The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (49 page)

“We are yours to command.”

“I know,” Anna said tiredly. “This isn’t what anyone signed up for. But there aren’t that many players . . .”

“And there is but one sorceress to save Defalk,” Liende finished. “You ask more of yourself than of us. What spells will you need?”

“The flame spell. For the archers and men that guard these rock nets. I don’t like it, but if they haven’t surrendered with all the time that has passed, they won’t.”
And I can’t do it with the lutar
. She shouldn’t have tried the first spell.

Liende shook her head. “No sorcerer I know could sing it once and have it succeed without players.”

“Thank you.”

“We thank you.”

Anna smiled faintly and turned, walking slowly back to Farinelli. Six more times? She squinted as she remounted.

“Why could she not cast a spell against all evils?” asked Delvor as he packed away his violino.

Anna wished she could just sing a blanket spell that would protect them against everything, but she’d found nothing was that easy. After a moment, she answered. “First, because spells only work against a specific evil,
and I have to be able to visualize—see in my mind—who or what that is. Second, the spell has to name the evil and provide a means to stop it Third, it can’t be too big a spell, or it would kill both you and me.”

“Even so, without the first spells, we would have been buried in arrows and boulders,” answered Jecks. “All the armsmen from the keep could have gone up there and shot down.”

He didn’t mention that they’d still lost the one scout before Anna had called fire on the handful of guards who had been out of range of the loyalty spell of—Had it been a week before?

Anna glanced back along the column, to the wagon that carried the body, but it was lost in the dust.

“How many more?” She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud until Jecks answered.

“None, if we are lucky. One cannot count on luck in warfare.” He smiled grimly. “You still wear the breastplate?”

“Yes. It itches.” She blotted her forehead, then her neck. Her back itched as well, right between her shoulders where it was impossible to reach. She squirmed slightly.

“Better that than another arrow. Twice have you escaped death . . .”

“I know. The third time might not be as fortunate.”

Hanfor coughed. “Lady Anna?”

“Yes, Hanfor?”

“We must proceed with care. . . .”

“The next danger won’t be until the next set of rocks. We’ll have to go slowly. The mirror doesn’t show detail that well.”

“Then your guards—” Hanfor broke off.

“They’ll ride before me,” Anna conceded.

“With shields?”

“With shields.”

At times, she felt like a pampered poodle—guards, shields, warning glasses. She understood, but it didn’t make her feel better.

“Long day,” she murmured.

“Not so long as last week,” Jecks answered.

Somehow, that didn’t console her much, not when she recalled the lines of fire and the dead archers . . . and the dead Hassett and Kaseth. She fumbled for the water bottle and had another drink as she rode slowly into the gorge that led to Stromwer.

R
abyn and a small blonde woman sit at the small white marble table in the corner of the Pavilion of the Prophet. Between them is a tray of candied nuts, honeyed dried figs, and glazed apple slices and a basket of lemon bread. Rabyn fills both goblets from the pitcher of dark wine. “This is from Ferantha. It is quite good.” A boyish grin fills his face. “Nubara doesn’t think I know the best wines come from the valley.”

“They always talk about the wines of the south Mittfels.” A delicate
clinging
tinkles through the pavilion as a gentle puff of a breeze off the Bitter Sea fluffs the young woman’s fine blonde hair.

“Ferantha is where they make the wines they don’t sell. The ones they keep for us and for the great houses,” Rabyn continues. “Did you know that, Krienn?”

The young woman glances toward the harbor, where a ray of sun flashes through the mixed cumulus clouds to strike and whiten the sail of a Norweian ‘trader. Her dark brown eyes flick back to Rabyn, and she smiles quickly. “No, I didn’t know that.”

He lifts his goblet, as if to drink, but then sets it on the table, and instead, takes one of the honeyed figs. “I am young, but I listen, and I know much more than Nubara
would ever guess. Or you.” He follows his words with a wide-eyed smile.

“You are, the Prophet,” she answers with a smile, also nibbling on one of the figs. The fingers of her left hand lightly clasp the base of the goblet of wine she has not touched. “I imagine there is much you know.”

“I learned most of it from my mother. She was . . . exceptional, you know. She made sure I knew everything.” Rabyn smiles. “Everything.” His fingers brush the candied nuts and then delicately extract one of the glazed apple slices.

“It is said she was remarkable.” Krienn takes an apple slice and chews it quickly—after Rabyn has swallowed his.

The young prophet lifts his goblet and sips before speaking. “She was. She didn’t explain. She showed me.”

The blonde woman waits until Rabyn has taken several sips of the wine before taking the smallest sip of her own.

“And . . . someday, I will have revenge on that sorceress.” The youth picks up one of the candied nuts, holds it up to the late-afternoon light. “I have already persuaded Nubara to send a company of the Mansuuran lancers to Elioch, and to raise another company of Neserean lancers, armsmen under my cousin Bertl.”

“Is he a good leader?” Krienn asks.

“Bertl? He’s not as good as Relour. That’s why I wanted Relour in Elioch. I threatened to behave badly, in public. And I whined a little, and asked why sending one company of lancers to give the sorceress something to think about was so bad.” Rabyn smiles brightly, then pauses. “She is blonde, you know? The sorceress, I mean.”

“Ah . . . she is?” Krienn reaches almost absently for a nut, eats it quickly, then takes another sip of wine.

“She is.” The dark-haired prophet nods, sets the nut he had not eaten on his green-and-cream napkin, and takes another small sip of wine, so small he barely wets his
lips. “She is a demon from the mist worlds.” He smiles warmly. “But your eyes are brown, not blue. You are from Nesalia, and that is far from the mist worlds.” He lifts the goblet and sips again. “You are small and pretty, not tall and angular.”

“Thank you, Prophet of Music.” Krienn tilts her head slightly. She takes another nut, distracted, and chews quietly. The tip of her tongue barely touches her upper lip, then vanishes.

“I would like you to see my collection of Ranuan silks,” he offers.

“You do know a great deal more than your years,” Krienn answers. “Ranuan silks? On your bed?”

“They are beautiful. They offer great pleasure,” he says smoothly.

“I am sure that they do.” Krienn’s eyes go to the archway, then to the closed door that leads to the main part of the palace, a door barred from inside. “You would know more than I.”

“Trust me.” Again comes the boyish smile.

As they rise, Rabyn steps back and gestures toward the archway. His eyes flicker to the candied nuts, the nuts which he has not sampled, and he smiles, coldly.

He steps up beside her, smiling, his hand on her bare shoulder, as they step through the archway.

T
he road through the gorge was no more than ten deks in length, and yet, with six stops and a dozen spells, the sun had touched the western walls of the valley, turning the dark clouds purplish, before Anna and her armsmen rode through the open gates of Stromwer, after Alvar
and a score of armsmen had inspected the keep—at Hanfor’s insistence.

“Stromwer lies open and loyal to you,” Alvar had announced.

Anna hoped a bath, a good hot bath, also lay open—except she had unfinished business. Business she hoped she could complete, half-dazed and double-visioned as she was, although she had used no Darksong on the emplacements in the gorge.
Just the good solid brute force of Clearsong . . . bloody Clearsong
. She was punchy and found herself holding back hysterical laughter at the idea that Clearsong magic could be so much more bloody than Darksong.

The dark clouds offered a faint drizzle by the time Anna reined up outside the keep’s stable, in a courtyard ringed with her armsmen.

“All are loyal,” Hanfor announced.

Score one for my last effort at Darksong
. “I’m going to groom Farinelli.” She glanced at Alvar. “Have the saalmeister or seneschal or whoever ready to meet me in the hall.”

“I can do that.” Alvar smiled.

Jecks and Hanfor both frowned.

“Lady Wendella . . . if she’s still alive.” Anna dismounted and led Farinelli into the stables behind Rickel, who carried his blade bared. She forced her steps to be deliberate.

“We are your servants!” called a thin-faced man in gray leathers from his knees on the straw.

“I accept your allegiance,” Anna said. “I also remember that you pledged the same to Lord Dencer.”

“Lady . . .”

“Serve Defalk, and no one will suffer,” Anna said more softly.

Their eyes wide, two stable boys looked at the big gelding as Anna led Farinelli past. By the time Anna had groomed Farinelli and ensured he had grain and some
water—not too much—a full-fledged downpour greeted her at the stable door where Fhurgen and Jecks waited.

“The saalmeister is in the corridor there,” Fhurgen announced, pointing through the rain to the arched doorway that stood fifteen yards away, across the rain-slicked cobblestones and the scattered puddles. “Alvar is with him.”

Anna glanced across the rain-pelted courtyard, then at Rickel and Fhurgen. “Better dust than mud on the road, I guess.”

“Far better, lady.”

Anna walked through the rain, fearing she might fall if she ran, ignoring the roll of thunder and a single flash of lightning.

Four figures waited in the corridor—Hanfor, Alvar, Jecks, and the saalmeister. Anna wiped the water from her hair and face, knowing she scarcely looked like a regent, but more like a damp and shaggy dog, a thin-faced, dark-eyed, and haggard shaggy dog. She didn’t even want to think about how she smelled.

Unlike the stablemaster, the saalmeister was heavyset. Dark circles ringed his eyes, a sign, Anna felt, that he had suffered from the conflicts of the loyalty spell.

“Darflan, this is the Lady Anna,” Alvar announced.

Darflan went to his knees. “We serve you and the Regency.”

“You can stand,” Anna said, trying to keep the exasperation from her voice. “Where is the lady Wendella?”

“The . . . lady . . . Wendella?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the lady.”

“Ah . . . where Lord Dencer left her. We did not know. It was said . . .”

“Enough. Take us there, and bring the keys.”

Jecks glanced at Hanfor. Alvar shrugged.

“Two loyalty spells are enough for anyone,” Anna said. “Oh, where is the heir, her son?”

“In his nursery, lady.”

“Get his nurse and bring him here.”

That got another exchange of glances between Jecks and Hanfor.

“She is his mother.” Anna didn’t feel like explaining.

“Now . . . lady?”

“Now.” Anna’s voice chilled. She was damp, sweaty, tired, and wasn’t much interested in explanations.

Darflan nodded and waddled quickly down the corridor.

“Alvar,” Hanfor said. “If you would make arrangements with the cooks for feeding our armsmen? I had not gotten to that.”

“Yes, ser.” Alvar turned and headed back down the steps.

“I’m sorry,” Anna said.

“That is my job, not yours,” the veteran said quietly.

The nurse, in faded brown, a squirming child in her arms, bustled toward Anna and her entourage, with Darflan at her side.

Anna glared. The nurse’s bustling confidence transformed into a bow. “Regent . . . lady . . . you wished to see young Condell?”

“I did.” Anna looked at the child, already sporting a dark thatch of curly hair. “Please follow us.”

The nurse glanced to the saalmeister. The saalmeister nodded.

Don’t look to him,
Anna wanted to snap. “Let’s go.”

“Yes, Regent.”

The saalmeister led them down the main corridor to the end, then up two flights of steps and back along a narrow corridor. His blade out, Rickel flanked Darflan while Fhurgen trailed. Jecks kept a hand on the hilt of his own blade. The nurse followed most of them, just ahead of Fhurgen.

Darflan paused at another narrow staircase.

“Go on,” Anna said.

The steps up to the tower were narrow, even narrower than those in the north tower of Falcor where Anna had stayed. Darflan stopped at the second landing.

“Unlock it,” Anna ordered.

When the iron-barred door was open, Anna took the key ring from Darflan and stepped inside.

A hollow-eyed Wendella looked up from the pallet. The sunken eyes were ringed in lines. “Have you come to gloat?”

“No. I’ve come to set you free.” Anna motioned to the wet nurse, who stepped forward. “Your son, and heir to Stromwer.”

“For how long, sorceress?”

Anna looked at the pale and emaciated figure. “We need to get you healthy.”

“Do not try to tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting anyone,” Anna said quietly. “Dencer is dead. I hold the keep. Your son is heir. He will inherit his father’s lands when he is old enough.”

“Why do you play with me?” Wendella’s eyes remained on the cold stones of the floor.

“I am not Dencer,” Anna snapped. “You should know me well enough to know I don’t play games. You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to like your situation. You’re bound to be loyal to Defalk and the Regency, and you’re smart and tough. I’d rather have you running Stromwer than some lord’s pampered second son.”

Wendella’s eyes widened slightly. “For how long? Until you hold all Liedwahr?”

“That’s not my intention.” Anna smiled. “But if it were, I’d need you even more.” She nodded to the wet nurse. “Let her hold him.”

The nurse eased the child into Wendella’s arms.