The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (42 page)

The intense young man—he wore nondescript brown clothing, not the colors of a sorcerer and not the livery of any of the neighbors or enemies of Defalk. He stood in what seemed to be some type of storeroom. Yet her sorcery indicated that he had power and was an enemy. But who was he?

“Do you recognize the younger man?” She released the spell and replaced the lutar in its case.

“No.”

“He wears a tradesman’s browns,” said Jecks.

She’d have to keep tabs on the unknown young man, but she was tired, and her spells indicated that he wasn’t associated with any immediate danger. Still . . . she’d have to remember. Nonimmediate dangers left untended usually became immediate at the worst possible time.

“The Sea-Priest schemes with Ehara.”

“Everyone schemes,” Anna snorted.

Jecks cleared his throat, and Anna turned.

“Perhaps it will do no good, but would you not consider sending scrolls to Gylaron and Dencer suggesting that their defiance of the Regency is unwelcome and requesting their allegiance?”

“And their liedgeld?” Anna asked ironically. “It can’t hurt, and I suppose it would set better with the other lords if at least I asked.”

“That it would.”

“You don’t think they’ll agree?”

“I would think not,” said Jecks. “Yet, they had not heard of what befell Suhl.” He shrugged. “There is a chance.”

“Would you draft what you think we should say?”

“That . . . that I can do.”

“Thank you. I should have thought of it.” Anna turned to Hanfor. “How soon will your scouts have their reports on the roads?”

“By nightfall.”

“Can we march on Gylaron by two days after tomorrow?”

“We could march the day after tomorrow, but two days would be better.”

“Let’s plan on it. Unless we get a total downpour.” She paused. “Or Gylaron decides to return to the fold.”

That got another blank expression from Jecks.

“Rejoin the Regency.” Anna stood. “I’m going to check a few things around the keep.”

Both men rose.

When she left the chamber, Fhurgen and Rickel stepped from their post at the door. Both marched behind her down the dim corridor.

She eased open the nursery door and stepped inside alone, as quietly as she could. Dinfan sat at a table with her back to the door, and the nurse sat on a stool looking at the girl.

“. . . your ma, she was from Fussen. That be where your cousins struggle to see who will be lord.” The nurse looked up, her eyes widening.

Anna shook her head, and motioned for the woman to continue.

“Ah . . . she be . . . the elder. . . .”

Dinfan turned, holding a chunk of bread. Her wide eyes fixed on Anna, those eyes so alike, and so unlike Irenia’s. “Did you know my mother?”

“No, Lady Dinfan. I did not.”

The nurse stood and bowed. “Regent.”

“She called me lady, Bregha. She called me lady.”

“You are the lady of Suhl,” Anna said gravely.

“Indeed you be,” added Bregha.

“Ma, she was lady of Suhl.”

“She was, but she did not hold Suhl. If you study and learn, you will.” Anna smiled faintly, turning to the nurse. “Does she know her letters?”

“Some.”

“We will find someone to help with that. The Lady
Herene will be her guardian, and she can help her with her letters. It may be several weeks.”

The nurse bowed.

“Take care, Dinfan.” Anna smiled.

Dinfan offered a faint smile in return.

As she left, Anna shook her head, ignoring Fhurgen’s frown as he fell in behind her. Would every child always remind her of her own, blocked as she was from even using sorcery to see their images?

“Do you know where Liende might be, Fhurgen?”

“In her quarters on the second level, lady. Beyond the back stairs.”

Anna could hear the woodwind player’s practice from well down the corridor. She rapped on the door, and the notes stopped.

The chief player opened the door, horn in hand.

“Lady Anna.” Liende looked rested, more rested than Anna felt.

“Liende, you look more rested.”

“Several days’ sleep has helped.” A wry grimace crossed the older woman’s face.

“That’s good. Unfortunately, I have some work for you. I’d like you to keep the players working on those songs. I may have one more for you in a day or so.”

“Kaseth cannot play yet.”

“I understand. He collapsed. But you and the others can start, can’t you?”

Liende nodded. “Kaseth, he has more experience, and he can learn more quickly.”

“There will be a gold bonus for each of the players for this past battle. Two for you. That’s when we get back to Falcor.” While they had found somewhere over fifteen hundred golds in Sargol’s storeroom, the amount left after deducting the past due liedgeld would be less than a thousand, and most of that had to be left in Markan’s care to run the holding.
Another reason why Sargol hadn’t paid? Then why hadn’t he asked for relief? Male pride? Damn male pride!
Anna swallowed, trying to get her thoughts
back in line, and added, “We aren’t carrying lots of golds with us.”

“Your word is more than good, lady.” Liende smiled. “All the players know that, and it will be better to have their golds safe.”

“Good.” Anna hoped they all felt that way, and still would after their ever-extended journey was over—if it ever ended. “We’ll be leaving for Lerona three days from now. I don’t know what we’ll need. We may not have to fight . . . and we may.”

“We know you will do what is necessary, and no more.”

“Thank you.” Anna smiled. “I’m glad you’re here. I know it’s hard on you to be away from Kinor and Alseta, but I appreciate it.”

“I can return to them.” Liende smiled sadly. “You have lost yours, and . . . I wish it were otherwise.”

“So do I.” Anna swallowed. “Thank you.” After a moment, she turned and started toward the stables. She still had Farinelli to groom.

Anna had hoped not to have to use Liende in battle. That hadn’t worked. She’d hoped not to have to kill off so many Defalkan armsmen. That hadn’t worked. She’d hoped not to have to continually rely on sorcery . . . but pitched battles took armsmen and equipment she lacked . . . and so the list went.

T
hat’s her. . . .” hissed a young voice from the darkness beyond the stall where Anna saddled Farinelli. “The regent.”

“Looks too pretty to be a regent.”

“That’s ’cause she uses sorcery. Bet without it, she’d be ugly.”

Anna smiled, then called back toward the two unseen stable boys. “I look the way I am, boys.”

Scurrying feet and the rustle of straw were the only answer.

Anna led Farinelli out of the stables, hoping that Markan could find a good stablemaster. She’d ended up mucking Farinelli’s stall at Suhl because the big gelding hadn’t let anyone else near, not that there had been many souls left in the keep after her magic.

Fhurgen waited outside, already mounted, his dark eyes flicking from side to side. Rickel stood guard on his mount a dozen yards across the courtyard, his eyes more toward the open gate.

Anna checked her four water bottles, the lutar case, and the leather pack that contained her spell glass, then swung easily into the saddle.

Farinelli whuffed once, and she patted his neck, glancing toward the stables as Jecks led out his mount. The white-haired lord was still muscular, if slightly stocky, and still handsome.

If only . . . If only what?

“Lady Anna’?”

The sorceress turned toward the armsman approaching on foot. “Markan.”

“Lady Anna . . . you know we would ride with you,” Markan offered, his eyes momentarily traveling past Anna to the players and the armsmen mounted up along the length of the courtyard. Behind him, Fridric nodded.

“I know. But many can ride with me. I’m asking more of you, Markan. Much more. I’m entrusting you with the heir of Suhl, and with the lady Herene, once she arrives. You must keep them safe, and you must ensure that all here respect
and
love the Regency and the reign of Lord Jimbob to come. That’s not easy.”
Building things is much harder than destroying them
. That was becoming all too clear.

“I will do my best.”

“I know. You need to find a lot of people . . . including a good stablemaster.” Anna shook her head.

“I will take that on, lady,” volunteered Fridric. “Until we find one. My father ran the stable in Aroch.”

“Thank you.” Anna smiled.

The smaller armsman flushed.

Hanfor rode back from the lower section of the courtyard. “Lady, all are ready.”

“I’ll be right there.” She nodded to the arms commander, then turned to Markan. “I’ve told you what needs to be done. You have those lists. Don’t hesitate to send a scroll to Herstat at Synfal or Dythya in Falcor if you need something.”

“Yes, Lady Anna.”

“Good.” She turned Farinelli toward the gate, and Jecks eased his mount beside hers.

“He will find out how hard are those tasks you have laid for him,” Jecks prophesied as they rode down the causeway in the hazy morning light to join Hanfor at the head of the column.

“We all find that out.”

“A good armsman we could use, and the half-score you left with him and the wounded,” murmured Rickel from behind Anna.

“We could,” Anna admitted, leaning forward in the saddle and giving Farinelli a solid pat on the neck. “Taking Suhl, we lost a score, one way or another. Would you like to lose that many again? Or hundreds, without sorcery, if Suhl rebels again?”

Fhurgen, to the left of Anna, guffawed. “Winning battles, my friend Rickel, that is just the start. That’s why we’re armsmen. Be glad you are.”

“The battles you don’t have to fight, Rickel,” Jecks added, “those are the ones that could save your life.”

Anna could sense the young blond armsman’s embarrassment, and she turned her head to him. “Rickel . . . it takes time. Even I thought about just winning battles, just
getting through them.” She laughed ruefully. “Sometimes I still do.”

For how long?

She had no answer to that question. So she smiled as she rode to join Hanfor, Jecks beside her, and her guards flanking and trailing them. Hanfor raised a hand in salute, and she returned the gesture, trying not to sneeze as the dust tickled her nose.

Across the valley, past the raw earth of the mass graves that held most of those who had served Sargol, lay the road to Lerona.

T
he bitch avoided Sargol’s traps—all of them. And her archers—they turned his armsmen into targets.” Dencer shakes his head, and the brown-and-gray hair flops onto his too-high forehead.

“One attacks a sorceress most safely from afar.” The officer in crimson, standing before the wide table, bows his head slightly. “As you have prepared to do, Lord Dencer.”

“Oh, spare me the compliments, Captain Gortin.” The lanky lord bobs his head. “Your master sent two companies of lancers to aid Lord Sargol, and she destroyed them with a few words of song and then turned his keep into a flaming abattoir.”

“Yes, she did that.” Gortin’s words are neutral.

“Well . . . Captain Gortin? What will you do? She is riding south to Gylaron’s keep.” Dencer pushes back the chair and stands, like a predatory heron, jaw forward, beady eyes on the lancer.

“Let Gylaron face her. She lost some-score men at
Suhl. She will lose more at Lerona.” Gortin smiles easily. “Then we will see.”

“Will you send for more lancers?” Dencer lurches around the writing table and steps to the bookcase, where he extracts a small leather volume.

“They could not reach Stromwer before the sorceress,” says Gortin.

“So they could not. And what am I to do? Throw myself on her mercy? Die so that my ungrateful consort shall hold my patrimony?” Dencer smiles bitterly. “Where is Dumar’s friendship now?”

“I am here, Lord Dencer. So are my lancers. We stand with you.”

“Stand with me. . . . Ah, that sounds so reassuring.” The tall lord lifts the leatherbound volume. “Here. Tactics against sorcery. From Pelletara. ‘Do not allow a sorcerer close to your men. If possible, fight any battles in rain or snow, preferably in a heavy thunderstorm.’” Dencer looks at Gortin. “Perhaps your master can bring us a thunderstorm.”

“Thunderstorms are possible here in the Sudbergs.” Gortin shrugs. “I question whether the sorceress would choose to attack in one. Or whether we could find one at the right glass to cover any movement we might make.”

“For a representative of a mighty power, you offer little comfort.”

“I am here to fight, Lord Dencer.”

“Fight you will.” Dencer closes the book with a snap. “You may go.”

“Thank you, Lord Dencer.” Gortin nods and turns.

S
couts report a wagon ahead, sir,” the messenger puffed to Hanfor, turning his mount to ride beside the arms commander.

“A wagon?” The veteran’s eyebrows lifted.

“Just a wagon. Three people in it. Two horses. Nice matched grays, sir. It be a fancy wagon, with brass trim.”

Anna and Jecks listened. Anna blotted her forehead with a gray cloth that was reddish brown with road dust turned to mud by continual sweat under the hot late-spring sun. A line of puffy clouds dotted the southern horizon, but seemed no closer than they had at daybreak.

“And, ser, there be some armsmen, three, four deks south of the wagon. They are not riding anywhere.”

Hanfor turned to Anna. “Your wish, lady?”

“Let me see what I can see.”

As Hanfor called out orders, and the column slowed to a halt, and dust boiled around her, Anna dismounted, handing Farinelli’s reins to Rickel. She unstrapped the mirror pack and then the lutar. She walked away from the column, forward along the road shoulder until she was out of the dust. The mirror went on the scraggly grass, uncovered, and she took the lutar from its battered brown case and began to tune it.

Rickel and Fhurgen followed, mounted, with Farinelli. The gelding
whuffed
and sidestepped as the two guards reined up.

Jecks and Hanfor arrived, walking their mounts and standing back from Anna and the mirror.