Darksong Rising: The Third Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “I told you Sturinn would appear again in Liedwahr, just like a clipped copper. Did I not?”

  “Yes, sire,” Bassil answers formally.

  “What about the dissonant traders of Wei?” The Liedfuhr straightens and steps back, turning toward the open window. The silver cloak swirls, revealing the close-fitting sky-blue-velvet tunic and trousers with the silver piping that nearly matches the silver that has begun to dominate his once-brown hair and beard.

  “Nothing has changed. Their seers watch the sorceress, the freewomen, the Ebrans—”

  “—and us! Do not forget that they study us as well. They watch all of Liedwahr.” Konsstin turns back toward Bassil.

  “Yes, sire.” The lancer officer bows again.

  “And do not be so deeply and insolently respectful, Bassil. We have talked about this before, you and I.”

  Bassil straightens and continues. “The South Women sent that one cargo of blades and arms to Elahwa, but no ships or armsmen or armswomen followed. The Matriarch has yet to issue any proclamations or take any action.”

  “She never does, yet matters change all the same from her interest” Konsstin clears his throat. “Has Bertmynn requested more assistance?”

  “No, sire.”

  “We have supplied him near-on five hundred golds and tenscore well-forged blades, and little have we received but polite scrolls of thanks.” Konsstin snorts. “I scarce expected more, yet when the other lordlet pledged fealty to Defalk …” The Liedfuhr paces toward the wide windows to his right. “This wouldn’t have happened, Bassil, not if we had a true Empire of Harmony. And what have we?” His lips purse for a moment. “You have heard me talk of this before. So have many. Most think I spout nonsense about an Empire of Music. I am not stupid. I see what lies behind the polite eyes of those who watch. The sorceress destroyed twoscore ships of Sturinn. Twoscore, and yet more ships and gold find their way past the Shoals of Discord to Ebra, as if the Maitre had lost nothing. My grandson builds his lancers for a vain attack on the sorceress. Nubara believes he can control Rabyn, as his sire believed he could control my daughter.” Konsstin’s laugh is half-ironic, half-rueful.

  “You think Nubara will fail to rein in the young Prophet?”

  “I know he will fail. We can but hope that he will not fail too soon. Nor fail too completely.”

  “Perhaps you should reconsider … and send another fiftyscore lancers to support Nubara.” Bassil moistens his lips.

  “Sooner or later, Rabyn would only use them against the sorceress, or Nubara would use them to defend himself against Rabyn. The lancers would be lost … wasted, as would the coins to pay them and feed them.” Konsstin turns, flings open the windowed door, and steps out onto the sunlit balcony, where he looks out at where the rivers join, the silver cloak hanging limply from his broad shoulders.

  Bassil follows. When Konsstin does not speak, the lancer officer finally asks, “Would they be wasted if the sorceress were elsewhere—say in Ebra?”

  “You think she would go to Ebra to support Hadrenn?” From the balcony of the bluff-top palace, the Liedfuhr looks westward, beyond the ancient walls of the fort below to where the Ansul and the Latok Rivers merge. “She has made no move, even with the freewomen in danger.”

  “Sire? Does she even know about the freewomen? Remember, while her leanings would support them … who would have told her of them and their cause?”

  “She could scry what is happening.”

  “If she knew for what she looked,” Bassil points out.

  “Hmmmm … she is still new to Liedwahr.”

  “Exactly. Perhaps you should so inform her. That would give her two reasons to be in Ebra.”

  “That assumes you are correct, Bassil.” Konsstin turns on one bootheel and studies the lancer officer. “Even given her inclinations, why would she do that? Defalk still must contend with Nordwei to the north and Neserea and my grandson to the west. She must placate or control thirty-three stiff-necked and feuding lords. Her strength is sorcery, and she has no standing army. Not one to call such. She can only be in one place at a time. Oh … and of her thirty-three lords, perhaps two-thirds doubt her powers, for they have not met her, nor have they seers to follow her.” Konsstin clasps his hands, then unclasps them and stretches. “With such constraints, why would she risk herself in Ebra?”

  “What if you sent her a message, supported with golds?”

  “You suggest treachery? That I tell her I have no designs on Defalk?” Konsstin shakes his head. “Even I would not stoop so low as that, Bassil. Not even for an Empire of Music.”

  “Do you have designs on Defalk, sire? Now?”

  “Not realistic designs.”

  “Then you have no designs. It is not treachery to state the truth.” Bassil swallows, waiting.

  “You are suggesting that I encourage the sorceress to support Hadrenn in Ebra, after all the golds we have sent to Bertmynn?”

  “You yourself said last year, sire, that you did not want Sturinn in Liedwahr. You also said that Mansuur could not send armsmen into other parts of Liedwahr, except for Neserea. Who, then, do you propose will be the one to defeat the Sturinnese?”

  “But … if she goes to Ebra, Rabyn, in his anger, may well attack Defalk. With our lancers, no less.”

  “If Nubara does not restrain him.”

  Konsstin fingers his well-trimmed and mostly silver beard. “If Nubara does away with Rabyn, would the sorceress oppose my taking Neserea?”

  “She would not like it, but … you could always propose splitting the land. You could take the Great Western Forest and the Westfels and the mines, and leave Defalk the lands of the east and south.”

  “Rabyn may well remove Nubara. Then the sorceress would have to defend Defalk … and she may or may not triumph, but as matters now stand she would destroy Rabyn and the armsmen and lancers of Neserea—and our good lancers.”

  Bassil nods. “That is true. The worst that could happen would be that Liedwahr would be dominated by three lands. And the sorceress would be hard-pressed to unify what she held for the heir for years.” He shrugs. “And if she fails, then who could blame Mansuur for stepping in to unify the remains of Neserea and Defalk? Bertmynn need not know that you have also supported the sorceress.”

  “So that if she does fail, he will owe me fealty—and if he does not provide such, who will stand behind him?”

  “Certainly not Ranuak or Nordwei.” Bassil inclines his head slightly. “In one case, Mansuur will hold all of Liedwahr, except Wei and Ranuak, and in the other, there will be three powers, instead of having seven squabbling ragtag states.”

  “Bassil … you do know how I dislike having my own words used against me?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  “There is Nordwei. Let us not forget the cautious traders. Cold silver flows in their veins.” Konsstin frowns, then leaves the balcony and the view of the two rivers that form the Toksul, the great river of Mansuur that flows westward to Wahrsus and the ocean. Back in his study, he closes the windowed door. “So I should send a large gift to the Regent of Defalk and explain that the additional fiftyscore lancers going to Neserea are there to restrain my grandson?”

  “Would that not be true? One way or another? And it is far less costly than another war of unification. Even if you lose all one hundred—score lancers.”

  Konsstin takes a deep breath. “Draft the scrolls … and propose a way to inform the sorceress about the freewomen, without our quill strokes upon it. I will think upon this, but draft them for me by tomorrow.”

  Bassil bows. “As the Liedfuhr commands.”

  “I will be riding with Aerlya in the morning. That is something I promised her, and to deny a daughter who is both sweet and stubborn …” Konsstin shakes his head. “That is almost as bad as provoking a sorceress.” He pauses again. “And to think that before long I will have to find her a consort—a suitable one, no less.”

  “I will have them in the early afternoon,” Bassil promises.


  16

  Some ten deks west of Borteland, another village in Defalk Anna had never heard of until traveling through it, the dusty road wound out from between two hills to reveal both a dekstone and a valley containing a much larger town. The dekstone read: “Fussen: 1 d.”

  “That must be Fussen,” announced Skent from where he rode behind Anna.

  Anna smiled, thinking of how often her son Mario had announced the obvious, even when he’d been well over sixteen—like Skent.

  As with most of the other mountain or hill towns in Defalk Anna had visited, the keep of Fussen sat on a hill, just to the west of the town itself, a dark mass outlined by the late-afternoon sun. Beyond the shadowed structure rose another line of hills, and beyond those, the true peaks of the Mittfels.

  Anna squinted, but could only make out the general outline of walls rising above a clear grassy slope that separated the keep from the town below. To the left of the road, a stream burbled generally southward, apparently coming from the hills to the north of Fussen.

  “Break out the Regent’s banner!” announced Himar.

  The armsman riding behind Blaz unfurled the purple banner with the golden crossed spears and the crown, with the R beneath. The banner billowed for a moment in a sudden light breeze as the lancer rode to the head of the column, then drooped limply around the staff as the armsman set the base in his lanceholder.

  “Tell me again why I’m doing this,” Anna said to Jecks.

  “You will show that you care about the lands to the west.”

  “You want me to support Ustal?”

  “I would hope that you could, my lady, but I know as little about the man as you. Less perhaps, for I do not see all that you do.”

  “Flattery—that’s another danger of being Regent.”

  “Only if you heed it, my lady.” Jecks smiled.

  Anna enjoyed the smile. “How do you think Ustal will feel?”

  “From the words he used in his scrolls, he will believe you have to come to confirm his claim. He will be angry if you do not.”

  “I’ve been afraid of that,” Anna admitted. “If I don’t, what will he do?”

  “That is why you have armsmen and players, is it not, though he will not go that far, I think.”

  You think? Ah, yes … once more into the breach, dear friends, with flame and fire and sorcery—the sorceress’ universal answer to each problem. Anna’s lips curled into a sardonic, self-mocking smile. “I hope we don’t have to use them. The mirror showed no danger.”

  “That was before you decide,” Jecks reminded her. “Hope you do not need sorcery, but prepare yourself to use it.”

  Anna nodded. Then she turned in the saddle and motioned for Skent and Himar to ride closer to her.

  Jecks said nothing, but eased his mount back on the dusty road to allow the two others to ride beside the Regent.

  “I will be talking,” Anna began, “to Lord Ustal. Skent, I think you will see some of the younger folk. I would ask that you talk to them. Do not talk about Falcor or me, or as little as you can. Try to get them to talk to you. Ask about Fussen, about its prosperity, about the old lord, and only then about Ustal. Do not ask about any of the lord’s family except him and his father.” Anna glanced at Himar. “If you would do the same … and if there are one or two senior armsmen of ours that you trust totally, if you would ask them to do the same.”

  “We can do that, Lady Anna,” affirmed Himar.

  “Yes, Lady Anna,” said Skent.

  Anna then called for Liende, and went through her explanation with the chief player.

  Liende smiled. “Players do talk, and we will hear what we can hear.”

  When Liende had dropped back, and Jecks rode up beside Anna, he said in a low voice, “You did not ask me.” His tone was not plaintive, but even, almost flat.

  For a moment, Anna missed the twinkle in the hazel eyes. Then she laughed. “You! You’ll be with me most of the time. Besides, you have the brains to do that anyway.”

  A faint smile creased Jecks’ lips. “You honor me too much.”

  “Enough of the false humility, you …” She shook her head.

  Jecks said nothing, but his eyes were warm.

  They had ridden no more than a half-dek closer to Fussen when the road curved slightly north. Less than fifty yards after the curve was a bridge that spanned a narrow rocky gorge less than ten yards wide. The bridge was wooden, heavy planks barely wide enough for a wagon and a single horse abreast, with flimsy-looking sides composed of two planks set sideways and fastened to posts attached to the planks and the two heavy timbers that formed the roadbed. Below the plank roadbed, the stream foamed through the narrow defile less than three yards below. The narrow bridge flexed noticeably as the scouts crossed, one after the other.

  “A moment, Lady Anna.” Himar eased his mount past Anna and Jecks and onto the bridge. Then he turned and rode back. “No more than two mounts on the bridge at once.”

  He motioned for Anna’s guards—Kerhor and Blaz—to cross first.

  Once the two were on the far side, Anna and Jecks followed. Farinelli’s hoofs echoed on the heavy worn planks of the bridge. Anna could feel the narrow bridge flex. She glanced at Jecks.

  “The bridge planks should be replaced,” Jecks affirmed. “It would be dangerous for an ironmonger’s wagon.” With a quick look at Anna, he added, “and it should not be replaced through sorcery, my lady and Regent.”

  “Not now, at least,” Anna agreed.

  Lord Jecks snorted. “You would replace every bridge in Defalk, could you do so.”

  “And every major road that’s dirt,” she said pleasantly.

  Less than a hundred yards beyond the bridge, the road curved back through fields of maize that had grown saddle-high toward its previous course. A redstone wall a yard high and extending but five yards on either side of the road marked the eastern boundary of the town proper. At the wall, the maize ended, and beyond the gateless entry, the road was paved with slabs of red stone.

  An inn stood on the left, its signboard portraying a pitcher tilted upside down with a single drop of ale clinging to the lip. Beyond the Last Drop Inn was a chandlery, also of red stone.

  Anna shivered as she saw the emblem of the crossed candles, thinking about Forse’s son, and the Darksong with which the young man in Pamr had infused his chandlery. Would Gatrune be able to shed more light on his actions?

  Two men stood on the porch of the inn, their pale gray tunics tinged red by the light of the sun low above the western hills.

  “ … has to be the Regent … . Regency banner there.”

  “ … looks young, like a boy …”

  “ … sorcery … what you expect from a sorceress …”

  “ … no good of her being here …”

  “Better a Regent deciding than having house fight house … .”

  Anna strained, but she was already too far away to hear more.

  Red stone—that was the predominant building material in the town of Fussen. Redstone walls and dark-slate roofs. A few dwellings were of wattle and plaster, and some of wood, but Fussen was mainly solid stone and square.

  Only a handful of people were on the streets or in the main square, and all studied the Regency banner and Anna, silently, unlike the two men at the Last Drop. She was almost relieved when she and Jecks reached the gateless walls at the west side of the town. There, beyond the town buildings, the road, its paving stones newer, angled up the slope to the keep, its entire length exposed to the parapets above.

  Two lancers in maroon-and-green livery waited there. Both inclined their heads.

  “Regent Anna?” asked the more slight and gray-haired armsman.

  “She is the Lady Anna.” Himar had edged his mount alongside Farinelli.

  “Yes, I’m Anna,” the Regent confirmed. “This is Lord Jecks of Elheld. He is head of the Council of Lords advising the Regency, the Lord High Counselor.”

  “Your grace and your honor, if you would but f
ollow us.”

  Anna nodded, and the two armsmen turned their mounts.

  “I am pleased to know that I am Lord High Counselor. I would that you had let me know such earlier.” Jecks laughed softly.

  “That’s what you’ve been doing all along. I just thought you needed a title to go with the work.” Anna grinned.

  The oiled wooden gates overlooking Fussen were bound with heavy strap iron and swung wide. Two rows of eight lancers in green and maroon formed an honor guard and an entry corridor that led to the back of the courtyard. As Anna and Jecks and Himar rode through the gates and neared the honor guard, a short fanfare—off-key—echoed from three trumpeters standing in the corner behind the lancers of Fussen.

  A tall figure in green and maroon stepped forward toward Anna, even before she had reined Farinelli up. Ustal was tall for someone from Liedwahr, almost a head and a half taller than Anna, and a head taller than Jecks. His shimmering blond hair was square-cut level with his jaws, and his green tunic was spotless—and displayed his well-developed muscles effectively.

  “A blond Prince Valiant,” Anna murmured to herself, squaring herself slightly in the saddle.

  “Fussen welcomes the Regent and the Lord Counselor!” Ustal’s voice was a strong baritone, true in tone. “Welcome to Fussen!” He bowed, then looked expectantly up at Anna.

  Anna inclined her head. “We are most pleased to be here, and look forward to learning more about Fussen and meeting with you all.” She offered a wide smile, hoping it wasn’t too forced. “Lord Jecks, the Lord High Counselor. Overcaptain Himar. My chief of players, Liende, and one of our pages, Skent.” As she finished the introductions, Anna wondered whom she’d forgotten.

  “All of you are most welcome.” Ustal extended a hand, as if to offer Anna assistance, but Anna swung out of the saddle, easily, hoping that after the long ride her legs wouldn’t cramp when her boots touched the stones of the courtyard. She managed standing erect without hanging on to the saddle, and got a low whuff from Farinelli, as if the big gelding were happy she had dismounted.