The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (26 page)

“I’m ready for a bath,” Anna said. “What about
you?” She blushed, realizing that she hadn’t quite said what she’d meant.

A twinkle flashed in Jecks’ eyes, but his voice was evenly modulated as he answered. “I look forward to washing up.”

They walked down to the second level, where Jecks bowed after he had escorted her to her own door. Then he turned and entered his quarters.

Anna closed her door behind her, glad in a way that there were guards outside her door. The more she’d seen of Synfal, the more puzzled she’d gotten, because of the conflicting impressions she’d received.

Was it because of her own preconceptions?

She sat on the chair in front of the writing desk for a moment, pouring herself a goblet of water, and drinking.

In some ways, Liedwahr was so like her image of a medieval culture that she’d assumed it was one.
Bad assumption
. She glanced down at her hand. Luckily the cut had been shallow and relatively clean, and her alcohol had seemingly been effective in disinfecting the wound. Not painless, but better than the alternatives.

Finally, she stood and walked to the bathchamber and the tub filled with murky cold water. She winced as she thought about the necessary spells, but walked back to the main room and retrieved the lutar.

Her head and her hand were throbbing before she had the water clean and steaming and the lutar replaced in its case, and the wound had oozed more blood on the dressing.

More alcohol
. She needed more alcohol for internal, not external, purposes. But she had a deep swallow of orderspelled water instead.

Finally, thank God, she could ease into the tub.
Thank God?
From nowhere, seemingly, came another thought. There were no churches in Liedwahr. She hadn’t seen one, anyway. Why not? In every culture on earth there was a worship of some form of supreme being. Why not on Erde?

Yet Jecks had been truly appalled at the idea of a ballroom and dancing, and Alvar had been upset as well, more in a disgusted sort of way, as though dancing were obscene, rather than evil.

She washed slowly, hoping the hot water would loosen the stiffness in her shoulders. The heat helped, but not enough, by the time the water was cooling, and she pulled out the plug. She still found it amusing that the few tubs for the well-off all had drains, but were filled by buckets. It made sense, in an offbeat way.

She forced herself into a clean set of riding clothes. Laundry of the old set could wait, would have to wait.

At least she’d been able to get her room clean and disinfected, even if it had taken all her players, and the spells involved had given her a splitting headache.
But no more Darksong side effects
.

Finally dressed, and with her wound resterilized and rebandaged, she poured another goblet of orderspelled water and took a long swallow, then another, and refilled the goblet. After that, she ate one of the hard biscuits left over from her travel provisions. She could almost feel the worst of the headache subside.

Food and more food—you’re always eating
.

Was the room dimmer? She laughed. Of course it was. It was twilight, twilight of one of the lengthiest days she’d spent in a long time. Finally, she sang the candle spell, and the wall candles lit. Her head only twinged.

At the
thrap
on the door, she stood. “Yes?”

“Lord Jecks to see you, Lady Anna,” Fhurgen announced.

“Oh . . . please come in.”

“My lady.” Jecks wore a clean blue tunic, and had washed up. He looked more handsome than ever.

“Lord Jecks.” Anna wished she were more in the mood to appreciate him. “Please sit down.”

Instead of sitting on the window seat, he pulled one of the wooden chairs over to the side of the writing desk opposite her.

“Jecks?” she ventured. “Will you humor me and answer some questions?”

“I would well humor you after all you have done for Jimbob.”

She wished he hadn’t put it quite that way. “Even after my railing on about the greediness of the lords of Defalk?”

“You did not rail. You frowned.” Jecks laughed. “That was enough.” He paused. “Vierk said that there were six thousand golds. I told him you were the sorceress. Then he said there were ten, and that some of the rents had not arrived.” Jecks shrugged. “I have never seen ten thousand at once, not in the whole time I have held Elhi. Some farmers, they can offer no coins, and I have accepted fowl and beeves, even. Such help feeds the hold.”

“I have another question. It doesn’t have anything to do with golds.”

“You have many questions. That is why you are regent.” The white-haired lord’s voice was wary.

“Do people believe in a god here?”

“A god?”

“A supreme being . . . a supernatural . . . entity . . . in charge of the world?”

“An almighty Lord of Harmony, do you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“There are some.” Despite her concerns, his slightly crooked smile warmed Anna as Jecks shifted his weight on the plain wooden chair. “The . . . women of Ranuak believe that harmony is governed by the earth mother. The Sea-Priests, they believe that harmony and disharmony flow with the tides of the great oceans. The Pelarans, who might know? The Evult thought he was the Lord of Harmony, until you appeared.” Jecks offered a wider smile, somehow tentative. “Some are saying you are the Lady of Harmony.”

“Me?” asked Anna involuntarily.

“So they say.”

“Not me.” A growling from her stomach reminded Anna of other necessities, and rescued her. “I need to eat.”

Jecks stood immediately. “If I might join you? Alvar ate with Jimbob already. Jimbob sleeps now. He still is young.”

“Of course.” Anna offered a smile, hoping her concerns didn’t show through too much. “I had thought you would. Earlier, I mean. And I understand about Jimbob. Sometimes you forget he’s only twelve.”

The Lord of Elheld nodded, then stood as she did, and they walked silently down the wide main brick stairs.

They sat at a corner of the large table in the intimate dining salon beside the kitchen. The three lit wall sconces gave a dim but adequate light. Two platters rested on the table, one of a roasted fowl, uncut, evenly roasted brown, and oozing golden drippings, and a second of sliced meat over thick noodles, covered with a white sauce.

Anna could smell the duck. Was it as greasy as it looked? And smelled? Then, she’d never cared that much for either goose or duck. She helped herself to the noodles, her mouth watering. She’d really eaten far too little over the course of the day.

She’d almost finished her first helping before she spoke. “You saw the kitchens.”

“Yes?” mumbled Jecks.

“And the stables?” Anna paused. “They were well kept, better kept, and cleaner in many ways than the rooms people lived in here.”

“I do not think anyone has lived here for some years, except for Lord Arkad. Alvar said Fauren’s quarters were with the armsmen.” Jecks took a hefty swallow of wine from his goblet, then reached for the pitcher to refill his goblet. “Those are clean.”

“I wonder.” Anna carefully lifted the goblet and took a small swallow of wine, since she hadn’t felt like order-spelling any water besides that in her quarters. The pewterlike goblet was heavy, and she wasn’t used to using
her left hand. “I had the impression that Fauren was the evil plotter behind a weak and crazy old lord. I suppose it doesn’t matter now. Except it does.” She pursed her lips.

“Lord Arkad had some greater plan, you think?”

“I don’t know. He kept the ballroom—the dancing room—and the old throne room. He was gathering huge amounts of golds, and outside of the main part of the hall, everything is clean and in good condition.”

“Our weapons difficulties may be slighter, now,” Jecks said after taking another mouthful of the duck that had proved too greasy for Anna.

“There was an armory somewhere?”

“Over two hundred good blades, and close to a hundred lances. A number of bows. Those I did not count.”

“Won’t that leave the liedburg’s armsmen without weapons?” she asked.

“Those were racked below. The armsmen have their blades.”

Anna nodded to herself. One way or another, the blades needed to go to Falcor. “That will help Hanfor. And if we can get the ones from Ranuak . . .”

“A blade in the hand is worth two in the forge.”

Anna yawned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was so tired.” She shook her head.

“You amaze me. You have ridden nearly two leagues, cast numerous spells, been wounded, and taken over a strange hold, and you are astonished that you are fatigued.” Jecks’ eyes twinkled as he stood and offered his arm.

Anna took it. “It makes sense that
way.”

Not much else does, but that does
. She stifled another yawn and took the first step toward the stairs, glad for his stability in an unstable world.

A
shtaar glances at the black agate oval, then at Gretslen, who sits in the chair before the flat desk. “Send a message scroll to Menares.”

“He has not acknowledged any previous instructions and messages, and he fears the soprano sorceress so greatly that he will not admit to receiving anything from Wei.” The blonde seer’s voice is matter-of-fact.

“His fear of her is exactly what I am counting on.” The spymistress smiles. “Ehara is being courted by the Sea-Priests. What can we do about it?”

“There is little we can do, not with the Bitter Sea yet frozen, not until the spring gathering.”

“We can ensure that she knows.”

Gretslen frowns.

“Do we want the Sea-Priests to get a foothold in Dumar, and then in Ranuak?” Ashtaar sighs. “I should not explain, but I will. Ehara reckons to use the Sea-Priests’ coin to take over the south of Defalk. He sends arms and golds to Lord Dencer. What the ambitious—or desperate—Lord Ehara does not know is that the Sea-Priests will cast him aside as they can, and Dumar will become where their ships port in Liedwahr. First will come their control of the wool trade, and then of the grain.”

“You think the sorceress can do aught about this?”

“If she knows that Lord Dencer is receiving golds from Ehara, she must act. Provided she knows this is happening—”

“Menares will not tell her.”

“Oh, but he must. Should she ever discover that he knew of the threat and did not inform her, what would
his life be worth? No, she would not kill him. She would do worse. She would send him back to Neserea, or to Wei.” Ashtaar picks up the stone that is deeper and blacker than night. “Draft the scroll. I would see it by evening.”

“As you wish, mightiness.” Gretslen’s voice remains neutral.

“You doubt my desire to warn her? Even the Council would not. With a known danger in Dencer and Ehara, she will not move north. Nor can she consider taking territory in Ebra. She is strong enough to bring down Ehara, one way or another, and that will bring her into conflict with both Konsstin and the Sea-Priests.”

“And you feel that she will use her sorcery against them?”

“She will not have any choice,” predicts Ashtaar, glancing down at the black agate oval she holds. “She never has had that choice. Nor do we.”

“Why can she not see what we see? She is a greater sorceress than any of us . . .”

“How many seers do you have in the tower, Gretslen?”

“Five, besides myself,” admits the blonde.

Ashtaar smiles. “There is but one of the sorceress, and she needs must hold her strength for the mighty works required of her. Also, strength is not skill. There is much she does not know, much she cannot yet know.”

Gretslen frowns momentarily, smoothing the expression away before Ashtaar looks up.

“Draft the scroll.”

I
n the bright midmorning spring sunshine, Anna eased Farinelli to a halt on the rutted and packed clay of the road that led to the bridge across the Synor River. She smiled, glad that she could see again, undoubled, unimpaired. Two days of rest had helped.
Can you count on days of rest after every major bit of sorcery?
She pushed the thought away.

On her right rode Liende, as her chief player. On the left rode Jecks, and immediately behind them, Alvar and Jimbob. A faint line of clouds rose on the southern horizon, but the skies overhead were clear, and a light and pleasant breeze gusted out of the south.

“There is the bridge,” Jecks announced.

“It looks as rickety as Halde and everyone said,” the blonde and youthful-looking regent acknowledged.

“It has served for many years,” Jecks said.

“It won’t serve us that many more. Not unless the river goes dry,” Anna answered. She glanced at the road and the bridge again, then toward Alvar. “Let’s keep everyone back from the bridge until I’m done. Send a squad across the bridge to the other side. When they get there, have them set up a post . . .”

“A picket line?”

“A picket line a good hundred yards from the bridge.” Anna cleared her throat, hoping the spring tree pollen wasn’t going to trigger her allergies. Brill’s youth sorcery hadn’t done anything for that. “The last thing we need is someone trying to cross a bridge while I’m trying to replace it.”

“Yes, Lady Anna.” The swarthy captain nodded and
turned his mount away, riding back toward the lancers who had halted perhaps five yards behind the players, in turn five yards behind Anna and Liende.

Jimbob eased his mare up beside his grandsire.

“Liende?” asked Anna. “Would you have the players wait here for a moment? I need to see where I want you all to play. It may take me a little bit to get ready, but I hope it won’t be too long.”

“We stand ready.” Liende nodded.

Anna flicked the reins gently, and let Farinelli carry her off the road and closer to the edge of the slight bank overlooking the lowland and the river itself. When she reined up, to her right was the low timber structure that had served as the main crossing of the Synor for more than fifty deks. The last scattered houses of the easternmost part of Cheor lay a good two deks westward, along the road she had just traveled from Synfal.