The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I will require some of that,” Anna said. “Enough to pay for my armsmen. I will leave what you need to run Stromwer and for the liedgeld. I wish I could do otherwise . . . but the past has left Falcor with little.”

  “It is said that you, as Lady of Mencha, have paid liedgeld. Is that true?” The words were direct.

  “Yes.”

  Wendella nodded. “I do not like you. I freely grant you my respect and my thanks for my son and my station. And I will write Lord Mietchel telling him so.”

  “That would be good for us all,” Anna said. “I will be equally frank. I respect you for what you have endured. I respect your strength, and I am sorry for your suffering. I suspect we will never be close friends.” And that’s an understatement. “I will help, as I can, to ensure that Stromwer is strong and respected.”

  Wendella bowed. “I . . . can . . . say no more.” Her eyes went to the sleeping Condell.

  “You don’t have to,” Anna said gently. “I am glad you came. I hope you will rest and recover, and take care of Stromwer and your son.” She stood, as did Jecks.

  The two waited until the door closed behind Wendella.

  “I said that she would respect you.”

  Anna still wondered how much was compelled by her spells. Still, it was better than slaughtering an entire keep. You’ve done that, too. She reached for the wine and took another swallow. Then came the last scroll in Dythya’s to-do pile.

  She groaned. “The rivermen are asking that we forgo the tariffs on cargos down the Falche, since this is the first year in the last four that the river has been high enough for their boats. They need every copper to survive.”

  “So do you,” answered Jecks. “So does Defalk.”

  Anna hated taxes, and she hated being the local equivalent of both government and the IRS. But how could she keep the country together without revenues to pay armsmen and smiths and everything else?

  After a sigh, she took another sip of wine, then reached for more paper.

  Thrap!

  “A young fellow to see you.” This time it was Fhurgen who peered inside the chamber with a wide grin.

  “A young fellow?”

  “From Abenfel.”

  “Birke?”

  The dark-bearded guard just offered a wider grin.

  “Have him come in.” Birke? The red-haired son of Lord Birfels who’d been her first page when she had come to Falcor? Who’d effectively been a hostage both of Barjim and then of Behlem?

  Wearing a green tunic piped in gray, the red-haired youth stepped into the chamber and bowed deeply. “Lady Anna, at your service.” A cheerful smile followed the words.

  “Birke! It’s good to see you.” Anna paused. “Why are you here?”

  “We had heard that you were not too far away, and my sire has asked that I offer an invitation of our hospitality to you and your forces.” Birke smiled. “We rode from Abenfel in less than four days.”

  “Your offer of hospitality is much appreciated,” said Anna. “I honestly hadn’t thought about what we’ll be doing after we settle Stromwer.”

  “We would be pleased to offer a place of rest on your return to Falcor. The river road is not longer than the way through Suhl.”

  “It is good to see you. And your offer is tempting.” She smiled. “I will think about it.” She glanced at the piles of scrolls. “We’ll talk at supper.” She gestured. “I have a few duties as regent.”

  “You have always been the regent, and Defalk is fortunate indeed.” Birke spoiled the formal words with another wide grin.

  “You . . .” She shook her head. “At dinner.”

  “With pleasure.” He bowed again.

  Anna refilled her goblet after Birke had left. Was she drinking too much? She’d scarcely had anything to drink until the damned scrolls had arrived. That showed how much she liked administration.

  “He’s grown,” Anna said. “I still wish he’d stayed in Falcor.”

  “He may have stayed there long enough that it matters not,” suggested Jecks. “You have a way of changing people quickly, my lady.”

  “Me?”

  “You, my lady.”

  Anna shook her head, then glanced at the scrolls. “Changing people or not, we still have too many scrolls to go through.”

  “At your service, my lady.”

  Anna mock-glared at Jecks.

  67

  Anna glanced back at the walls of Stromwer, reddish in the dawn light, rising out of dark red-and-gray cliffs. She stifled a yawn. For someone who wasn’t a morning person, the regent business was a tough gig. And getting tougher, no matter what Jecks thinks. Absently, she patted Farinelli, who almost pranced northward down the road.

  “Riding in the morning is so much better,” burbled Birke from Anna’s left. “It’s cooler, and the air is cleaner. There’s less dust, and it’s quieter. . . .”

  Unless you’re riding next to a cheerful morning person, Anna thought, yawning again. All the damned scrolls and paperwork had taken forever. She glanced at Jecks, almost as bright-eyed as Birke, and wanted to shake her head. On mornings such as these, she definitely missed coffee, but there didn’t seem to be any coffee in Liedwahr and no substitute closer than hot cider. Hot cider was no help, even when it was available, which it wasn’t in early summer in Stromwer.

  She coughed gently. Something, some pollen, was irritating both nose and throat.

  “. . . A morning hunt in the higher hills, that is good, too,” Birke continued.

  “Unless you’re the deer,” Anna finally said dryly. Birke flushed.

  “Don’t mind me, Birke.”

  “You do not like hunting?”

  “Let’s say that I know it’s necessary.” Anna forced a polite smile. “Just as some battles are necessary.”

  Birke frowned.

  “I’m sorry,” Anna said quietly. “Could we talk about something besides hunts and battles? I’m a little tired of killing.” You should be, with all you’ve done.

  After a moment, Birke spoke again. “Did you know that you can see the Falche from the southwest guard tower at Abenfel? It hasn’t had that much water in years. If it keeps rising, even the oldest farm trenches to the north will be able to carry water to the fields.”

  “You’re that close to the river?” Anna asked.

  “Only a little more than a dek and a half. The keep has its own springs, and that means it didn’t have to be close enough to be flooded.”

  “You must be higher, then?”

  “A good two hundred yards. The upper part of the Chasm begins by the keep.”

  “The Chasm?” Anna hadn’t heard about the Chasm, except in a brief mention during one of Menares’ geography lectures to the fosterlings and as a label on a map.

  “That’s the deep canyon that carries the Falche into Dumar and the cataracts. My sire, he’s talked about the cataracts. I’ve never seen them. But the walls of the canyon, some places, they’re hundreds of yards tall, and there’s one place—it’s a ride of several glasses—where you can almost throw a stone . . . well, shoot an arrow anyway, from the cliffs on one side to the other. Another place, there’s this beach . . . the sand is so soft . . .”

  Birke flushed.

  “I can imagine what you might have been doing there,” Hanfor said with a gentle laugh.

  “You thought of it, you veteran lecher,” Anna countered, to relieve Birke’s growing embarrassment.

  “So I did.” Hanfor laughed good-naturedly. “It’s been a long spring.”

  Several of the guards behind Anna laughed as well.

  She shifted her weight, conscious that she was beginning to sweat again under the breastplate. She had to get used to the damned armor, she supposed, but would she? Really?

  “One of the big pines fell into the river . . .” Birke continued.

  “You’re not planning on going back to Falcor yet,” Jecks said in a low voice, easing his mount closer to Farinelli.

  “Not yet. We couldn’t stay in
Stromwer, and it won’t hurt to visit Birfels.”

  “No, it will not.” Jecks smiled. “You worry about Ehara? Do you regret sending the scroll?”

  “The scroll? No. I worry about the Sea-Priests. They’re using Dumar as a wedge. They won’t attack Mansuur or Nordwei. From what you’ve said, the harbor at Elawha in Ebra isn’t very good. So that leaves Ranuak or Dumar, and if I were a Sea-Priest, I’d certainly try Dumar first.”

  “They have sought out Ehara,” conceded Jecks.

  “I don’t like going back to Falcor and leaving them to create more trouble,” Anna said quietly.

  “Even with you, Lady Anna, we could not attack Dumar,” offered Hanfor.

  “I understand that,” Anna said tiredly. “What are we supposed to do? Wait until Ehara and his newfound allies attack us?”

  “Have we any choice?”

  Anna looked at the dusty red road where it entered the gorge, at the long shadows of morning. “I don’t know. I keep hoping.” As always, as ever, but things don’t change that way. She took a deep breath. And you’d better think of something . . . some way to force the Sea-Priests out of Dumar. . . .

  68

  Anna lay quietly in the dark, on a cot under the thin silk tent that she rated. Both tent and cot were improvements on her first campaign, if she could call the battle of the Sand Pass and the subsequent flight from the Dark Monks of Ebra a campaign.

  The silk overhead fluttered ever so slightly, and Anna opened her eyes, then closed them. Outside, leather creaked as one of her guards shifted his position.

  Her arm still twinged at times, the one that had taken the crossbow bolt first, and it twinged now. She turned onto her side, carefully, so that she didn’t tip the lightweight cot.

  The silk of the tent sidewall fluttered.

  She couldn’t attack Dumar. Yet Dumar would attack Defalk. Or the Sea-Priests would. Or Bertmynn would use the aid of Sturinn to defeat Hadrenn, and then she’d face the Sea-Priests and their allies on two fronts, with the Liedfuhr on a third.

  But she hadn’t the resources for an attack, even with sorcery. How could she convince Ehara to throw out the Sea-Priests? What kind of show of force would it take?

  You . . . thinking like a hawk . . . or a warmonger . . .

  Finally, she sat up and pulled on her boots before she stepped out into the darkness.

  “Lady?” whispered the guard, Kerhor, from his voice.

  “I just needed some air, Kerhor.”

  “Yes, lady.” Kerhor straightened and followed her the dozen steps she took to a low rise.

  On the eastern horizon was the tiny red disc that was Darksong, while high over ahead was the bright white disc of Clearsong. Two moons, music magic . . . sometimes she felt it had to be a dream—until she got shot by an arrow or floored by the backlash of her own magic.

  Anna missed the big bright moon of earth. She missed a lot, still. Elizabetta, not that much older than Birke, her little redhead who wasn’t little, but all too far away, beyond even the scope of Anna’s glasses and reflecting pools.

  Was her daughter in love under a bright moon? How long would she really miss Anna? Did Anna want her to grieve too long? Would she even grieve, knowing Anna was alive, somewhere? Should she?

  The sorceress and regent shook her head slowly, taking a last look at the red moon on the horizon, then the white disc near its zenith, before slipping back into her tent, hoping she could sleep. Praying that she could.

  69

  There it is,” announced Birke, gesturing ahead as the van rode to the crest of the low hill.

  Anna half stood in the stirrups to get a better view of Birke’s home. Like Synfal and Stromwer, Abenfel clearly dated from a more warlike period. The tall gray walls were without embrasures, and the gate towers were twice the size of those at Falcor. Despite the height of the walls, they seemed almost squat from their thickness, and each of the four walls stretched nearly a dek.

  “It be a big place,” murmured Rickel to Lejun—the two guards riding immediately behind Anna and Jecks.

  “More than half the rooms are empty. They have been for years, I guess,” Birke said. “We always had great fun at steal-away-and-find. I once found a funny set of drums, all attached in a frame, and all different sizes.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “My sire burned them.” Birke shrugged. “He said they were ancient magic that no decent folk should use I think there was a ballroom once on the third level. I saw it in the old drawings, but that was a long time ago, and now that space is where the library is.”

  Jecks nodded at that.

  Anna managed not to frown. Brill hadn’t been happy when she’d mentioned the use of multiple drums, but he’d never really explained, despite all her questions. And then he’d died before Anna could follow up. Jecks had clearly been unhappy with the ballroom at Synfal and had already told Herstat to do something about it—without telling Anna. Herstat had asked Anna—quietly. Anna had told him to go ahead. If it upset Jecks that much, it would certainly have upset others. What she still didn’t understand was why they all went crazy about dancing. As if it were so immoral. Anna sighed quietly. She wouldn’t change that. And drums? What kind of sorcery went with drums? The books she’d gotten from Brill had alluded to their use, but she’d never had the time to pore through them all, not with the struggle of reading a language that was a cross between Old English and German.

  As Farinelli carried her steadily along the dusty gray clay road, she studied the approach to the keep instead. Abenfel stood on a low hill, the gates to the north. Directly to the east and the south were higher grassy hills. To the west, the ground sloped gently for more than a dek to a line of trees, which marked, from what Anna could see, a bluff, possibly overlooking the Falche. Because of the haze, she could not make out the far side of the river, but she gained the impression that even the upper part of the Great Chasm was considerable. Was it like the Grand Canyon, or narrower and deeper like the Black Canyon of the Gunnison?

  Her eyes went back to Abenfel.

  A permanent bridge, of later construction from the darker stone, spanned a dry moat almost a hundred yards wide and ten deep and led to the open gates, roughly three yards high, and bound with dark iron.

  One of the riders with Birke unfurled a green-and-gray pennant.

  Hanfor nodded and murmured something to one of the scouts, who unfurled the Regency banner. Without speaking, both standard bearers rode to the front of the column.

  High thin clouds were turning orange and pink as the sun dropped behind the lower peaks to the west, leaving only the tips of the higher mountains to the south in light, and but briefly.

  No one spoke as the column rode across the bridge and causeway.

  Anna had barely reined up in the courtyard of Abenfel before Lord Birfels crossed the worn but still well-set gray paving stones. Birfels’ red hair was more than half white, and his ruddy complexion was blotched from too many years in the sun. “Regent Anna.”

  “Lord Birfels.” Anna swung out of the saddle.

  “You dress and ride like a lancer, as slim as many, if more deadly.” The faded brown eyes held a hint of a smile, and Anna could see the similarity between Birfels and his offspring—both Birke and his older sister Lysara, who had replaced Birke as a fosterling at Falcor.

  Anna shrugged. “I’ve had to learn to ride, but a blade is beyond my skill.”

  “Not a dagger, I understand.”

  Anna tried not to flush. She’d never live down the time she’d gutted a Neserean lancer who’d tried to ambush her in Falcor’s stable. “I was fortunate.”

  Birfels waited as a slender and white-haired woman neared. Despite the silvery-white hair, her face and figure conveyed that she was a good decade younger than the lord.

  “Lady Anna, this is Fylena, my consort.”

  “Lady Anna,” Fylena smiled warmly. “Birke has told us so much about you.”

  “I am pleased to be here, Lady Fylena. I do h
ope Birke hasn’t revealed too many of my weaknesses.”

  “From his tales, we were not aware that you had any.” Birfels offered another hearty laugh.

  The southern lord was certainly more voluble than he had been in the past, and Anna had to wonder why. She patted Farinelli absently. The gelding whuffed. “I have more than my share. I try not to reveal them too blatantly.”

  “You have been most successful,” said Fylena gently.

  “I would be honored to place all of Abenfel at your disposal,” offered Birfels. “I have even repaired and filled the reflecting pool once used by the lady Peuletar.”

  “Your hospitality is most generous,” Anna responded.

  “And most self-serving,” added Birfels, self-deprecatingly. “You are the first ruler of Defalk in generations to put down the Suhlmorran lords, something long overdue.”

  “You must excuse my ignorance,” Anna said. “As you know, I have had to learn the history of Defalk. I presume you do not come from that line.”

  “Hardly. That we can discuss at supper.” Birfels turned to Jecks, who had dismounted with so little fuss that Anna had almost forgotten he was there. “Jecks, you are always welcome.”

  “You would be welcome at Elheld, Birfels, if your bones could stand the chill.”

  From behind and to the side of Fylena, Birke grinned.

  “It is chill enough here for me, come winter and the snows. The cold I would not mind, only that wind out of the north, and you may keep it there.”

  “Lord Birfels, I must confess I am relatively new to this business.” Anna gestured to Hanfor, who had remained mounted. “This is the Regency’s arms commander, Hanfor. We have somewhere over twelvescore lancers and others with us.”

  “Arms Commander, you are most welcome. Syliern will be here momentarily, and he can offer you a choice of quarters for all your men.” Birfels offered an ironic grin. “Abenfel was once the southern keep of Defalk during the insurgencies. We have some considerable space.”