must rest.”

  Rest? Or rest forever? Oh . . . Elizabetta . . . will I . . .

  “Rest . . . you must rest. . . .”

  The words sounded kindly, and then like a promise of death. Anna tried to move, but her arms, her body seemed encased in ice, but ice that burned with every attempt to move.

  Is this what it’s like to be mad? Mad, mad, mad. . . .

  Her tears burned and froze her cheeks as they flowed, before her eyes closed on fire and ice, ice and fire.

  61

  Anna lay propped up on the cot in her tent—the tent she hated to use because it meant her armsmen were sleeping on the ground.

  Under the light of the single hanging lamp, Jecks sat on the stool across from her, deep circles ringing his eyes, his white hair ragged and disarranged. He held a platter of hard cheese and bread, from which she ate . . . slowly.

  “The players? Besides Hasset, I mean.”

  “He was the violino player who took the arrow?” Jecks paused. “All fell as you did, but they were eating yesterday, some the night before. Except the older man.”

  “Kaseth? How is he?”

  Jecks glanced at the earthen floor of the tent.

  “He died?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Anna took a deep breath. She knew that sorcery took a toll on the players, usually a far lesser toll than on her, but somehow, she hadn’t expected . . .

  “He was old, your chief player said.”

  Old, and Anna had brought him to Stromwer to die. Her record with players left a great deal to be desired. “Are the others all right?”

  “Far better than you.” He extended the platter. “You must eat more.”

  “Tell me what else has happened.” Anna reached for another chunk of cheese.

  “. . . We have had to forage some,” the lord continued, “but we have taken only what we need, and only from Dencer’s personal lands. At least, so far as we could tell.”

  Anna couldn’t argue with that. She slowly ate another small chunk of hard cheese, closing her eyes for a moment to shut out the twin images of Jecks. At least, one image was no longer appearing as an evil twin, though the right one still felt much “cooler” than the left.

  “Lady?”

  “I’m still awake. Sometimes . . . the two images.”

  “You see double still? There were no bruises on your skull.”

  “It’s Darksong.” She opened her eyes. “If I do Dark-song anymore, I see two images.” She reached for the mug and swallowed. “I thought I knew what it was—Darksong, I mean—but it’s not that simple.”

  “None of sorcery is simple.” Jecks took the mug back from her and extended the platter, probably the only one in her entire camp. “Nor is it easy.”

  “Brill told me that the difference between Clearsong and Darksong was that one dealt with nonliving things and the other with living things.” Anna frowned. “But I didn’t get any reaction at first for some things that were probably Darksong.”

  Jecks was the one to frown. “You were using Darksong before?”

  “I didn’t think about some of it. I made a gown.”

  Jecks’ face relaxed, and he nodded. “A gown.”

  “But cotton and wool are from living things, and that means the spell was Darksong.” Anna stopped and forced herself to eat another morsel of cheese.

  “Surely, such a small spell . . . ?”

  “I couldn’t do it now—I’m sure of it. It’s like an allergy.” At the look of incomprehension on Jecks’ face, she added. “It’s like a poison where a little bit doesn’t hurt, but if you keep adding a little bit here and a little bit there . . .”

  He nodded slowly. “Then, the spell over Dencer’s keep?”

  “I knew it was Darksong,” Anna admitted. “I thought I could avoid killing all of Dencer’s armsmen. I didn’t want any more killing. I wanted to end this campaign without killing people. I didn’t think the backlash would be so bad.”

  “You near died. I had to force wine into you.”

  Anna looked at his face. Were those scratches? “I fought you?”

  “You have fought me and all the forces of harmony and dissonance.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am.” Anna swallowed. Her throat was sore, somewhat swollen, and she didn’t want to consider the state of her cords. “You had to nurse me, didn’t you?”

  “There was no one else.”

  Liende and the female players had been floored as she had been. So who else had there been? “Thank you.”

  Jecks smiled. “After the beginning, it was not so difficult. I did wrap you in blankets for a time.”

  “Did it even work? The spell?”

  “That we do not know. No armsmen have left the keep, according to Hanfor’s scouts. Your first spell killed Dencer.” Jecks offered another smile, more crooked. “The keep is yours—if we can reach it.”

  “Oh . . . the armsmen in the gorge.”

  “They may fight.” Jecks’ twin images shrugged. “They may not.”

  Anna finished the last of the wine in the mug and let it rest on her stomach. “I’m feeling better. We could leave tomorrow. . . .”

  “The day after. Tomorrow . . . you walk around the camp. You assure all you are recovered. That, too, you must do.” Jecks stood. “I need sleep. So do you.”

  “Thank you . . .” Anna said quietly.

  “You are my lady.” Jecks nodded and slipped out of the tent and into the late twilight.

  For a long time, Anna lay there, eyes seeing faint double images, double shadows from the lamp, her head aching, thinking.

  Thinking . . . about Kaseth, and Jecks, and even Dencer . . . and Darksong, and Clearsong.

  I can’t use a loyalty spell, but I can kill an entire keep?

  It wasn’t fair.

  Is life ever fair?

  She closed her eyes, but the questions didn’t vanish.

  62

  Anna patted Farinelli, then shifted her weight in the saddle and, with her left hand, reached up and readjusted her damp shirt off her sweaty back. Lord, she wanted a bath—as much to get rid of the itching from the fine red dust as anything. The damping effect of light rain of the night before had barely lasted until midmorning, and it had taken them that long to retrace their way back from the camp Jecks and Hanfor had established to the main road to Stromwer. By then, the sun, clear skies, heat, and hoofs had combined to raise the red dust once more.

  She still wore the breastplate, and sweat collected under that, mixing with dust. The chest scar from the crossbow, though healed, itched even more than her ann. They’d ended up waiting another day more than she had hoped for, but that had brought the end to her double vision—most of the time. Sometimes, her vision would still split, almost as if to warn her that she skirted on the edge.

  Great! You can use your spells to kill—if they’re worded right—but you can’t use them to persuade. Her lips tightened, and she forced herself to relax. “You can’t change what is,” she mumbled to herself. “You can’t . . .”

  A thought crossed her mind—and she wanted to laugh bitterly. Whatever god or deity had set up Erde had wanted to protect men’s and women’s souls from being manipulated, but hadn’t seemed to care about their physical well-being. Just like the priests of the Inquisition, who had tortured people to preserve their souls.

  She pushed that useless thought aside and studied the land. The fields beside the road were already knee-high with bean plants and cotton, Anna thought. Cotton, harvesting that would be a chore. Too bad she didn’t know how a cotton gin was built, but she was a singer, not an engineer.

  Ahead of the column, the dust of a pair of mounts filled the road that led south to Stromwer.

  “Halt!” Hanfor’s command echoed down the column as the two scouts reined up.
r />   Rather, one scout reined up two mounts, and Anna saw the figure of the other scout, dead, slumped across his mount’s neck. “Ser . . . they still got archers up there.”

  After Anna reined Farinelli in, she glanced from Jecks to the road before them. Ahead, perhaps five hundred yards ahead on the right, was the point where the northern part of the valley narrowed into the defile that led to Stromwer. The first set of the nets Anna had found in her scrying glass bulged from the escarpment, the lowest part of the boulder-filled hemp nearly fifty yards above the road.

  With the halt of the column, three archers stood above the nets and lofted arrows toward the advancing column. Clearly, Anna’s loyalty commands hadn’t reached the armsmen on the heights, and neither had orders from Stromwer. Or orders to resist had.

  Anna sighed and, dismounting, unstrapped the lutar. Then she walked forward in front of Hanfor and the others, almost as though they were not there. Mechanically, she tuned the instrument, then followed with a vocalise, then another. She cleared her throat, and did a last warm-up before her fingers went back to the lutar.

  “Archers high, archers strong,

  turn to flame with this song.”

  Her thoughts focused on just those she saw. Still, when her eyes cleared, she saw at least four flaming figures fall into the defile. She lowered the lutar and turned, walking back to Farinelli, her steps careful as she had to tread her way through renewed double images.

  “You think like a warrior, lady,” Jecks said quietly as Anna slowly replaced the lutar in its case.

  “Me?”

  “What spell did you choose?”

  “Oh . . .” She understood. She had chosen the simplest spell to kill the archers—one that didn’t cost armsmen, archers, or even arrows. Simple and direct—and bloody. What does that make me?

  “You are a warrior regent.” He answered her unspoken question. His head inclined toward where Hanfor surveyed the road and the gorge. “Your arms commander knows that. So do your armsmen. That is why they follow you.”