The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (53 page)

She glanced at the pool, its waters silvery even without sorcery. Sometime, when she was rested, she’d have to use a pool to see if she could view Elizabetta—when more time had passed.

Then she went to the bathchamber, where a soft white
dressing robe and a large green towel were draped across a wooden and bronze stand. The sorceress dipped a finger into the bathwater—tepid, almost cold. With a sigh she went back to the bedchamber and reclaimed and tuned the lutar, then returned to the bathchamber.

“Water, water, in the bath below,

both hot and soothing flow . . .”

Once Anna had the water nearly steaming, she replaced the lutar, undressed, and slipped into the tub, trying to let sore muscles loosen, trying not to think at all.

Later, probably too much later, she dressed slowly, easing into the single gown she had carried, glad for the time to relax without anyone around. A timid knock interrupted her woolgathering.

“Ah . . . yes?”

“Lady Anna?”

“Yes?” Anna repeated, padding across the cool floor barefooted.

Lejun announced, “A young lady with a message.”

“I’ll take it.”

A dark-haired girl—vaguely familiar, although Anna knew she had never seen her before—peered in. “Lady Anna, my sire would welcome you to supper.”

Anna motioned the girl into the chamber and plopped herself onto one of the chairs. “You seem familiar.”

“I am Clayre, Lady Anna. We have not met, but I wanted to see you. So I asked if I could announce supper.”

“Are you Lysara’s sister?” Anna could see the facial resemblance between the two, although Lysara had red hair.

“Yes. She is two years the elder.”

At the regretful tone, Anna shook her head. “Look at it the other way. You’re always going to be younger. For most of your life, it’s going to be more fun to be younger than your sister.”

The hazel green eyes twinkled momentarily. “I had not thought of that.”

Anna reached for the green slipper shoes, glad she didn’t have to wear boots.

“Lysara said you were beautiful.”

“She’s kind. I don’t feel beautiful.”
I just feel tired
. Her feet were somewhat swollen, and the shoes barely fit, even as soft as the leather was.

“You look tired. Was it a long ride?”

“Five days in the saddle is long anytime. I think I’ve spent half a season riding since the beginning of spring.” Anna stood. “I’m ready.”

As she stepped out of her quarters, this time, Lejun slipped from his post to follow them. The black-haired Kerhor remained guarding her door.

“We’re going to eat in the family hall,” Clayre announced. “It’s much nicer than the main hall.”

The long marble corridor remained dim, with but one candle in every third or fourth wall sconce being lit. A single large taper in a bronze stand lit the foyer.

Rickel waited outside the ancient redstone archway to the family dining hall, nodding as Anna approached. “Good evening, Regent.”

“Good evening, Rickel. I hope you’ve gotten something to eat.”

“I ate earlier, Lady Anna.”

A group of people, including Jecks and Hanfor, already waited inside. Everyone paused, and the conversation died as Anna and Clayre entered. Birfels bowed and stepped forward. “Lady Anna, you truly grace us.”

“I’m pleased to be here, and happy not to be riding.” Anna smiled. “I appreciate your kind hospitality and the chance to see Abenfel. It’s truly a grand keep.”

Birfels gestured to the head of the table. “If you would?”

“Thank you.” Anna stepped toward the table, while the others arranged themselves behind places.

Birfels nodded toward his consort. “You and Fylena
have met, and you know Birke.” He inclined his head toward the end of the table. “That is Wasle, and then Clayre.” A younger redheaded youth sat farther down the table, but above Clayre.

Anna tried not to bristle at the position of the dark-haired young woman below her younger brother. “Clayre came to tell me about supper. I have not met Wasle.” She paused, then asked Hanfor, “Arms Commander Hanfor, how are you finding things?”

The gray-haired and green-eyed veteran nodded. “We appreciate the hospitality, the men especially. You have good barracks here, Lord Birfels.”

“Old, but good. They date back over three hundred years to the last Suhlmorran uprising, when Lord—”

“My lord,” suggested Fylena mildly, “we could sit and eat and then talk. In greater comfort.”

Birfels laughed. “That we should.”

Anna took the chair at the head of the long table, as indicated, with Jecks at her right and Birfels at her left. Fylena sat beside Jecks, and Hanfor beside Birfels.

Three serving girls appeared. One bore a silver-rimmed porcelain platter bearing slices of meat smothered in a creamlike sauce and garnished with sprigs of narrow green leaves. Another carried two baskets of bread, and the third, a dish of something white and steaming.

The main dish came straight to Anna, who served herself, but waited for the others, taking some bread, and then some of the spiced and steamed apples.

“Will you be heading straight back to Falcor?” asked Fylena, after taking a small portion of the meat and sauce.

“I don’t know yet.” Anna smiled politely. “I thought I might wait a few days, if your lordship doesn’t mind.” Her head inclined toward Birfels. “I’d like to see what Lord Ehara’s reaction is.”

“Lord Ehara?” Birfel’s eyebrows knitted up.

“Oh . . .” Anna shook her head. “You live with these things, and sometimes you don’t realize that others haven’t any idea what you’re talking about. Lord Ehara
sent something like four companies of Dumaran lancers to support Lord Sargol and Lord Dencer.”

“What did you do to them, Lady Anna?” Birke asked brashly.

“They will not threaten Defalk again,” Jecks said firmly, his eyes fixing on the redhead.

“Yes, sire.” Birke’s tone was abashed.

At the end of the table, Anna could see Clayre toying with her shoulder-length dark and wavy brown hair, twirling it around a finger as the girl-woman waited for the large platter of meat and sauce to make its way down to her.

“That is for the best,” Birfels said. “Yet . . . lancers of Dumar in Defalk. How did that come to be?”

“Lord Dencer sought aid from Dumar, or was receptive to it,” Anna said. “Sargol followed his example.”

“Mayhap the other way,” added Jecks. “Since both are dead, and the lancers—”

“All of them?”

“All of them,” Jecks confirmed.

Wasle and Clayre exchanged glances.

Anna took a small mouthful of meat and sauce, finding it comparatively mild for Defalkan dishes. The knife and spoon at her place were heavy sterling, ornately designed with a nut-and-leaf pattern. The weight and the minute scratches testified to the cutlery’s considerable age and quality.

“This is beautiful silver,” she said. “A family heirloom?”

His mouth full, Birfels nodded, finally swallowing and answering. “From before my great-great-grandsire.”

“How fares Lysara?” asked Fylena.

“You may have heard from her since I saw her,” Anna said. “We left Falcor at the . . . turn of spring. She seemed to enjoy her studies.”

“She said as much when she came home in the fall.” Birfels broke off another hunk of bread.

“Once Lysara is betrothed . . . perhaps you would consider Clayre as a fosterling?” asked Fylena.

Betrothed? Anna took a small mouthful of bread and chewed, rather than risk speaking immediately. Falcor wasn’t a finishing and mating school! “Ah . . . Lysara hadn’t mentioned becoming a consort.”

“She is getting to be that age,” answered Fylena.

“Do you have anyone in mind?” Anna lifted the goblet and sipped the pale red vintage. “This is good wine.”

“Thank you,” acknowledged Birfels.

“I have exchanged scrolls with Lady Resengna.” Seeing Anna’s unspoken question, Fylena added, “She is the consort of Lord Dannel of Mossbach. Their youngest—Hoede, is he not in Falcor?”

Anna managed to swallow the wine without choking. Hoede, of the thick skull and overbearing manner? “He is one of the fosterlings. He has not expressed any interest in Lysara.”

“Ah . . . one cannot expect much of young people at that age. They will see it is for the best.”

“I can see that it would be an excellent match for Hoede,” Anna said politely.

“Well . . . she must find someone from the Thirty-three, Lady Anna,” answered Fylena sweetly. “Perhaps you might find a better match for her. She does respect you so.

Sucker! You fell right into that one. . . .
Anna smiled. “I had not thought about it, but I certainly will.”

Fylena nodded. “Lysara would be most pleased, and so would we.”

“Birke was telling me that you left Dencer’s consort to rule his lands for his heir, and that you have a force safeguarding Sargol’s young sons as well.” The redheaded lord raised his goblet and sipped the wine, then reached for the platter of meat.

“His daughter and his young sons.” Anna glanced down. Had she eaten everything?

“Lady Wendella had proved difficult at Falcor, had she not?” asked Birfels.

“She will not prove difficult in that way again,” Anna said.

Wasle and Clayre exchanged quick looks again.

“You have managed to settle Defalk in less than a year.” Birfels flashed a smile. “No new ruler has managed that in centuries, much less a regent.” He laughed. “You know what they used to say about Defalk? Don’t worry too much about the lord. If he’s to be worried, about, he won’t last.”

“Then perhaps it’s better to have a lady,” parried Anna.

From beside Hanfor, Birke grinned. Farther down the table, Clayre nudged Wasle and whispered something.

“You have already proven that on the field, my lady,” Jecks said mildly. “And in just about every other place. Alasia said you might.” He took the smaller basket of bread and extracted the largish heel, turning his head and giving Anna the quickest of winks.

“Ah . . . yes. I see we need some more bread,” said Fylena quickly. “Diella!”

A serving girl appeared and scurried off with the empty basket.

“How came you to serve the regent?” asked Birfels, looking at Hanfor.

The veteran smiled pleasantly. “I was serving as one of the Prophet’s overcaptains.”

Anna took another helping of the sauce and meat and another ladle of the spiced steamed apples, letting Hanfor weave his tale. The less she said the better . . . definitely the better.

I
would have you read this.” Ehara’s bass voice emphasizes the last word as he hands the scroll to the Sea-Marshal in white. He continues to sit upright in the chair behind the writing desk, ignoring the small pieces of green wax that litter the polished wood.

“She is angry,” jerRestin says. “So much the better.”

“She
is angry? I cannot believe that she would demand a thousand golds and my pledge.” Ehara’s eyes fix on the Sturinnese officer. “Never have I been so insulted.”

“She wishes you to be insulted, to be angry.” JerRestin laughs. “And she has succeeded.”

“A thousand golds?”

“Lord Ehara, why do you not request two thousand from her? Tell her that the unrest created by her inability to govern has cost you dearly. Suggest that she is in a poor position to demand anything of Dumar.”

“I would not give her the satisfaction. . . .”

“What does it cost you to ask of her what is
your
due—both in terms of golds and of honor?”

“I should lower myself . . .” Ehara shakes his head.

“She is a woman and an outsider. She cannot be expected to understand such. The Maitre understands that different standards must be applied to women—lower standards.” JerRestin extends the scroll. “You must do what you must do.”

“You make it sound as though I must respond to her . . . her presumptions.” Ehara stands and takes back the scroll, looking down at the Sturinnese.

“She is like a willful child. She may be powerful, but
she knows nothing of how the world works. If someone does not educate her . . .”

“I should educate her?”

“You would not wish the Maitre to speak for Dumar, would you? Or the Liedfuhr of Mansuur?”

Ehara shakes his head. “You twist words as well as the slippery women of the south.”

JerRestin’s eyes glitter, but he remains silent.

“Since I must, I will respond, but for my pains, she must pay three thousand golds.” The Lord of Dumar sets the scroll on the writing desk.

A
nna looked out the window from the bedchamber through the gray early-morning mist—wondering why she had awakened so early. She’d never been a true early bird, no matter how many early-morning classes she’d had to teach over the years.

To the west, she could see the trees on the bluff that overlooked the effective beginning of the great Chasm, although, from what she’d seen, the river had cut out a valley that extended another ten deks back to the northeast from Abenfel. She’d meant to take a ride to see the Chasm, but somehow, various things kept intruding, including the continual arrival of scrolls from Falcor and Synor. Herstat, Dythya, and Menares were well-organized . . . but their organization and unwillingness to act unless they had clear directions from her was taking more time than ever she would have believed.

That wasn’t why she’d awakened early.

Was it Ehara? There had been no answer from the Lord of Dumar, but Anna already half suspected that she’d either
get no response—or one that was impossible. While she worried about what she could—or should—do, whatever had wakened her didn’t feel like that.

She turned and studied the bedchamber again. The door bolt was firmly shut. While she could hear noises through the window, they seemed like normal keep noises.

What else could it be? Were even more sorcerers looking for her? How would she know?

That . . . that she could determine.

She took out the lutar and walked into the chamber with the reflecting pool, and softly ran through one vocalise, then another, coughing and crackling, and slowly clearing her throat. Lord, she hated trying to sing in the morning. But she probably wouldn’t get that much time later.