Darksong Rising: The Third Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “You would not wish to have seen all she has seen,” Jecks added ironically. “I’ve seen but a fraction of it, and I have little wish to see more.”

  Nelmor glanced sideways, almost abruptly, then back at the Regent. “Lady Anna … there is one other matter. I would not trouble you … yet I must bring this up.” A trace of a smile flitted around Nelmor’s face, at odds with the seriousness of his words.

  “Yes?”

  “I hope you do not mind, but Lord Klestayr had prevailed upon me … and requested most urgently that he be allowed to join us for dinner … .” Nelmor broke off and offered a shrug.

  “Just how urgently?” Anna kept a straight face and arched her eyebrows.

  “Urgently enough that he rode in not too far in advance of you, his mounts lathered.”

  “The more at dinner the better, and I look forward to meeting Lord Klestayr under your most gracious hospitality.” Anna almost wanted to gag at the syrup she’d put in her voice. “And I’m even more glad that we met before dinner.”

  “I appreciate your informing me before others at table, and for your many courtesies, Regent Anna, and for yours as well, Lord High Counselor.” Nelmor remained seated.

  Anna realized that she had to end the meeting, and stood. “You have always been most supportive, and we would not wish to have you surprised in any way.” That’s the last thing you need, especially with this touchy lord.

  The Lord of Dubaria waited for Jecks to rise before standing and speaking, “If you would like some air before supper, you might wish to view the side garden. It is Delyra’s pride, and quite beautiful.” Nelmor smiled.

  “We look forward to seeing it.” Is that the royal “we,” or are you including Jecks? Anna didn’t like the idea of the royal “we,” but was beginning to understand its necessity.

  Nelmor bowed again as the two left his private study.

  As Anna and Jecks stepped through the double doors into the small garden, perhaps twenty yards on a side, graced by what appeared to be a boxwood hedge surrounding a small fountain, Anna glanced at Jecks, handsome in his royal blue tunic. “We need a postal service.” Among a good many other things.

  Behind them followed Blaz and Lejun, each with a hand upon his blade.

  “What sort of service might that be?” asked Jecks. “You have few enough golds as it is.”

  Anna took a deep breath as she walked slowly toward the hedge. She had as many problems dealing with Defalk that came from her own assumptions. How would people communicate? Scrolls from the lords—but only if they had something to say. “I think I have an idea. When we get back to Falcor, I’ll draft a long scroll with all sorts of news in it. Big stuff and little stuff …” She glanced at Jecks, and could see the blank expression crossing his face. “You saw that Nelmor didn’t know about Hadrenn or about the freewomen or even about what his own children were doing in Falcor?”

  “That is true.”

  “So I draft one scroll. Each fosterling copies, say, five. We figure out how many lancers it will take to travel to each lord.”

  “But that costs golds …”

  “Bear with me, my dear lord Jecks. Anyone who wants to send a scroll, including fosterlings—a one-sheet scroll—pays a silver to send a message to father and mother.” She smiled. “Or anyone else. Anyone except the lord who wants to send a return message also pays a silver.”

  She pulled at her earlobe. She’d always had little earlobes, and Brill’s youth spell had done nothing to change that. “If I send out those scrolls two or three times a year … the lords will know more than they do now—and they’ll hear some things the way I want them said. We might even get enough silvers to pay for it.”

  Jecks fingered his chin. “Some would not trust such.”

  “It doesn’t matter. We tell the truth, and they’ll hear it somewhere else. In time, they’ll accept it. And some might also decide to send fosterlings to Falcor when they find out who else’s offspring are there.”

  Jecks laughed. “For that alone they might!”

  Anna enjoyed his laugh, and the moist and garden-fresh air in the early twilight, for the few moments before they faced the strain of yet another dinner with more skeptically inquisitive lords and consorts.

  20

  ENCORA, RANUAK

  Alone at the table, the Matriarch stands and smiles as the dark-haired and thin-faced woman enters the small hall.

  The newcomer wears a sea-blue tunic and trousers, the sole ornamentation being a gold pin on her collar. The fine gold wires of the pin represent two sheaves of grain, crossed. She bows, a movement barely more than perfunctory. “I am here at your request, Matriarch.”

  “It is good to see you, Abslim. I know it is early, and you must soon be on your way to preside over the opening of the Mercantile Exchange, but I appreciate your taking the time to come and see an old woman.” The Matriarch stands, slowly, deliberately.

  A tight smile precedes Abslim’s reply. “With such compliments, Matriarch, I fear the words that will follow.”

  “Nonsense. The harmonies will protect you. They have protected us all.” The round-faced Matriarch absently smooths back her gray hair, then straightens her own faded blue tunic before reseating herself at the table and gesturing to the chair across from her.

  “Your wish?” asks Abslim.

  “When I visited the Exchange earlier this year, you expressed a certain concern that Defalk might not make good on the debts of the previous Lord of Falcor.” The Matriarch pauses, then adds when she perceives that Abslim is not ready to respond. “At least, that was what I perceived.”

  “The Exchange was concerned about the unrest in Defalk.” Abslim’s words are tight.

  “All Defalk now acknowledges the Regent. I would assume that this would greatly reassure the Exchange.”

  “There remains the matter of over a thousand golds.”

  “And were those golds repaid?”

  Abslim forces a shrug. “That would be up to the traders.”

  “I think not.” The Matriarch’s contralto voice is both rich and commanding. “Once the golds are received, you will ensure that Defalk and its lords and merchants receive the treatment accorded our friends and most valued customers.”

  “That will be after harvest, Matriarch. At least six weeks.”

  The gray-haired woman laughs. “The sorceress’ messenger and guards arrived here last night. With eleven hundred golds. I persuaded them to wait until I spoke to you.”

  Abslim remains silent. “The traders who support the South-Women will not be pleased.”

  “Have I been right in judging the sorceress and Regent of Defalk, Abslim? Or has the Exchange been right?”

  “The Exchange will defer to the Matriarch.”

  “No.” The word is cold, yet menacingly melodic. “You will grant those terms, of your own accord, with no word about deference to the Matriarch. You will treat Lord Bertmynn as you have treated the sorceress in the past.” A gentle, but cold, smile suffuses the round face. “Is that clear, Mistress of the Exchange?”

  “There will be muttering, Matriarch … and unhappiness.”

  “You will ensure that there is none.” The Matriarch rises.

  Abslim rises as well, her face pale. “As you command. As you command, and may the harmonies protect us all.”

  “I trust the harmonies, Abslim, even when they appear in dissonance. Best you do as well.”

  The Matriarch remains standing until well after the Mistress of the Exchange has left the small hall.

  21

  The afternoon sun beat down on Anna’s back as Farinelli carried her eastward, back toward Falcor. While Anna’s floppy hat blocked much of the sun, she could feel the lower part of her neck beginning to burn.

  Beyond the wooden rail fence on the north side of the road, men with scythes were cutting the golden wheat, and behind the reapers, women were bundling the grain and loading it onto flat wagons. Puffs of dust rose from Farinelli’s hoofs, but the light r
oad dust settled quickly in the still and warm air. Anna readjusted her hat and glanced over her shoulder, past Lejun and Blaz toward Skent and Liende, riding side by side. Behind them rode the rest of the players, led by Palian and Yuarl. The column of lancers following the players stretched back past the wheat field and past the woodlot that lay farther west along the road. Farther back, dust was rising high enough that the lancers in the rear were breathing and eating dust.

  Anna turned her attention back to the lord riding easily on her right.

  “A far better harvest than in many years.” Jecks gestured toward the field and the workers.

  “Is that true on your lands?” Anna asked.

  “I would hope so, but I have not seen such, nor heard.” Jecks smiled. “Being Lord High Counselor keeps one away from those lands.”

  “I’m keeping you from your duties? Is that what you’re telling me?” Anna parried lightly.

  “My duties are with my Regent.” Jecks’ voice took on a deep and ponderous tone.

  “Oh … such devotion to duty …” Anna grinned broadly, but tried to keep from laughing. She failed and laughed gently.

  “I would hear you laugh more,” the handsome lord said.

  You wish you could … but why aren’t you? It’s a beautiful day, and there’s nothing else you can do until you return to Falcor—except worry. “I should … sometimes it’s hard to put things aside.”

  “The careworn Regent …” Jecks chuckled. “She should care for herself, as well as her subjects.”

  “Look!” Anna pointed to the hawk that was diving into the corner of the field.

  “The reapers have disturbed a rodent.”

  “They’re awesome. Hawks.”

  Jecks nodded. “I prefer the black falcons of the north, the wild ones.”

  “I’ll bet they’re spectacular.”

  “They can stun a coney with their dive.”

  Anna paused, recalling the time she’d seen a falconer with an eagle. Where had that been? At that Shakespeare Festival in southern Utah? “Do you have many eagles here?”

  “Only in the Ostfels. They say there are fish eagles on the cliffs of Nordwei, but I have never been there.”

  “I never saw any eagles the one time I was in the Ostfels.” Then, you were worried about the road and the Evult.

  “Watch ahead,” Jecks cautioned, pointing to a wagon coming westward along the road.

  The driver pulled on the reins until he had slowed the two-horse team and halted the empty wagon on the north side of the road. Himar gestured for the lancers in the vanguard to ride the road’s south shoulder. The wagoner, a middle-aged man with a brown beard, watched impassively as the first of the lancers rode past.

  Rickel eased his mount up to flank Anna on her left as she eased Farinelli onto the south shoulder of the road to pass the wagon and the pair of chestnut horses in the traces. The driver bowed his head as Rickel, Anna, and Jecks passed. “Best to you, Lady Regent.”

  “And to you,” Anna called back as she guided Farinelli back onto the road.

  Rickel dropped back slightly with a nod to the Regent.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  The head guard nodded in return.

  For some reason, the wagon reminded Anna of a Wells Fargo wagon, though there was not the slightest resemblance. “We do have to do something about a postal service—the couriers to lords, I mean,” Anna reflected. “People don’t know enough about what’s going on, and that makes it hard for them to understand.”

  “That blade bears two sharp edges,” Jecks said. “Do you want all the Thirty-three to know that you share some sympathies with the Matriarch?”

  “They’ll find out sooner or later … .”

  “Best later, when you are in a stronger seat.”

  “Maybe.” Anna cleared her throat, thinking. After a moment, she asked, “What should I do about Ustal? Send a scroll declaring that he is the Lord of Fussen? Then wait until his lands rise in revolt?”

  “If he tariffs his crafters as he is, within two years he will not have the coins to pay his liedgeld.” Jecks smiled sadly. “And for that, you can remove a lord.”

  “Won’t some of the lords of the Thirty-three be upset about my removing a lord merely for golds? Especially if I remove the lordly and noble-looking Ustal, who treats horses and falcons well?”

  “You do not like Ustal? I would scarce have guessed.”

  “Let’s hope it was not too obvious to him. He treats his falcons and mounts better than his consort. She shrinks away from him, even in public.”

  “The older lords might say that was a sign of respect.” Jecks’ laugh was ironic. “They will have to change.”

  “Are you saying that to placate me?” Anna arched her eyebrows.

  “No. I am saying such because it is true. They will change, or they will not long last under the Regency.” Jecks shook his head. “Had Barjim lived, Alasia would have changed that. Even under Lord Behlem some would have changed. The times change, but men change more slowly.” He shrugged and offered a broad and warm smile. “Some of us essay such change before it is demanded.”

  “You’re doing quite nicely, thank you, Lord High Counselor. I am most appreciative—and thankful.” You’re more than thankful. Why can’t you say so? Why do you keep backing away? Because you don’t want to lose your independence after working so long to get it? Because every man has tried to tie you down?

  Jecks inclined his head. “For that, I am grateful.”

  Anna smiled warmly, hoping he would understand, hoping she could work out her own tangled emotions.

  22

  Anna stepped out of her chamber, hurrying, and feeling as though she were already behind, even though she’d arrived in Falcor but the night before. She made it to the corner that led to the stairs when she stopped abruptly at the sound of voices—loud voices. The sorceress froze just before the corner of the corridor and held out her hand to halt the guards who followed her from her scrying room down to the receiving room where she was to meet with Jecks, and then Dythya and Menares.

  “You … and the Regent, you let that … commoner … go to Fussen, and I’m the heir.” Jimbob’s voice carried. “You’ve dishonored me. My own grandsire, and you let her dishonor me by letting a mere stable boy go to Fussen while I was kept in Falcor … like an infant.”

  And you’re behaving like one! Anna shook her head, but gestured at Rickel and Giellum for silence.

  “That … commoner, as you would call him, works hard. He is worth two of you at the moment.” Jecks’ voice carried an amount of contempt and scorn Anna had never heard. “You are fortunate even to be alive. A woman who has no reason to care for you has had the honor to put her life in danger time after time to preserve your patrimony. That is honor, Lord Jimbob. She has saved your honor and your face. She has added to your lands and patrimony so that you will not face the problems your sire did. Talk not to me of honor.”

  “You love her. That’s all it is.”

  “You are so blind, grandson, that you cannot see what is honorable. Not for all that it is laid before you with trumpets and harmony.”

  “You love her, and you don’t understand honor anymore. You’ve been turned to a weak old man because you love her.”

  “You’re not worthy to be in the same liedburg as she is.” Jecks’ voice turned tight.

  “Oh, spare me your talk of honor, grandsire. Spare me when you’re rutting like an old goat … .”

  Crack!

  There was a dull thud.

  “You hit me … .”

  Anna glanced sideways. Rickel nodded approvingly, then turned his face blank as he realized Anna was watching him.

  “I am the Lord of Defalk and you hit me … spit on you …”

  Crack!

  “The first one was for ignorance. The second is for insolence. You will go on the punishment detail for all the lancers this afternoon, and you will work and be whipped as necessary. You have allowed your pride to bl
ind you to your duties. You are a self-centered brat, and you will learn some respect.”

  “You can’t do this … I’m the heir. I’ll go to the Lady Anna … she won’t let you hurt me.”

  Anna stepped around the corner.

  Jimbob stood with his back against the wall, pinned there by Jecks’ large hand around his neck. The heir’s face was flushed.

  “You don’t have to go to the Lady Anna, Jimbob. I’m right here. What did you want to say?”

  “You see what he’s doing to me … .”

  “I think it’s long overdue,” Anna said quietly. “Your grandfather and I have tried to show you how to be a good ruler, and what you have to learn. All you seem to care about is what others think and how you look.”

  “But … I’m the heir … .”

  “You are the heir. But you’re not acting like one. You’re acting like a spoiled brat. I’d hoped you’d have more sense.”

  Jecks released his grasp on Jimbob. Jimbob lurched forward. The imprint of the older lord’s hand was outlined in red on the youth’s cheek.

  “I’ll tell the Thirty-three … you’ll see!” gasped Jimbob.

  Anna shook her head slowly. “That would be stupid. You’d put yourself in their hands? You’d go whining to them? What would they do? You don’t seem to understand. The perceptions your lords have of you matters. This will have the armsmen and lords saying you’re spoiled and willful, and lords won’t follow a spoiled and willful leader, especially a young one.” They won’t even follow a good leader unless coerced … .

  “Lord Jimbob …” Jecks drawled out the word “lord” sardonically, “You might recall that more than half the lords of Defalk are beholden to the Regent. You might also recall that she is a sorceress and that she has the only professional armsmen in Defalk—except for those who serve me and Lady Gatrune.”

  “You’re all against me … .”

  “Jimbob,” Anna said coldly, “if we were against you, you’d already be dead.”

  Jimbob’s eyes traveled from Anna, then to Jecks, and then across the faces of the two guards. His shoulders slumped.