The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (8 page)

“Lady Anna,” Jecks said slowly, from the chair beside her bed. “You cannot rebuild Defalk by destroying yourself with sorcery.”

For a moment, Anna just took in his words, then sipped more of the vinegary wine. She wished it were water, but in her condition she couldn’t orderspell water, and trying to drink unspelled water would invite disaster of another type.

“If you destroy yourself, everything you have preserved will vanish.” Jecks swallowed.

“Lord Jecks.” She wanted her voice to be hard, but it just sounded tired. “Everyone counsels me to patience. Everyone tells me that we cannot do this. We cannot find players. We cannot find weapons smiths. We cannot travel or whatever because the roads are too muddy.”

“You cannot rebuild Defalk in a season.” He forced a
smile. “You cannot do that in even two seasons or a year.”

“We may not have a year,” Anna said. “If you want your grandson even to have a land to rule, we have to find ways to do all those things everyone tells me we can’t do. Now . . . do we have a solid bridge over the Falche?”

“Yes, Lady Anna. Hanfor thinks it will outlast Falcor.” Jecks smiled. “The channel beneath is also rather deeper. It is almost a gorge.”

So that was where the stone had come from. Anna nodded. It would have been easier with players—much easier—but Delvor alone wouldn’t be much help. A name popped into her head—Liende, the woodwind player injured in the Sand Pass battle.

“Liende, the player? Isn’t she still at Elhi?”

“I believe so.”

“Would you have her summoned to Falcor?”

“You may summon anyone you wish.”

“Stop humoring me!” Anna hated any hint of condescension, even from Jecks, even if he did resemble her favorite movie star, even if he had actually shown some real concern for her as a person, not as a regent. “I’m not being whimsical. I need players. She knows who many of them are, and if I can’t do anything else, I’ll build roads. To the west first.”

“You cannot—”

“Why not? The first threat will be from the west, won’t it?”

“That will not come for years, and you must recover.”

Anna doubted she’d have that much time, but she couldn’t argue everything. “Good. Then we can build lots of roads and weapons and train an army.” Anna took another swallow of the vinegary wine. Her stomach growled. She needed to eat. Another problem—the demands of sorcery drove her metabolism so high that anything that left her unable to eat for very long was
practically life-threatening. She wasn’t sure she wanted to see how thin her face had become.

The door opened, and Cataryzna scurried back in at almost a run, carrying a platter. Skent followed with a second. The dark-haired page’s eyes took in Anna, and she could see the shock there. She’d wondered how bad she looked, and now she knew.

“Can you eat?” asked the blonde.

Anna reached for the bread, and slowly began to chew. She wanted to smile as she saw Skent and Cataryzna standing side by side. Perhaps her weakness—how she hated to be weak!—had had some positive effect.

She tried the white cheese that Skent had brought. She’d need protein and fat. Lord, she needed everything.

In between bites, she turned to Jecks, noting absently that he continued to worry one hand against the other. “I’ll be fine. At least with rest and more food, I will be.”

“You cannot . . . You must not . . .” Jecks stammered.

“Lord Jecks . . . we have no choice. We must rebuild Defalk as quickly as possible.” She swallowed more of the wine.

“I will have Liende sent for,” Jecks said. “And I will tell her to bring any players she knows.”

“Good.” Anna could feel tiredness creeping over her. Not the draining exhaustion that had felled her at the bridge, but a fuller feeling.

“Why are roads so important, lady?” Cataryzna said quietly. “You murmured of roads and of doctors.”

Anna sighed, even as she could feel the lassitude creeping back over her. She shouldn’t have gotten upset. Anger always tired her, and she was already exhausted—and what she’d done had been Clearsong. “I’m tired. So tired.” She forced out the remaining words. “So all the dissonant lords of Defalk don’t go on thinking they’re independent little countries. So that we or Jimbob can put an army at their gate in two days instead of two weeks. So that . . .”
So many things. . . .

She shut her eyes.

H
ave you discovered what caused that vast harmonic shudder yesterday, Veria?” With a cheerful smile, the round-faced and gray-haired woman sniffs the steam from the cup she has lifted level with her double chins.

“Yes, Matriarch.” The black-haired woman at the other long end of the oval ebony table sips her own cup of scalded cider. “There is no one left but the soprano sorceress—”

“Best you call her the Regent of Defalk, for that is what she is and will be for many years,” suggests the silver-haired man who seats himself across the table from the Matriarch.

“The Regent of Defalk, Father,” Veria corrects herself, slightly readjusting her powder-blue robe. “She used the harmonies to replace a huge stone bridge across the Falche. It was one of those destroyed by the Evult’s flood.”

“There is a rough balance in that,” judges the Matriarch, after taking a sip of steaming cider.

“It will be a while before she balances all the dissonance created by the Evult,” suggests Ulgar. He twists the end of his silvered handlebar mustache before adding another pinch of cinnamon to his cup. “I wish she had tortured him more before she destroyed him.”

“Father . . .” protests Veria.

“That is vulgar, Ulgar,” suggests the Matriarch.

“Honesty, my dear, honesty. All proclaim the need for honesty, but none allocate so much as a silver for it.” He slurps his cider. “Not so much as a single silver.”

Veria glances to her mother.

“That’s the Regent’s problem,” continues Ulgar, reaching for the pot and refilling his cup. “She is honest enough to see what was, what is, and what yet must be done, while all those around her are blinded by the dishonesties of the past.”

“You are being obscure—again, dear.” The Matriarch pats back a stray iron-gray hair.

“Exactly how are those around the sorc—the regent, blinded by the past?” asks Veria.

Ulgar lifts his cup, then a silvered eyebrow. He sips without speaking, as if the answer were obvious.

“Father . . .”

“Very well, if your mother the Matriarch consents to hearing the views of an old and foolish man.”

“Ulgar, mock humility doesn’t become you. It’s also dishonest, and rather hypocritical when discussing the honesty of others.” The Matriarch smiles broadly.

Ulgar returns her smile with one more sheepish. “Very well,” he repeats, clearing his throat. “Defalk is bordered by five other lands. Ebra has been devastated, but already conflict between two successors brews in there, fostered by the golds of the Liedfuhr. In Nordwei, the Council of Wei has met to discuss the Regent, and, should she prove successful in strengthening Defalk, will seek her destruction. Ehara of Dumar has already begun to consider sending aid to Lord Dencer, hoping to win him to Dumar and to provide a staging area for Dumaran armsmen. Neserea has become a true protectorate and pawn of the Liedfuhr, with the cunning Nubara moving the stones. Lord Behlem’s son Rabyn has his father’s lack of intelligence, but not his cunning, and his mother’s viciousness, but not her brains.”

“You did not mention us,” points out Veria.

“We are as bad as the others. Those of the trading faction have declined to extend credit for planting to the southern lords of Defalk, when for the first time in a decade such plantings will succeed.”

“The Regent still owes fifteen hundred golds to the Exchange,” notes Veria.

“Those were not her debts, yet she has paid five hundred and pledged to pay the remainder. She has kept every promise she has made—for good or for evil.” Ulgar smiles blandly. “Is there another leader in Liedwahr who can claim that?” He turns to the Matriarch and raises his cup. “Saving you, of course, dear.”

“The Exchange will not be a problem, Ulgar, not for the spring planting,” answers the Matriarch. “I have suggested that the Exchange be willing to grant such credit to the lords of Defalk for seed grain and planting necessities if the Regent of Defalk reaffirms her commitment to repay the loan. She has already sent a message doing so, along with a second payment of five hundred golds.”

“You knew that, and didn’t tell them?” asks Veria.

“I told the Exchange-mistresses no lies. I never tell lies. The harmonies do not permit that.” The Matriarch takes another sip of tea, then nods at Ulgar. “I don’t believe you ever finished explaining about Defalk, dear.”

“Oh . . . well . . . it’s simple enough. All of the lands that ring Defalk fear the sorceress-regent, but those lords and advisors around her believe that, because wars were slow in coming in the past, they will be as slow in the seasons ahead. Yet Konsstin has already dispatched fifty-score lancers to Neserea.”

“The harmonies yet favor her.” The Matriarch smiles, still cherubic. “That the Exchange-mistresses do not understand.” The smile vanishes, and her eyes fix on Veria. “Nor do the SouthWomen.”

“The SouthWomen?” asks Veria. “What have they to do with this?”

“Everything,” answers the Matriarch. “They would have us re-create the Guardians of the South once more in Encora, and thus mimic our enemies. They would have us retreat from financing the trade of those who are not our friends, and thus starve those who are.” She shakes her head. “I have said it before, and I will again, and some will not heed. Matters balance; they always do.”

Ulgar slurps his tea, and Veria winces.

The Matriarch smiles half fondly at the silver-haired man. As her eyes go to her daughter, the smile turns cherubically perfunctory. She rises from the table. “I must go and reassure those who doubt the force of the harmonies.”

“Matriarch,” asks Veria carefully, “do you believe that the sorceress-regent will not turn on Ranuak?”

The Matriarch pauses by the door. “Anything can happen under the harmonies, but the Regent of Defalk uses all the harmonies, and distrusting the good will of one in accord with the greatest of the harmonies of Erde can create vast dissonance. I would not will it that Ranuak be on the side of dissonance. Nor should you.”

With another smile, the Matriarch nods her head to her consort and to her daughter. Veria turns and watches her mother depart, again readjusting the loose-fitting powder-blue robe.

Behind Veria’s back, Ulgar shrugs, then shakes his head.

A
nna eased herself onto the stool in front of the group gathered in the main hall of the liedburg, the makeshift schoolroom. Her eyes flickered to the door where Jecks and Blaz stood. Jecks was trying to hide a frown.

“Because there have been too many questions, I’m going to tell you all something about sorcery.” Anna forced a smile, her eyes surveying the fosterlings and pages.

The silence was the most absolute she’d heard in the entire time she’d observed lessons for them.

“Some of this, you may have heard, but not everyone here knows all of this.” That was a safe bet, because she
doubted even Brill had known some of what she was about to say. “There are two kinds of sorcery here on Erde. One is Clearsong; the other is Darksong.”

“Like the moons . . .” Lysara murmured, nodding at Anna.

“Like the moons,” Anna agreed with Lord Birfel’s daughter, recalling Erde’s two moons—the baleful red point-disc of Darksong and the small white orb that was Clearsong. “Clearsong is what a sorceress uses to deal with things that are not alive and have never been alive. Stones, metal, bricks, if there’s not too much straw in them, glass . . .” She struggled for examples.

“What about wood?” asked Jimbob.

“Wood comes from trees, and they were once alive. That takes Darksong.” Anna took a deep breath. She was still too weak, but she had to do
something
besides eat and lie in bed or sit behind her table in the receiving room.

“Darksong is used for living things or things that were once alive—like wood or bone. Darksong also takes more skill in singing the spells, and more energy. If you do too much of it, a Darksong spell can kill you.” She paused. “So can a Clearsong spell, but it takes a bigger spell.”

Anna paused, breathing harder than she would have liked. The room remained silent.

“What is a spell?” she asked. “It is the combination of music, sung words that match the music, and the meaning of the words themselves. They all have to match. You can speak the words of a spell to music, and nothing will happen. You can sing the words of a spell—and unless you are very, very good, nothing will happen. And if it does, without music, it will take most of your energy—and, if you survive it, at least until you’re as experienced as I am, you’ll feel like someone’s lancers ran their mounts over you.”

She could see the doubt on a few faces, especially those of Lysara, Cataryzna, and Skent—the ones who’d heard her use spells without accompaniment. “Yes, I have cast spells without anything but my voice.” She shook her
head. “Do any of you know what sort of training I’ve had?”

The blank looks—just like the students in her music appreciation classes at Ames—confirmed the ignorance.

“My oldest daughter, were she alive, would have children almost as old as Secca. I’ve worked on my voice for over thirty years, and most of the time that’s meant two to three glasses of solid singing every day, and another three to four glasses studying the music and . . . the spells that accompany it.” She shrugged. “You can believe it or not. That’s what it took Lord Brill, and that’s what it took the Evult. That’s what it will take you if you want to be serious about it. If you have a voice and talent.”

She cleared her throat.

“There are also rules for sorcery. First, no sorceress, or sorcerer, can cast spells that directly affect her. I can’t change my appearance or make myself older or younger, or less tired, or heal my own wounds. I think some of you have seen that. Second, the stronger and better the supporting players, the more effective the spell. Third, sorcery does not create things from thin air. It rearranges what is already in this world. When I used sorcery to make a gown when I first came to Falcor, the spell transformed old cloth into new cloth. When I made the bridge the other day, the stones came from the riverbed. You can see that there is a gorge there that wasn’t there. Finally, sorcery is limited by the strength and talent of the sorcerer and sorceress.”