The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (3 page)

Jecks frowned. “No. Should Arkad die without issue, as is now the case, you or Jimbob could bestow the lands to someone . . .”

“More supportive?” asked Anna. “What about the niece—or her consort?”

“She might have a slight claim.”

“But the other thirty-two would welcome another man?”

Jecks shrugged. “They will await your action.”

This chauvinism . . . can you ever make things better?
“In short . . . like everything else around here . . . it’s my problem.” Anna forced another wedge of cheese and some bread into her mouth and chewed slowly.

“As I told you before,” Jecks looked at her thoughtfully, “you have done the impossible, and your people will expect that and more. You are the destroyer of dissonance, the savior of the land, lady and sorceress, great Regent of Defalk. They will not wait for the healing of time.”

She nodded, then swallowed. She’d read something like that, once. What had it been? The revolution of rising expectations, where the more a leader did, the more people expected?

“The problem of expectations.” After another swallow
of the water she’d orderspelled that morning, she added, “Let me call Dythya.”

She lifted the bell and rang it once. A dark-haired page opened the door and peered inside. “Yes, Lady Anna?”

“Skent? Would you see if Dythya’s free?”

“Yes, lady.”

As the door closed, Jecks asked, “What will you do with that one?”

“Educate him, and marry him to the girl he loves.”

“The lady Cataryzna?”

“Lord Geansor could do worse,” Anna said dryly, thinking about the crippled Lord of Sudwei and his blonde daughter.

“He could indeed.” Jecks laughed softly. “That is why you are dangerous. You look for ways to forge people’s dreams into what must be.”

That’s dangerous?
It seemed more like common sense to Anna. “Pardon me, Lord Jecks. Would you like some cheese or bread?”

“No, thank you, lady. Not even a young armsman could eat as you must. But do not mind an old warhorse.”

Anna wanted to kick him under the table for the slight tone of self-pity. Then, he probably did think of himself that way. Why did girls always think that young men were so appealing? Then, why did so many men think shallow, pretty girls were so appealing? Like Avery had.

“Lady?”

Anna smoothed her face. “Sorry. Old memories . . .”

Jecks accepted her explanation with a nod.

Shortly, the dark-haired and graying Dythya appeared. “Lady Anna.”

“Please sit.”

Dythya took the seat at the table to Anna’s right, and to the left of her former lord.

Anna waited until Skent closed the door to the receiving room before beginning. “I understand that, unless we further soothe the Ranuans by paying some or all of the
debt incurred by Lord Barjim, a number of our lords may find it difficult to buy seed grain.”

Dythya frowned momentarily.

“And most of those are in the south.” Lord, how she hated the politics. Of course, they were in the south, and they could threaten to pledge fealty to the Matriarchy or even Dumar, she supposed, on the grounds that the regency was not meeting its obligations to them.

“Where do we stand?”

“I did not bring the accounts.”

“Just in rough terms.”

“We have almost five thousand golds in the treasury. We will need to spend close to eight before harvest. We still have not received the liedgeld from eight lords. That would be about five thousand golds more.”

“The eight we’ll have to spend—does that include what we owe the Ranuans?”

“No, Lady Anna.”

Anna winced. Another fifteen hundred golds she—or the liedstadt—didn’t have.

“All right. We’ll have to make arrangements to send another five hundred golds. But we’ll send a message which says that we expect our lords and people to receive normal commercial terms, especially as regards seed grain.” She looked at Jecks. “Will that help?”

“Were Lord Barjim still lord . . . I would say not.” The older-looking lord shrugged. “With this, you will have made two payments, and defeated the Ebrans. I would think it would be in the interests of the . . . women of Ranuak to accede to your request.”

“Let’s hope so.” Anna turned back to the de facto accountant. “Can you make the arrangements and have a scroll drafted for me to sign? Have Menares work on the wording.”

“Ah . . .”

“I know,” Anna said tiredly, realizing that Menares would resent the implication that he was taking orders
from Dythya. “Tell Menares that it is my request and not yours and that if he has any questions to come to me.”

“Thank you, lady.”

“And Dythya? Could you write out a summary, a shortened version of the liedstadt accounts, so that I can have it to refer to? Make sure you list all the lords who are short on their liedgeld—all of them.”

Dythya nodded.

“That’s after you take care of the payment to the Ranuan Exchange or whatever it is.”

When the door closed again, Anna turned back to Jecks. “What do you hear about Ebra?”

“I am not a sorcerer,” he pointed out with a smile.

“Sorceresses have their limits, too,” she answered. “According to what I’ve called up on the glass, the place remains a mess. There’s nothing happening in Vult, and there won’t be for years. Someone is rebuilding parts of Synek, and most of the wreckage in Elawha has been cleared away. I can’t tell who’s in charge from the glass.”

“The whispers from the peddlers are that Hadrenn holds Synek. He is the youngest son of Jykell, who was the last Lord of Synek before the Dark Monks seized Ebra.” Jecks looked at the empty goblet before him.

“Wine or water?” Anna asked.

“Wine, please.”

The red wine she poured was slightly better than high-grade vinegar. As she had discovered from experience, trying to improve things like food and wine involved Darksong and was chancy at best. Then, any spell that affected something that was living or had once been living was Darksong—and invited trouble.

Jecks took a hefty swallow. “The Liedfuhr of Mansuur has dispatched a force of lancers, and they are riding to Esaria.”

“To support Rabyn?” She paused. “Or an advance force for an attack on us?”

“Young Rabyn still can claim the loyalty of many who supported his sire, and who feel he is the legitimate
Prophet of Music.” Jecks set his goblet down gently. “I do not think the Liedfuhr will attack Defalk until matters in Neserea become more clear.”

“You mean, until the mighty Liedfuhr Konsstin has Rabyn firmly under his thumb?”

Jecks laughed softly. “One forgets—for a time. You have such strange phrases, Lady Anna.”

“Thank you.” Anna didn’t point out that, for her, Defalk often had very strange turns of phrase, with a language that was far more Teutonic in origin and only
sounded
like English at times.

“My pleasure, lady.” Jecks rose. “By your leave? I had arranged for Jimbob to receive blade instruction from Himar.”

“You’re a better blade,” Anna said.

That got a wintry smile. “True. But children oft receive instruction poorly from parents and grandparents.”

“Have fun watching, and don’t wince too much.” Anna returned the smile. She knew Jecks’ frustration all too well. None of her children had wanted her as a voice teacher. Still, it was hard to see the handsome Jecks, white hair or not, as the grandparent of a boy as old as Jimbob.

After a time, Anna looked up. She sat alone in the receiving room. Alone, if she didn’t count the guards outside the door, or the pages. Skent was there now. Then, weren’t rulers always alone?

She stripped off the purple regent’s sash, laid it across the gilt chair on the dais and walked to the door.

Blaz and Giellum followed her up the stairs and down the corridor to the door to Lady Essan’s rooms, the sharp-voiced but observant consort of the late Lord Donjim, the Lord of Defalk before Barjim.

Anna rapped on the door.

Synondra edged the door open. “Oh, Lady Anna . . . please do come in.”

Anna had not so much as stepped inside when Lady Essan spoke. “Synondra, you may take a walk or otherwise amuse yourself.”

“Yes, Lady Essan.” Synondra bowed to Anna, and added in a low voice, “She is tired.”

Who isn’t?
Anna wanted to say, but didn’t. “I won’t stay too long, but I do need to talk to her.”

Blaz shut the door as Synondra left, stationing himself outside on one side, Giellum on the other.

Lady Essan sat before the fire, her ubiquitous glass of apple brandy half full, a wool shawl around her shoulders. The room felt almost stifling to Anna, and she took the chair farthest from the fire, unfastening the top button of the loose green shirt she wore under the green-and-gold-trimmed tunic. She was glad she’d left the Sash of the Regent in the receiving room.

“You not be cold, girl-woman?”

“Not here.”

Essan shook her head. “Times I think you might still be from Erde . . . then . . . cold it must be in the mist worlds.”

“It gets much colder than anything I’ve experienced here.”
Especially the winters in Iowa
. Those she didn’t miss at all.

“These old bones would not be pleased.”

“In those places, these younger bones weren’t pleased.” Lord, she’d disliked Iowa—even if it had been about the only place she’d managed to land a decent-paying job.

Essan took another sip of the apple brandy and looked at the fire.

“What do you know about Lord Arkad of Cheor?” Anna asked.

“It has been years since I heard that name.” Lady Essan took a sip of the brandy. “Fine figure of a man he was then, but only a figure. Donjim said he followed the last words he heard. He had no heirs, then. Has he now?”

“Jecks says there are no direct heirs. I don’t know about others,” Anna admitted. “Arkad keeps weaseling out of paying the liedgeld. This time he wants assurance
that I’m spending the coins truly for the defense of Defalk.”

“Those lands be prosperous, even now.”

“That’s what Jecks said.”

“Rulers and regents cannot brook outright defiance, not even great sorceresses,” the white-haired woman offered, her hand going to the glazed almonds in the small dish.

“It’s a problem,” Anna admitted. “I don’t want any more lords to get the idea they can flout the Regency, but I don’t want them to get the idea that the only solution I have to every problem is force.”

“Why not? That is the way their minds work. If a ruler cannot force or coerce them, most lords feel that such a ruler be not strong enough to hold Defalk.”

Anna held the wince inside, knowing that what Lady Essan said was doubtless true. But it bothered her. Using force and sorcery against outside enemies made sense, but against her own lords?

“That was Barjim’s greatest fault. He did not use his strength enough when times were good. Then, he did not have enough strength to establish fear and respect when times worsened. Like it or not, sorceress-woman, men bend only to force.” Essan half laughed, half cackled. “Except in the bedchamber, and even there, it be best for a woman to be strong.”

“Always strength.”

“Always, and more so here in unsettled times.” Essan readjusted the shawl around her shoulders.

“Will you join us for dinner?”

“And leave my fire? That moldy hall be no place for old bones in winter. Synondra will fetch me a plate, if you mind not.”

“For your advice, Lady Essan, and your friendship, Synondra may fetch plates any or every night. But you are always welcome at the table.” Anna eased out of the chair, her forehead damp from the heat of the stuffy room.

“For that I thank you. Too bad I had no daughter like you. Nor a sister.” Essan lifted her brandy glass. “I might
even try to linger on and see what you do.” The older woman offered another chuckle, followed with a raspy cough.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine. Right as any old fool can be Go . . . you need to be regent and sorceress again. Go on.”

Anna slipped out, and motioned to Synondra, who hovered outside the door. “Please let me know if that cough gets worse. I don’t like . . .”

“I will, Lady Anna, and thank you.”

The sorceress, still followed by her guards, strode down the corridor to her own chambers, small for a regent or ruler—just a bedchamber and an adjoining bath and jakes, but sufficient and easier to ward and guard.

In the dim light cast by the bedside candles, Anna glanced at the shutters closed over the windows she’d installed with sorcery, then at the black lines etched into the stones of the outside wall of her room. The black lines were her reminder of her inability to use her sorcery to see earth—and her daughter Elizabetta. That last attempt had created a small explosion, etched the outline of the mirror into the stone, and nearly killed Anna.

The most powerful sorceress in Defalk, and she couldn’t even view her daughter for a second, not without risking explosions and fiery catastrophe.

A second mirror hung on the wall beside the outline of the vanished first mirror, its frame already singed, its varnish bubbling from the heat of sorcerous far-seeing. The sorceress shook her head. Menares was right in his insistence that she adopt the reflecting pool used by most sorcerers. At least the water wouldn’t catch fire.

Anna slipped into the washroom and glanced in the mirror, catching sight of the blonde hair, the thin face, and the eyes that had seen far more than her otherwise youthful countenance showed. Then, her features were finer than a younger woman’s would have been, but the complexion, hair, and skin tone were those of an eighteen-year-old—apparent
eternal youth—the dream of all the earth media promoters.

“Time for dinner, and all that entails.” She finished washing away the grime that still seemed to accumulate, then brushed the blonde hair that was again getting too long, before heading out the door and down the stairs, trailed by Giellum and Blaz.

As her stomach growled, once more reminding her that sorceresses had to eat twice what a healthy armsman needed, Anna glanced at the candle mantels. They needed cleaning again. She hoped she’d remember to have someone tell Virkan, but she wasn’t going to disrupt dinner.