The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  Anna eased Farinelli back toward the players.

  “Green Company. Search the grounds,” continued Hanfor. “There is a guard barracks somewhere near.”

  “We’ll have to wait. I know you’re all tired,” Anna told Liende, “but I want no treachery within the palace.” Anna smiled grimly, and Liende nodded.

  “Yes, Regent.” Liende’s tone was formal, not quite resigned.

  “Now, after we get settled and eat, you can rest for a time. Later, we’ll have to go to work again.”

  Anna faced the palace, hands on lutar, watching as her forces swarmed across the grounds and the palace, waiting for Hanfor’s signal.

  She could see the merchants squirming on their mounts, and she wondered what she could do about them—or if she had to.

  Jecks, his blade out, followed her eyes. “You do not trust them.”

  “No.”

  “Nor I, but they will acknowledge you, so long as they fear you.”

  Anna was afraid that was the way it would always be. She sat on Farinelli, watching, watching others watch her.

  Lord, she was tired, and the day was far from over, far from it . . . far, far from it.

  112

  Must you do this, lady?” asked Alvar, as Anna led Farinelli out of the palace stable into another sunlit, hot, and humid morning.

  “How else do I ensure that we hold Dumaria?” asked Anna.

  “The armsmen have fled,” suggested Alvar.

  “No,” added Jecks, leading his own mount out behind Anna. “Some have said that they fled. The mirror shows no danger now, but what after we pursue Lord Ehara?”

  Anna wanted to nod. No matter what anyone said, she would have to leave some force at the palace, and that meant there couldn’t be any organized opposition remaining in Dumar. Out in the courtyard, in the long early-morning shadow cast by the stable, she handed Farinelli’s reins to Kerhor. The sharp-faced, dark-haired guard bowed slightly.

  An unfamiliar birdcall wafted on the slight breeze from the palace park that lay to the north of the stable courtyard.

  The players stood outside, their mounts held by some of the armsmen, their instruments ready.

  Anna cleared her throat, though she’d already warmed up in her chambers, then looked at the players. “Today is going to be long, and possibly dangerous. I hope not. What we need to do is to seek out any armsmen left in Dumaria, and either obtain their allegiance to the Regency or kill them.” She could see the lank-haired Delvor wince at her last words. “It’s very simple. The Dumarans have to know that I can find anyone, and that no one bearing arms against Defalk will survive.” Of course, you still can’t find that sorcerer in eastern Defalk. . . .

  Beside her, Jecks laid out the scrying mirror on the stones of the courtyard.

  She pushed away the errant thought. “We probably won’t find every single deserter or armsman who hides, but we must create the impression that we can. That’s what we’ve already done in places like Finduma and Hrissar.” She smiled and paused. “We didn’t find too many, but that shouldn’t be a problem in Dumaria.”

  A low laugh echoed from the armsmen reined up and waiting.

  Anna nodded to Liende. “Any time, chief player.”

  “The seeking song . . . on my mark. . . . Mark!” Liende dropped her hand, and lifted her horn, and the clarinet-like woodwind melded with the falk horn and the strings.

  Anna’s voice, more rested, rose above the players.

  “Find, find, any Dumaran close to here,

  any armsman bearing weapons hard and near . . .”

  Again, the mirror showed three men in gray—not crimson—gathered around a table. One looked over his shoulder, as if to a door.

  Alvar studied the image, and Anna hoped his memory was good. Hanfor’s sketching might have been better, but the arms commander was wrestling with other problems—such as how to divide their forces, and what was needed to keep a handle on Dumaria.

  Alvar nodded, as did Jecks.

  “Again,” Anna said. This time she used the second verse of the spell.

  “Show the armsman in that exact place

  from outside from where we saw his face

  show the place both clear and bright,

  so we may find it in the light . . .”

  The image in the mirror sparkled up from where it lay on the stones. The building that appeared in the glass seemed to slant, as if it had been pushed somehow sideways, and debris was piled against part of the front.

  Flood damage, Anna suspected.

  A signboard showing a black ram lay propped against the wall beside the open front door.

  After a moment, Anna sang the release couplet, and then mounted Farinelli.

  “Need you go?” asked Alvar.

  “If I am not seen . . .” Anna shrugged. Again, she couldn’t quite explain it, but all she had, really, was the threat of force, and the impression of invincibility—and hiding in the palace wasn’t going to bolster that impression. Besides, the mirror spells earlier hadn’t shown any immediate danger. That could mean there was so much that sorcery couldn’t detect it, or that Dumaria was momentarily cowed.

  Either way, she had to do something—quickly.

  “We will wait while you find the way to the Black Ram.” Anna glanced down at Jecks, wearing what she thought of as battle leathers, then at Alvar. “I’d bet it’s close to the bottom of the hill the palace sits on and a bit toward the river.”

  “I would not wager against that.” Alvar smiled and swung up into his saddle.

  Jecks swept up the scrying glass and efficiently packed it back in its leathers, then began to strap it in the harness behind Anna’s saddle. Farinelli sidestepped slightly.

  “Easy . . . easy . . .” Anna glanced out toward the east. “We’ll want to surround the place. I’d rather not have to turn anyone into flame.” But you will if you have to . . . and you know you’ll need an example or two. She pursed her lips momentarily, knowing, given human nature, and the macho nature of the men of Liedwahr, that she wouldn’t have to create the example. Which is worse . . . their nature or your willingness to use it . . . ?

  As Alvar led off the company of armsmen, standing beside his mount, Jecks cleared his throat.

  Anna turned in the saddle, realizing that she and Jecks were alone, alone in a circle of players and mounts that had given them a wide berth.

  “You do not look forward to this day.” The older lord mounted. “As you did not look forward to the last battle.”

  “No. But we have to root out anything that may cause trouble for Alvar. We have to leave some armsmen, but I don’t want to leave many.”

  “Nor I.” Jecks smiled. “Yet all you need armsmen for is to protect you. There will be no true battles, no blades against blades, shafts against shafts.”

  “You think using sorcery is wrong?”

  “Once I might have thought so.” The white-haired lord shrugged, then patted the shoulder of his mount. “Those who love the excitement and the smell of death and blood . . . they will still claim a kingdom won by sorcery will not last . . . because blood anchors a conquest.”

  “There has been enough blood to anchor this.” More than enough. . . .

  “They will claim that sorcery is ease, as though sweeping stones from a Vorkoffe board.” Jecks added quickly. “I have seen otherwise, my lady, and you should know that.”

  “Ease . . .” Anna wanted to laugh. How many weeks had she been prostrated? How many times had others tried to use sorcery against her? How many thousands had died? . . . Was there something about people that found weapons despicable if they didn’t cause equal devastation and risk to both sides? Well . . . her own world hadn’t exactly liked nuclear weapons. . . .

  “Let’s see . . . once a battle’s over, and the victor goes home, the dead remain. Once my sorcery’s over, and we return to Defalk, the dead remain. Is there any difference?” Except that men who have strong arms and blades think that sorcery is unfair . . . that women
should do the fair thing and fight with blades . . . and give away how much in size and strength and muscle mass? “No . . . a spellsong war is as fair as any other kind of war.”

  A frown crossed Jecks’ face before he nodded. “You would say no war is fair.”

  “No war I’ve heard of.”

  Alvar rode into the courtyard, a wry smile on his face. “The Black Ram lies less than half a dek below us.”

  Anna nodded toward Liende, then flicked the reins. She and Jecks rode almost shoulder to shoulder, behind Rickel and Fhurgen. Her guards did carry the shields, and every one of her personal guard rode with blades unsheathed as they descended the cobblestone road into Dumaria.

  Below the hill the road narrowed, but ran straight eastward toward the Falche River. Farther ahead, where the street seemed to narrow in the distance, she could see whole buildings seemingly slumped into piles.

  The road seemed empty, windows shuttered, but she wondered how recently the shutters had been closed. A rank odor, of mud, and sewage, and worse, hung over the town. Anna knew who had caused that—or whose flood.

  The Black Ram stood on a corner, the front door closed, the shutters on the timbered second-story windows closed.

  “The Green Company is behind the inn,” Alvar said quietly. “Your wishes, Regent?”

  “I know it will be dangerous . . . but I’d like the three armsmen brought out.”

  “It must be done.” Alvar turned.

  Anna watched as the stocky overcaptain drew aside a group of armsmen, speaking quietly and gesturing toward the inn. Shortly, a dozen archers had their bows strung and arrows ready to nock.

  Then a burly armsman stepped up to the barred door of the inn and pounded on the door. “Open . . . in the name of the regent and sorceress.”

  The door remained closed. Anna glanced up the street in the direction of the palace, but the street remained empty.

  “Open . . . in the name of the regent and sorceress.” The burly armsman lifted his arm to hammer on the door a second time, when the door opened, and a bearded man peered out. He glanced at the ranks of armsmen, then shrugged, as if to cast himself to his fate.

  “Stand aside. We seek three fleeing armsmen.”

  “Sers . . . there be none. . . . I know.”

  “They were here,” said Jecks.

  Anna could sense the whispers from the inn and from the buildings around. She felt exposed, and she noted that Fhurgen had moved slightly back, setting the shield as to protect her from behind.

  “The sorceress . . . at the Black Ram?”

  “. . . looks more like a young beardless lord . . .”

  “. . . hard . . . her face be . . .”

  Anna nodded at Alvar. “Send armsmen after them.”

  A dozen men dismounted at signal from the over-captain, blades drawn, stepping past the innkeeper and into the building.

  Anna waited as the muted sounds of boots—and yells—sifted onto the street. Perspiration oozed down her neck.

  Rickel shifted the heavy shield. Jecks checked his bare blade yet again.

  Abruptly, two men in nondescript leathers walked out—dejectedly, heads down. Behind them came four armsmen, blades still bare and ready.

  More muffled sounds preceded the third man—ginger-bearded, from whose slashed cheek blood streamed as he was half carried, half dragged from the building. Despite another wound, evidenced by the dark stains across his shirt, the wounded man struggled violently in the grip of the two armsmen.

  A third armsman followed, holding an arm as if to staunch blood from a slash to the biceps.

  “Frig . . . your sorceress . . . Frig all you . . .” yelled the wounded prisoner as the two armsmen frog-marched him into the street. “Frig . . . you woman-loving sisters . . . Frig you all . . .”

  “So you will not swear allegiance to the Regency of Defalk?” Anna asked loudly.

  “Frig you!” The man spat toward Anna.

  Alvar raised his hand.

  “No.” Anna dreaded what came next. “When I start to sing, release him. If he tries to attack you, you may do as you please.” She lifted the lutar, coughed once, and began to sing and play.

  “Armsman strong, armsman wrong,

  who would not swear in heart along,

  be cloaked in flame, and fire song,

  be flayed by fire before this

  throng.”

  The two armsmen holding the wounded prisoner literally hurled the man to the cobblestones, and had their blades out before he sprawled on the hard surface. The man struggled to his knees before the whips of fire began to lash him.

  Standing by the door, the innkeeper turned and retched in the general direction of the open sewer.

  As the fire died away, Anna swallowed hard as she looked at the heap of charcoaled meat and ashes, smelling the odor of burning flesh. She turned in the saddle to the other two armsmen. “As I found you now, should you ever turn against Defalk, you can be found again.” She waited. “Do you swear allegiance—”

  Even before she had finished, both men were on the cobblestones, on their knees, mumbling, “We swear by all the harmonies, by anything you wish . . .”

  “We accept your allegiance.” She turned to Alvar. “Have them taken to the palace and sworn into that special guard Hanfor is forming.”

  The special guard was designed to patrol areas, such as the port, where, hopefully, they would reduce theft . . . and could be watched, halfway. You hope. . . .

  The whispers from behind shutters rose momentarily.

  “. . . see why . . .”

  “. . . wouldn’t want to cross her . . .”

  “. . . glad she’s leaving us alone . . .”

  Anna hoped all those ideas reached throughout the people. She turned to Liende. “We’ll need the seeking spell again.”

  “Here?”

  “Why not?” The basic theory of Clearsong was known to everyone. It wasn’t the idea that was difficult—just the execution. At that thought, her eyes went to the charcoaled body.

  “The body?” asked Alvar.

  Anna steeled herself and said forcefully, so that her voice would carry, “Leave it. Leave it so all know the price of disloyalty.”

  “Yes, Regent.” Alvar squared his shoulders, then shouted, “Leave this carrion so all will know the price for disloyalty.”

  “The seeking spell,” Anna repeated, looking toward Liende.

  “Yes, Regent.”

  Anna turned in the saddle, but Jecks already was unfastening the traveling mirror.

  Another spell . . . another hiding armsman, or deserter—or fanatic. She hoped there weren’t too many of the latter. With a deep breath, a calm smile plastered on her face, she waited.

  113

  After laying her spell file on the antique writing desk and setting the lutar on top of the shorter bookcase, Anna paused and glanced in the wall mirror of Ehara’s private study, which she’d commandeered as a conference and workroom.

  Despite a bath, a good night’s sleep, and an enormous breakfast of eggs, fried ham slabs, cheese and bread, the woman who looked back at her hardly looked feminine at all—an angular and thin face, hard blue eyes, tanned skin rougher than was fashionable anywhere, and a firmly set jaw. Even the short blonde hair could have passed for masculine.

  She shook her head, and her reflection did also. After another look at the reflection she found hard to believe, she turned, walked past the low bookcases, and sank into the chair behind the desk, waiting for Jecks to join her. She remained tired.

  Nearly a dozen seeking spells had dragged her and half the armsmen all over Dumaria the afternoon before—and they’d discovered a score of armsmen—half of whom were wounded. Three had tried to attack . . . one way or another, and there were three charcoaled bodies lying in the streets of Dumaria. The others—shamefaced—had just pledged loyalty to Anna, and were being “reeducated” toward greater loyalty to Defalk, along with being required to serve in the special armsmen—paid slightly more ge
nerously than the locals had been.

  And that pay may bind them . . . maybe . . .

  Even so, after the long ride to Dumaria, the spells had exhausted her, and wiped out the players. Liende had been staggering, and Delvor and Yuarl had collapsed halfway through the last spellsong. For now, Dumaria was officially loyal to Defalk, and the Regency.

  Anna permitted herself a slight smile. Even if Ehara did elude her, even if something happened to her, the Lord of Dumar would find his capital city and much of northeastern Dumar subdued for years, and certainly wary of Defalk. Not for years . . . people here are as shortsighted as anywhere.

  Anna ran her fingers across the slightly dusty surface of the dark wooden writing table. The mantel of the oil lamp was sooty, as though Ehara had spent many late nights in his study. Perhaps he had.

  Slowly, she took out the spell file. She needed to work out in final form the ideas she had for destroying enchanted weapons. The spell probably had to be through-composed, with no repeating words or music, and more complex.

  The sorceress was finishing the last lines when Jecks peered in the door.

  “Come on in.” She slipped the spell into the folder. She’d need to work on that later.

  “You look more rested,” he said, sitting down in one of the straight-backed chairs set at an angle to the writing table.

  “I couldn’t have looked less rested than last night,” she pointed out. “I’m still tired.”

  “You essay making Dumar part of Defalk in weeks. For most rulers it would take years.”

  “We don’t have months or years. We may not even have weeks. Lord knows, I mean—the harmonies only know what’s going on in Defalk.” She focused on him. “We have been sending scrolls chronicling our great victories, haven’t we?”

  “We have. So long as you report victories, little will happen.”

  “But we don’t know for sure—even with my scrying. We haven’t seen one scroll from Falcor.”

  “No . . . that is the difficulty with extended campaigns.” Jecks offered a bland smile. “With those in Defalk, all should be well.”