The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (54 page)

Finally, she stood before the pool, as the gray light outside began to turn faint gold.

“Of those with power of the song

seek those who’d do me wrong

and show them in this silver

cast

and make that vision well last.”

Anna took more time to study the three images in the glass—the blonde woman seer from Nordwei, the hawk-faced Sea-Priest, and the young black-bearded man.

In the light of dawn, the Sea-Priest stood under a spreading green tree, before a wide, parklike expanse of lawn. Beside him stood another man in the white of Sturinn. The other man gestured vaguely in a direction Anna couldn’t discern from the scene. The younger man—not the sorcerer—looked hurriedly toward a building in the background. The Sea-Priest smiled indulgently.

The black-bearded young sorcerer stood in a darkened room where only his face and that of another young man were fully clear. The other man seemed to be standing before what Anna thought was a drum set—a drum set in Liedwahr? But no details appeared.

Anna released the spell and stepped over to the table, seating herself and taking out paper and greasemarker. Before long, she tried again.

“Silver water ’tween the stone,
show me, and me alone,
that sorcerer in black and brown
and in what land he may be found . . .”

The glass showed something from the air. Anna squinted at the image. Three rivers converging into one? The Fal, the Chean, and the Synor all turned into the Falche—another sorcerer in Defalk?

After a moment, she released the spell and worried her lower lip. Then she returned to the table. It took longer the third time.

“Silver water ’tween the stone,
show me, and me alone,
that sorcerer in black and brown
and in what town he may be found . . .”

The pool obediently showed another aerial image that could have been one of a dozen towns—or more. Two main roads, buildings in the center, becoming farther apart away from the center of the silver-shrouded image, but with nothing that Anna could recognize as a distinguishing feature.

“Shit . . .” she murmured, releasing the image once more, setting the lutar aside, and reseating herself with paper and greasemarker.

She tried seeking the sorcerer for a fourth time.

“Silver water ’tween the stone,
show me, and me alone,
that sorcerer in black and brown,
and the river near where he is found . . .”

That brought a close-up of a river, but Anna couldn’t really tell the scale, nor could she see anything that would tell her whether the river she saw was the Chean, the Fal, or the Synor. Half the problem was that she wasn’t that good with spells when she didn’t know a name, and the other half was that she wasn’t that familiar with Defalk or Liedwahr.

One thing had become very clear. Names—the right names—were very important in certain aspects of sorcery. The problem was that she didn’t have the right names—at least that was the problem in locating the obscure sorcerer.

Finally, she went back to the desk and began to draft a scroll to Menares, to tell him that there was a good possibility that another sorcerer had appeared in Defalk and requesting that he discover what he could quietly. The old schemer was good at intrigue. Perhaps he could come up with some clue that would help her spellcasting.

As she finished the first scroll, she nodded to herself. Best also to send a scroll to Dythya and one to Herstat. They were solid, and would certainly let her know if anything came up.

A
nna eased into the chair at the head of the table, then smiled at Jecks.

“You look rested.” The Lord of Elheld smiled. The dark circles and haggard cheeks that he had brought to Abenfel had also vanished.

“So do you.” Even as she said that, it occurred to her that the days at Abenfel had provided her with more of rest than perhaps any time since she had been spirited to
Liedwahr by Daffyd’s spell. And that was even with the scrolls from Menares and Dythya that had found their way to Abenfel.

“You needed the days . . .” Jecks’ voice dropped off.

“I am so glad you decided to remain longer,” interjected Fylena. “Birke has been so pleased. All of us have been.” The silver-haired consort of Birfels offered a broad smile.

“You have been most hospitable.” Anna glanced toward the foot of the table, where the young red-haired Wasle sat above his older sister Clayre. The dark-haired Clayre was playing with her hair again, absently, as she listened to those around her. Was she bored? Waiting for something to happen in her life? To go to Falcor?

Anna wondered when she’d get back to Falcor. Should she just leave? And then have to turn around when Ehara acted?

“. . . have been able to open some of the higher ditches for the first time in nearly ten years. . . .” The words drifted from where Birke talked with Hanfor.

Anna wondered. Everyone was so happy that the rivers were rising, happy that the rain fell, but did they really understand the cost? Or care? Water was vital, especially to countries like Defalk, where everything depended on the rivers or the rains . . . yet somehow people expected the rains to fall and the rivers to flow.

“Yet . . . you look somewhat . . . absent. . . .” suggested Birfels.

“I’m sorry,” Anna answered, her fingers curling around the goblet that Jecks had filled. “I was . . . distracted.” She smiled. “Your hospitality has been wonderful, and I have enjoyed Abenfel greatly.”

“Yet you are regent, and must think of other matters. I understand.”

Anna wondered. Did anyone else see what she did? Or was the prevailing modus operandi to wait and react? But wasn’t that exactly what she was doing—waiting for Ehara’s reaction? But then what? What could she do?

I
am so glad you finally deigned to join us for dinner, dear,” says the Matriarch as Veria enters the smaller dining room.

“You could make her welcome,” suggests Ulgar.

“Why?” asks Veria. “That would be hypocritical, and we both know that. Really, Father.” She slips into the seat across from him.

Alya shakes her head infinitesimally, but lifts the long carved wooden bread platter and hands it to her sister.

“Thank you, Alya. You do bake wonderful bread.”

“One of the few things you approve of, Veria,” responds Alya. “Since we are committed to honesty this evening, and not manners or tact.”

“Honesty has much to recommend it,” answers Veria easily. “Especially when dealing with a sorceress prone to Darksong.”

“So long as it is not selective honesty, which is often worse than falsehood,” says the Matriarch, her gray eyes fixing on her dark-haired daughter.

Ulgar swallows silently, and gives a quick shake of his head as Alya starts to open her mouth.

“It was very foolish of the SouthWomen to buy that cargo of blades—even through two trading fronts,” observes the Matriarch. “It was even more foolish to send them to the freewomen of Elawha.”

“When the Maitre of Sturinn is openly supporting that toad Bertmynn?” asks Veria. “What are we supposed to do? Cheer when the women of Elawha are forced into the chains of Sturinn?”

“Your mother has always opposed Sturinn,” interjects Ulgar quickly. “You might remember that.”

“She has opposed Sturinn with words,” adds Veria, ripping off a second chunk of the flaky-crusted bread with a quick and violent twist. “The Matriarchs have buckled under when it appeared Sturinn might be mightily displeased. Or have we already forgotten the massacre of the Sisters of the South? When our own Matriarch murdered our compatriots to appease the Sturinnese?”

“Two women who chose to consort with a Sturinnese merchant, against the advice of their families and the Matriarch, were whipped and died. Your storied Sisters of the South killed the entire crew of a merchant ship that had nothing to do with the crime, except that they refused to surrender the merchant to a mob.” The Matriarch sniffed. “That is hardly the stuff of noble legend.”

“Your predecessor once removed executed those women who survived.”

“As she should have. As would I—even were one of them my own daughter, dear Veria.” The Matriarch’s words are even, polite, and like ice.

“I see.” Veria sets down the bread on her plate. “So . . . Matriarch and Mother, what would you have had us do with the blades?”

“Let the sorceress have bought them, or given them to the Ebran Hadrenn.” The Matriarch smiles pleasantly, although her eyes remain cool. “We have talked about the sorceress, and there you know my reasoning.”

“I know you would support a sorceress who uses Dark-song to keep men in power.”

“We do not agree on that,” the Matriarch answers calmly, “but if you had sent them to Hadrenn, he would have the men to use them against Bertmynn.”

“You do not think the freewomen will not fight?”

“They will fight, and they will die. The Sturinnese will lose armsmen, and take vengeance on the city. Bertmynn will rightly blame the South Women, and wrongly blame Ranuak, and we will both suffer. Hadrenn will lose more
armsmen than he would need to lose. Eventually, the sorceress will be forced to act, and even more Ebrans, many of them women, will die.”

“You know everything and do nothing.”

“I persuaded the Exchange to grant credit to the lords of Defalk. Most supported the sorceress, and the three rebels fell quickly. She will feel compelled to act against Sturinn, and that will strengthen us.” The Matriarch smiles coldly. “And women will not die, or few indeed, unlike the city’s worth your rashness will kill.”

Alya winces, then smooths her face.

“You have an answer for everything.” Veria rises. “I should not have come.”

“No, daughter, I am relieved you did come.”

“You don’t sound relieved.” Veria steps back from the table.

“I am relieved,” continues the Matriarch inexorably, “because, if you continue this foolishness, you will do so knowing I will not hesitate to treat you as any other.”

“Matriarch and Mother, that I knew already. Good evening.”

The three at the table wait until the door closes. Even after that, not a voice is heard.

A
nna pulled on her single simple green gown. Her stomach growled, reminding her that after an afternoon of riding along the Great Chasm, a canyon that certainly deserved its name, she was more than ready to eat. The Falche almost reminded her of the Colorado, winding through steep cliffs, except that the rocks were more like
the granite of the Black Canyon. And all that water flowed into Dumar. There ought to be something . . .

Thrap!

“Yes?”

“A message for you, lady.”

Anna frowned—more scrolls from Falcor? Her eyes went to the scrolls on the writing desk as she walked barefooted to the door of the bedchamber. “Rickel?”

“Yes, Lady Anna?”

“A message?”

“A message from Dumar, Lady Anna.”

Anna opened the door.

Rickel stood there, flanked by Blaz and Lejun. “The messenger arrived here less than a tenth of a glass ago. Alvar took the message and sent it with me. The messenger insisted that someone write a scroll that the message had been delivered to the regent. Lord Jecks is writing such now.” Rickel extended a scroll wrapped in gold-and-red ribbon.

“Please have someone find Hanfor and Lord Jecks—once he’s finished with writing that scroll for the messenger. I’ll need to see them both.” Anna took the scroll.

“Yes, Lady Anna.” The blond guard bowed.

Anna closed the door and walked into the “work chamber,” sitting down at the conference table used so many years earlier by other sorceresses. She broke the ornate red-wax seal and unrolled the missive. At the bottom was another crimson seal over crimson-and-gold ribbons.

While she waited for Jecks and Hanfor, she began to read the scroll, slowly.

To the Regent of Defalk,

With felicitations and wishes for a fruitful and peaceful year in our neighbor to the north . . .

Anna skipped through the dozen lines of meaningless flattery and well-wishing.

. . . Insomuch as you have neither accorded Dumar nor the Lord of Dumar the honor due both . . . Insomuch as you have failed to satisfy the lords of your own land and to keep the peace . . . Insomuch as many of these lords appealed to Dumar for aid in restoring time-honored ways and customs and order to their lands . . . Dumar will stand ready to assist you, to offer counsel and advice, and to ensure that Defalk’s borders remain in accord with the ancient traditions . . . but in view of the great and grievous harms done to Dumar, and to the honor of Dumar . . . such assistance cannot occur unless the Regency of Defalk were to indemnify Dumar for such harms. . . . Three thousand golds would be little enough, a bare pittance given the affront Dumar has suffered, however inadvertent such affronts may have been . . . for surely, as the Regent of Defalk may take liedgeld and honor from the lords of the Thirty-three, so also must the Regency bear the costs of the actions of its lords upon others, as well as the costs incurred by the acts of the regent . . .

Anna set down the scroll . . . waiting. Her eyes went to the window. She had her confirmation, but what could she do next?

Someone rapped on the door in the adjoining chamber.

“Come in,” she called loudly.

After a moment, Jecks appeared, Hanfor somewhat behind his shoulder. “Lady Anna.”

“Sit down.” She handed the scroll to Jecks. “You were right. He’s not about to admit wrong, and he certainly isn’t about to pay for the damage he’s created.”

“Most lords would not.”

Especially not to a female regent
. “Go ahead and read it. You, too, Hanfor.”

Anna waited, still wondering how she could deal with Ehara. She couldn’t keep shuttling between the south of Defalk and Falcor. She didn’t have enough of an army—
yet—to leave at Stromwer or Abenfel. And she couldn’t wage a conventional war—not conventional for Liedwahr, anyway—against. Ehara She didn’t even have a way to wage guerrilla warfare against Dumar, and that was if she even knew how—which she didn’t.