The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (33 page)

“Then, let’s hope he can teach young Halde.” Anna coughed. Her chest still hurt when she did, but it was far more of an ache than the stabbing pain it had been. “We’ll need to draft a proclamation or whatever’s necessary to grant the lands to Jimbob. . . .”

Jecks nodded.

“We’d better talk to Jimbob, first, too, before he hears something.”

“I will get him.” The white-haired lord walked swiftly from the quarters.

Hanfor looked at her once the older lord had left.

“Am I risking disaster, Hanfor? Probably. Except that the alternatives are worse. These lands are too old and too traditional to give to you or someone else who isn’t from an old family in Defalk. If I hold them, it will make more lords rebellious, and if I grant them to Jecks, it will be seen as a scheme of some sort.” She shrugged.

“When you speak that way, it does ring true.” The veteran coughed. “Will the power not affect the boy?”

“I’m going to try to stop that.”

Hanfor nodded. His face went blank as Jecks returned with Jimbob.

“Lady Anna?” The redhead bowed. “Grandsire said you needed to speak to me.”

“I do.” Anna waited until the door closed. “You had asked the other day who would inherit Synfal. Your grandsire said I could not make an announcement immediately. Do you remember that?”

“Yes, lady.”

“I’m going to inform the heir,” she continued with a smile, “and I thought you should know.”

Hanfor’s eyes twinkled as Jimbob’s face took on a puzzled expression.

“Once you have the age and experience, these lands of Synfal will be yours, along with those of Falcor, and eventually, I would guess, those of Elheld.”

Jimbob’s mouth almost opened. He swallowed.

“I would ask you
not
to speak of it. I will make the announcements within the next few days.”

“Yes, lady.”

Anna turned to face Jimbob, and her eyes fixed his. “I want to make some things clear, Jimbob. First, while you will be the lord of Synfal, the lands will be administered for you by Herstat while you learn about them and every
thing else you need to know. Second, your word, unless it is supported by your grandsire or Herstat, is not yet law. Do you understand that?”

Jimbob frowned. “Then why, Lady Anna, are you naming me now?”

“To settle things as quickly as possible. And as smoothly. So the people have a chance to get accustomed to you, and so that you can learn what you need to know.”

The red-haired boy nodded, as if he were unsure.

Anna looked from Jecks to Jimbob. “There are a couple of rules I will insist on. Until you are of age, you will never contradict Herstat or question his actions or judgments in any public place. Nor will you question me or your grandsire in public about what we have done. I expect you to ask questions—that’s one way of learning—but in private chambers, never where you will be overheard.” Her eyes went to the youth. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, lady.”

“Second, if you strongly disagree with an action Herstat has taken, you will talk first with your grandsire. If he feels it is necessary, he will come to me. Third, you will keep in mind that most people will do what’s necessary if you make it clear what needs to be done and that you respect them. They also must respect you.” Anna’s eyes focused directly on Jimbob. “Your sire and mother were respected, your mother especially, because they knew what had to be done and how to do it. Authority and power—or birthright—will never inspire true respect. Knowledge, skill, understanding, and strength will. You need to learn more of these. Herstat will help you learn that, and to keep you from making too many mistakes.”

“Yes, Lady Anna.”

“I would only add one thing to what the Lady Anna has said,” Jecks remarked. “By granting you Synfal, she has given you the chance your sire never had. She has also given you even greater power to destroy yourself.” He grinned at his grandson. “But if you look like you’re
going to try that, I am still not too old to knock you back into your britches.”

Jimbob swallowed. “I will do my best, grandsire . . . Lady Anna . . .”

“You will do better than that, lad,” said Jecks, the smile vanishing. “You will do better than you think you can.”

Jimbob glanced from Jecks to Hanfor to Anna, then back to Jecks. Then he straightened his shoulders. “Yes, grandsire. Yes, sire.”

Anna suppressed a smile. “You may go, Jimbob. We’ll talk more about this once Herstat arrives.”

“In the meantime,” added Jecks, “not one word.”

“No, sire.”

Not more than a few moments after Jimbob left, after a heavy thump on the door, Fhurgen peered inside. “A scroll for you, lady, relayed by messenger from Falcor.”

Hanfor slipped out of his chair and claimed the scroll from Fhurgen, tendering it to Anna as the guard closed the door.

Anna glanced at the words. “Hadrenn?” she murmured. The name was familiar, but he wasn’t one of the Thirty-three of Defalk. Then she wanted to shake her head at her stupidity. He was one of the two fighting it out in Ebra. She opened the scroll and began to read. After reading through it silently, she repeated the key phrases to Jecks and Hanfor.

“. . . times have changed, and we of Ebra must change with them or perish. . . . I would propose an arrangement of mutual benefit, pledging the lands of Synek, my ancestral lands, in fealty to the regent and Regency of Defalk. In turn, if the Regency could see fit to recognize me as one of the Thirty-three when that would be appropriate . . .

“. . . maintaining such fealty will initially be most difficult . . . particularly given the recent coins
and arms provided by the Liedfuhr of Mansuur to the usurper Bertmynn. . . .

“. . . Ebra can no longer stand against the rest of Liedwahr, nor should it. . . . Synek, and in time, all of Ebra, would be most benefited to share arms with Defalk. . .”

“He is begging for any sort of aid you are willing to provide,” said Hanfor. “We have little to provide.”

“There have always been thirty-three lords,” Jecks said deliberately. “Changing that might be difficult, especially in these days.”

“We don’t change it,” Anna said. “Cheor belongs to Jimbob, right? Now, doesn’t he count as the Lord of Falcor, and the Overlord of Defalk?”

A smile crossed Hanfor’s face, quickly vanishing, as he raised a hand to cover a mock cough.

Jecks nodded, his lips crinkling into a smile as Anna continued.

“We actually lack at least one lord now. Also, if we grant lordship to this Hadrenn, that might make it more difficult for anyone else to claim lordship over Cheor.”

“In theory, Lady Anna.”

“Do we want to fight in three lands?” asked Hanfor.

“Why can’t we get Hadrenn to fight there for us?” responded Anna. “We can spare a little coin. We’ll tell him that most of the Thirty-three have paid between eight hundred and a thousand golds a year in liedgeld, once their times of trouble have passed. We’ll promise help as we can, knowing that we must swim together or sink separately.” She wondered where she’d come up with the last phrase. She didn’t even like swimming.

A quizzical look passed across Jecks’ face.

“Coins? How do we know he won’t turn on us?” asked Hanfor. “You buried part of his land in fire and molten rock, and devastated the rivers. Yet now he would turn to you, and you would send him coin?”

“Right now, we don’t know if he will be trustworthy.
Remember . . . I didn’t oppose him, but his enemy the Evult. And besides, he has nowhere else to turn, does he?” Anna shook her head. “If he’s asking us for coin, I’d bet that this Bertmynn is getting golds and weapons from some of our other friends—like Konsstin and maybe the Sturinnese. Why else would Hadrenn turn to us? He can’t have anywhere else to turn.”

“Can a mountain cat so cornered be trusted?” Hanfor touched his trimmed but graying beard.

“It’s a risk, but I’d think it’s worth it. He’s not going to invade Defalk, not with Bertmynn knocking at his door to the east.”

“I do not know,” mused Jecks. “We know nothing of him.”

Anna could see that nothing she said would make much difference at the moment. Instead, she stood, walked to the chest where the lutar rested, and began tuning the instrument. Then she stepped over to the mirror and lifted the lutar and began to sing.

“Those in Stromwer strong,

those who’d do me wrong

now show them in this silver cast

and make that vision well last . . .”

Even before the notes died away, an image filled the glass. From what Anna could tell, well over two hundred large tents clustered below the walls of Stromwer—or whatever Dencer called his keep. A banner with a gold big-horned sheep or something similar poised on a peak, backed in crimson, flew from a pole amid the tents in what had to be a stiff breeze.

“Dumar—Ehara’s banner,” said Jecks. “Outside the walls. Dencer does not fully trust so many armsmen.”

Anna glanced at Hanfor, who stood and stepped forward, peering at the image. After a time, he nodded, and she released the spell.

“How many armsmen are there?” she asked.

“A hundredscore at least.”

“Most are from Dumar?”

“It would seem so.”

Anna raised the lutar again, and did the second spellsong.

“Those in Suhl so strong,

those who’d do me wrong . . .”

The next image in the glass showed a second keep, of stone and red brick. Below the keep’s outer wall, nearly a dek from the wall, hundreds of men labored at an earthwork—or a mound. Beyond them milled several hundred lancers.

Anna snorted. She suspected another outsized crossbow would be mounted there, or something similar, with the lancers for distraction or cover.

“And here,” she asked after releasing the spell.

“Twentyscore,” suggested Hanfor.

Anna tried a third rendition, one for Lord Gylaron.

The image was equally clear—a gray stone keep with what appeared to be catapults mounted on the walls, and with armsmen on every wall.

Fighting lightheadedness, Anna set aside the lutar and reseated herself, taking a swallow of water and crunching through two already stale biscuits before she felt more steady. She still wasn’t back to normal, and the world didn’t seem to want to let her recover before rushing in on her.

At the same time, Anna wanted to smile. She was one small woman who could do sorcery, a regent with perhaps three hundred armsmen, and the three southern lords acted as though she were the scourge of the earth—or Erde.

“Do you still want to turn down potential allies?” she asked. “One that could not hurt us unless we were beyond help?”

“What do we gain?” asked Jecks.

Anna could see, once again, she was running against tradition. Defalk had always been the thirty-three lords ,-within their mountain walls, and Jecks consciously or unconsciously was resisting any change.

“In time, we eliminate forever an enemy to the east.” That seemed simple enough. If she could co-opt Ebra in time . . . and do something about Dumar to stop the Sea-Priests. She shook her head. What was she thinking? Just about trying to take over large chunks of Liedwahr when they were practically under siege from every side.

Hanfor nodded. “We have little to lose.”

“If you think best,” Jecks finally grudged.

“I’ll write something, and then let you read it,” Anna said. “You would know better what phrases would work best.” She offered a smile, and got a faint one in return.
Lord, politics again, even with Jecks
.

The white-haired lord nodded politely.

“We’ll have to work out something to deal with Suhl,” she said.

“That would be wisest,” Jecks offered. “Something that will not endanger you.”

“I had figured on that.” Anna coughed again. “Let’s think about that. I need to take care of some things. How about in another glass or so?”

After they left, she looked at the closed door, wondering once more how she’d ever gotten into the mess, or how everything she did seemed to hurt the best people.

Life wasn’t ever fair. By all rights, Daffyd, who’d been loyal, supportive, and talented, should have been in charge of her players. He and the players who had supported her early on were all dead. Jecks’ daughter Alasia should have been planning the campaign that lay ahead, but she was dead. Lord Hryding should still have held Flossbend, and Anna didn’t dare take the time even to investigate that mess.

In the meantime, at least, she could send a scroll to Flossbend, reserving her right to name another administrator
in place of the bitchy Anientta for her spoiled son Jeron. That would keep Anientta from causing too much trouble, for now, anyway. She sighed, reaching for the parchment. At least, she could do that.

I
have scrolls from both Nubara and from Rabyn,” Konsstin says wearily, his large right hand pushing a lock of brown-and-silver hair off his forehead. “Would that Kestrin were older.”

Bassil nods.

“I found Jyrllar too late, after Kandeth, and so my heir is younger than Rabyn. Would that he will be more perceptive and less vicious.”

The younger man nods once more.

“What do you think they say?” Konsstin leans back in the heavy silver chair, his eyes flicking toward the window to his right, and the gray clouds that seem to hover not far beyond the balcony.

“Neither is happy with the other?” suggests the raven-haired officer in the lancer’s maroon uniform.

“Brilliant! Absolutely brilliant.” The Liedfuhr stands and lifts a scroll from the slightly smeared polish of the walnut surface. “The snake and the lizard, and they do not like each other.”

“You feared this,” Bassil says quietly.

“I feared it, and what we fear too often comes to pass. Is that because we fear it, and that fear becomes embodied in our lives?”

“That I could not say, sire.”

“You repeat my words and refuse to offer judgment.
How judicious of you. Are you, too, becoming a courtier?”

“I would hope not, sire.”

“You would hope not?” Konsstin laughs harshly. “What would you advise, my dear advisor Bassil?” asks the Liedfuhr. “My own sworn agent, the good Nubara, advises me, most delicately, that my grandson is indeed the viper that his mother was, except worse. My loving grandson informs me, most properly, that his guardian is intent on assuming full rule in his own name in Neserea, and that Nubara is a scaly lizard who oozes oily charm to disguise his claws.”