The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (28 page)

“I would not wager against that.” Jecks smiled broadly.

Anna smiled back, momentarily. “Let’s see what the ladies of Wei have to say.” She unrolled the second scroll.

Menares, honorable counselor to the Regent of Defalk,

We think it advisable that you inform the lady Anna, sorceress though she be, of a matter of grave import of which she may not be aware. The Sea-Priests of Sturinn have sent an envoy to Lord Ehara of Dumar, with a chest of precious stones and gold. Lord Ehara has already sent officers of his guard to Lord Dencer of Stromwer and Lord Sargol of Suhl. These officers bore coins and tokens of friendship.

If Lord Ehara be acting on his own or at the behest of the Sea-Priests, that we know not. Neither is to the interest of Defalk, Nordwei, or Liedwahr. We trust you will follow your own good judgment and convey this information to your regent and sorceress.

A sealmark without lettering—just a four-pointed star with an
N
above the topmost point—was set in black wax below the carefully scripted letters.

“That is the seal of Nordwei,” Jecks said.

Anna clicked her fingernails together. They were getting ragged again. Thank heavens she’d had a nail clipper in her purse, now in the large green leather pouch-wallet attached to her belt. She hoped she never had to use a knife the way she’d seen Jecks trim his nails. “Why would they send me that kind of message?”

“It is in their interest that you fight for them.” Jecks shrugged. “If the Sturinnese can gain a foothold in Liedwahr,
and one with a good port, such as Narial is supposed to have—”

“Narial—that’s the one south of Dumaria?” Anna was trying to recall her too-recently-acquired Erdean geography.

“That is the main seaport. The Falche is wide and deep and slow enough that smaller seagoing vessels can sail all the way up to Dumaria. I would doubt that the larger vessels of Sturinn could.”

“The traders up in Wei want me to stop Ehara and the Sturinnese? Why would they think I’d want to get involved in a war there? Defalk is still a mess. Muddy roads, lords who don’t want a woman as regent, debts . . .”

“They may feel you have no choice, and they would warn you.”

No choice?

Her face betrayed her thoughts.

“If Lord Ehara uses the coin of the Sturinnese to buy rebellion in Defalk, you must fight—either in Defalk or Dumar.”

“What do the Sturinnese have against Defalk? We don’t have a port. We haven’t offended them.” Anna frowned.

Jecks shifted his weight in the chair, like a boy with a secret. He even looked boyish for a moment, and Anna wanted to smile. Except he was uncomfortable, and that bothered her. She found herself clicking her nails again, and she clinched her fingernails into her palms for a moment, then forced a long slow breath before she spoke. “You’re worried about telling me how I’ve offended, the Sturinnese. What is it?”

“It is not the Sturinnese. It is their Sea-Priests.” Jecks shifted his weight in the chair again. “Some seafarers, they have great concern about having women on board their ships.”

“I doubt somehow that the Ranuans and the traders of Wei have those concerns.”

“No, lady, they do not. The Sturinnese do.”

“There’s more than that.”

“They feel women are the agents of dissonance, and they chain them.”

“They do what?” Anna wasn’t sure she’d heard Jecks. “They chain some of their women?” Something . . . something . . . someone else had told her about chains.

“All of them, Lady Anna, from what I have heard. Some wear chains that are little more than adornment, but most wear heavy links.”

“Chains as adornment. Adornment.” Rather than speak more, Anna stood and walked to the window. Lady Essan had mentioned that, and she’d hoped not to have to deal with the Sturinnese. Why? Why did she always have to deal with what she’d rather not? The perversity of the universe? Mercury in retrograde, except there wasn’t any Mercury in the skies of Erde. Darksong in ascendence? Was that the local equivalent? The red moon of darkness?

As the thoughts cascaded through her mind, the rain still fell, and the gray clouds seemed to touch the dark and recently tilled fields.

Had any place on earth chained
all
its women? She shivered. No wonder the traders of Nordwei were confident she would try to stop Ehara, if not the Sturinnese. Then, how much did the traders of the north know of her? Too much, it seemed.

She turned back to Jecks. “You must know how I feel about women in chains.”

“I cannot see you favoring the Sea-Priests.” Jecks’ tone was wry. “Or Lord Ehara, if he is bound to do their bidding.”

“I thought things were bad enough with Konsstin threatening to take over Neserea.” She paused. “How do we know that this isn’t a ploy to get us tied up down here?”

“That, we do not know, save that the Norweians have not sent their armies into any other land in memory.”

“That means they aren’t likely to invade. That’s if
things don’t change. They could still want us to fight a war to weaken us, or keep us from invading them.”

“The Council of Wei has been known for such.” Jecks’ voice remained wary, but Anna wasn’t certain the wariness was from deliberation or concern that she might still explode over the customs of the Sea-Priests.

“Lord Sargol still owes half his liedgeld,” mused Anna. “So does Dencer.” She half flushed as her stomach growled.

“Lord Gylaron has paid none, is that not so?” asked Jecks, politely ignoring her audible signs of continual hunger.

“There’s more behind your question. Doesn’t he hold the lands between Stromwer and Suhl?”

“You mark my meaning.” Jeck laughed.

“I’m not sure I do. I’m missing something. The two lords north and south of Gylaron have paid half their liedgeld, but Gylaron’s paid none. Dencer would like to see me dead, but he’s paid half. I don’t know anything about Sargol, but Ehara’s courting both of them.”

“I doubt Gylaron is our friend.”

“Nor Dencer. Nor Sargol.” She shrugged. “Let’s see what the glass will tell us.”

Jecks rose.

“No. I’d like you to watch. You may see something I don’t.”

“You are not wary of revealing—”

Anna laughed. “You’ve heard me sing enough spells. Those were far more deadly than mirror spells. You’ve probably heard your share of spells, anyway.”

Jecks nodded, his eyes twinkling momentarily. “A few.”

“So why don’t you sing any?”

“Spellcasting is untrustworthy for the untrained.”

“Like handling a blade?”

“It is more dangerous, from what I have seen.” Jecks leaned back slightly in the straight-backed chair and steepled
his fingers together. “Once, I’d not have said that. Now . . .” he shrugged.

“Now?”

“Barjim’s forces fell to sorcery, and so did those of the Evult’s.” Jecks’ brow furrowed. “What do you plan?”

“To see what the mirror will show me. I have an idea.”

Jecks nodded and sat back, as if to wait.

Anna took a deep breath, then ran through one vocalise, then another. Her voice wasn’t as clear as it should have been. Allergies from the rain and the mold that had to infest the ancient pile of bricks that was Synfal?

She cleared her throat and tried again. Finally, she picked up the lutar, then stopped at the quizzical expression on Jecks’ face. “You don’t see this in public, all the time it takes sometimes to be able to sing.”

“I have seen you cast spells . . .”

“Without all the preparation?” Anna nodded. “Half the time I’m afraid they won’t work when that happens. Sometimes they don’t. That’s how I ended up defending myself with a knife.” She shivered as she recalled how she’d gutted the poor young armsman whose only real fault had been following the orders of the wrong person.

Jecks offered a half-nod, turning in the chair to be able to see the mirror.

Anna turned to the dark wood framed mirror on the yellowed plaster of the wall. Her cleaning spell had not been enough to return the plaster to any semblance of white, assuming it had ever been white.

“Mirror, mirror on the wall,

show me now Lord Dencer’s hall.

Within its gates, Wendella show me fast

and make that spell well last . . .”

In the silvered oblong on the wall was an image of a brown-haired woman. She sat, alone, almost slumped at a table in what appeared to be a tower room. Her hair
was braided, but she turned and appeared to look at Anna and Jecks. The red eyes were sunken in dark circles. Those, and the barred window, told Anna enough.

After a moment, the sorceress released the image with a quick couplet, almost a chant. A moment of dizziness followed, but the lightheadedness vanished almost as swiftly as it had struck.

“You asked to see her, not Dencer.”

“I had a feeling.” What Anna had felt was that Wendella’s situation would reveal more than seeing Dencer. Had it? She wasn’t sure.

“Better that she had remained in Falcor,” said Jecks, leaning forward in the chair. “Dencer fears you have suborned her.”

“That’s not likely. She hates me.”

“He fears your sorcery.”

“He fears any woman who will stand up to him.” Anna took another swallow of water and forced herself to eat the last roll. “Why do so many men fear women here?”

Jecks cleared his throat.

Anna waited.

“There have always been more sorcerers than sorceresses.” The white-haired lord coughed.

Anna let the silence continue.

“The sorceresses have always been more powerful. The Evult . . . he was perhaps the greatest sorcerer ever—and you destroyed him.” Jecks forced his eyes to meet Anna’s. “All know you have yet to claim fully the power that is yours.”

“I’ve almost been killed twice, and nearly killed myself more than that,” Anna pointed out.

“No one else would have survived the smallest portion of your travail.” Jecks gave a strained smile. “Do you wonder that Dencer, or the Sea-Priests, or Konsstin, all fear you?”

“I’ve never been out to build an empire. All I’ve tried to do is to preserve Defalk.”

“When folk hate, they do not think,” mused Jecks.
“That is why a thinking warrior, if he can survive the first few moments against a madman, will triumph.”

“If there are enough madmen,” suggested Anna, “like the dark ones . . .”

“Then there is no time to think.”

“Great.” Anna set down the lutar, realizing that it felt heavy, too heavy. “I need to eat—again. So do you.” She looked at Jecks.

After a moment, he returned the smile, boyishly, despite his white hair, and Anna almost wanted to hug him. For that instant, the warrior lord was a cross between a teddy bear and a movie star.

“I could use some food,” he admitted gruffly. “Not so much as a certain sorceress.”

Anna walked to the door and opened it.

Fhurgen stood there, waiting.

“If you would, Fhurgen, could you have Captain Alvar join us here? And see if you can get someone to put together a platter with enough food for the three of us.” She didn’t want to try another spell without, eating. “Don’t you do it, either. Have the kitchen handle it.” She flashed a smile, trying to convey warmth.

“We can manage that, Lady Anna.” Fhurgen’s dark eyes twinkled for a moment.

“Thank you.” Anna closed the door and walked to the window to join Jecks. They both watched the rain, falling less forcefully, and more like a cold mist. She could sense just how close he was, and she started to reach out.
No . . . you can’t muddy things. Play like the virgin queen
. But she was all too conscious that she didn’t want to be a virgin queen or regent—not in the slightest.

She stepped back and sideways to look at the mirror on the wall. The finish of the ebony wood around the glass showed bubbles and discoloration.

Then she recovered the lutar. “I’ll try one more while we’re waiting for Alvar and food.”

Jecks turned so that he could watch the mirror.

Anna retuned before she sang the mirror spell.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

show me now Lord Sargol’s hall.
Within its gates, show Lord Sargol fast
and make that spell well last . . .”

The mirror swirled white, then blanked.

Anna frowned, then she shook her head. The way she’d composed the spell wouldn’t allow showing Sargol if he weren’t in his hall.

She lowered the lutar. How could she change it? It took several attempts with the grease marker before she had something. After humming through the tune to fix the new words, she looked at Jecks.

“It’s not as easy as it looks to outsiders.” Then she lifted the lutar.

“Mirror, mirror, in your frame,

show me Lord Sargol in his fame.

Where’er he may ride or be,

show him now to me . . .”

The second image centered on a gray-haired and slender man, with a trimmed gray beard and a regular tanned face. A darkly handsome figure, Anna decided. Lord Sargol rode a gray mount, with a gray cloak half open.

Behind him rode armsmen. How many, Anna could not tell from the image presented in the wall mirror. Nor could she tell where he rode. She wanted to stamp a foot, childish as it felt. She needed better spells—more precise ones . . . or something.

Her eyes went to Jecks. “Have you seen enough?”

“Yes, Lady Anna.”

Anna released the spell. This time, the dizziness didn’t pass immediately, and she walked slowly back to her chair, setting the lutar on the bed behind it.

She sat and took a long swallow of water, hoping it wouldn’t be that long before Alvar and supper, or whatever a late-afternoon meal might be called, arrived.

“You need to eat more,” suggested Jecks, mildly, not quite meeting her eyes.

“I know. I know.” She closed her eyes for a moment, but that only got her white sparkles against the red-tinged darkness, and she opened them nearly immediately. “Do you know what it’s like to have to eat all the time? To worry that you’ll die if you can’t eat?”

“Once . . . many years ago, I had to eat much more.” Jecks laughed, half humorously. “Now, I wish I could. Always, we wish for what we have yet to reach or what we have left behind.”

That was true enough. With a gust of damp air, Anna looked toward the window. The rain had picked up again, and she could hear it splatting against the outer walls of Synfal.