The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (62 page)

“That is all I ask.”

She wanted to sigh again, but she forced a smile. “I hope the road dries more as we get toward Stromwer.”

“It will be damp until the other side of the crests of the Sudbergs,” predicted Jecks.

Great. Mud and a semi-patronizing yet concerned lord.

Anna patted Farinelli.

T
he shadow of a puffy white cloud passes over the road, and sunlight pours down on the long column once more. In the middle of the vanguard ride Ehara and jerRestin. The white uniform of the Sea-Priest appears grayish from the road dust.

“You say we need to reach the Vale of Cuetayl a day before she does.” Ehara glances toward the hills that, more than a dozen deks ahead, rise out of the flat plains. Behind the hills are the spired peaks of the Sudbergs, hazy in the distance and heat.

“At least a day. Two days would be better,” answers jerRestin, shifting his weight in the saddle once more. “We need some time to set up the attack. The terrain there will be suitable.”

“Have you been there?” Ehara touches the dark black beard and frowns. “How do you know?”

“Maps,” says jerRestin with a laugh. “Sailors need good maps, and we are quite good at making them for any sea or land that interests us.”

“And Dumar interests you?”

“All of Liedwahr interests the Maitre,” replies jerRestin offhandedly. “Surely, you know that by now, would-be Viceroy of Dumar and Defalk.”

“I vaguely remember something about that.” Ehara forces a smile. “Especially the viceroy part.”

“I thought you might.” JerRestin shifts his weight in the saddle again. “I prefer ships to horses, but one does what is needed.” A hard smile goes toward Ehara.

The Lord of Dumar ignores the smile. “How will you ensure that the bitch dies?”

“If she has no warning and cannot see what flies toward her, then she will die,” answers jerRestin. “That is why where we set our attack is important, and why each company must be separated from the others and under rock overhangs where possible. The streams should help as well.”

“You think running water will stop her, after what she did to the Falche?”

“Hamper, not stop,” corrects jerRestin amiably.

Behind the two leaders, the armsmen in pale brown, lancers with crimson sashes, ride stolidly and silently. Behind them are the two thousand lancers from Sturinn who survived the flood. Their faces are simultaneously blank and grim.

Even the hum of insects and the calls of the plains sparrows and dusky finches is low in the midday heat. Another cloud blocks the sun, and a shadow drifts across the road, then scuds eastward.

A
s the lead scouts of the column emerged from the last of the redstone walls of the canyon, Anna glanced ahead, southward to the ramparts of Stromwer, and toward the sloped, glass-smooth wall of stone before the keep that blocked the southern end of the valley.

The low, rolling hills were mostly green, and Anna could see scattered figures, and sheep, in places. The low hum of insects, the heat, and the sweat soaking into the band of her hat affirmed that summer had indeed arrived in southern Defalk.

Hanfor’s scouts had already returned—confirming that Lady Wendella expected and welcomed them. Not that Wendella had any choice, Anna reflected. The sorceress’s trousers were encrusted with reddish mud, although the rain had not fallen quite so heavily farther south—or the sun had been hotter and dried the road more.

“A good thing that you did not have to assault Stromwer,” Jecks voiced.

“A very good thing, for everyone,” added Hanfor.

“You mean because we’ll be stronger to fight Ehara?”

The two did not answer immediately because a scout appeared on the road ahead, coming over a low rise and riding a slow canter toward them.

“Now what?” murmured the sorceress to herself. She licked her dry lips and readjusted the floppy brown hat.

“Another rider, a messenger,” the scout said tersely, beginning to speak even before he swung his mount alongside Hanfor. “He wears crimson and rides alone.”

Anna wanted to sigh. She didn’t have any illusions
bout the contents of whatever message Ehara had dispatched.

“It is not a good message,” observed Jecks.

“A declaration of war?” suggested Anna. “Or a demand for our surrender?”

“From what you have laid on Dumar, it could be nothing else,” said Hanfor.

Anna still wanted to sigh. No matter what she did, it seemed to lead to some form of fight or skirmish. If she obliterated someone, that was force. If she didn’t, that was weakness, and weakness meant that she had to use force later. If she used indirect force, such as damming a river, that was an insult or created the idea that the ruler involved was weak, and that meant he had to fight. Even the direct force of a flood—however unplanned—didn’t seem to get the point across—only blood and slaughter seemed to do that.
Idiots! Idiots . . . everywhere
.

The messenger’s mount trotted along the damp red clay of the road toward the head of the column. The bareheaded rider reined up a good fifty yards south, and extended his hands—empty—and then lowered them and waited. His lanceholder held the staff of the pale blue pennant of harmony, the sign of traveling under truce, though the pennant itself hung limply in the still summer air.

Fhurgen eased his mount forward of Anna, as did Rickel. Both raised the protective shields slightly, and both had drawn their blades. Beside Anna, Jecks also bore an unsheathed blade.

“Halt here,” said Hanfor quietly.

The column stopped more than twenty yards north of the waiting messenger in crimson, who leaned forward slightly in the saddle, the mounted equivalent of a bow. “I offer this from Lord Ehara to the lady Anna, Regent of Defalk.”

Fhurgen eased his mount forward, letting his blade rest across his thighs as he reached for the scroll. Even as she
wondered how he could balance the bare steel that well, Anna let Fhurgen take the scroll.

“The regent will read it,” promised the guard.

“I must know that it reaches her hand.” The messenger’s voice quavered.

“I’ll take it,” Anna said quietly.

Fhurgen eased his mount sideways, never taking his eyes off the messenger, keeping the shield up, until he handed the scroll to Anna and slipped his fingers back around the hilt of his blade. “You may tell Lord Ehara his message reached the lady Anna.”

The messenger touched his brow and turned his horse, leaving at a fast trot, as if to put as much distance between him and the Defalkan forces as possible.

Anna looked at the rolled scroll, and at the travel-worn crimson ribbon and the wax seal that resembled a splotch of congealed blood. Finally, she looked around for a place to put it, before thrusting it through her belt, unopened.

“You would not read it?” asked Jecks.

“Why? I’d only get madder. What else could I do right now? We know Ehara’s moving every armsman he’s got toward Defalk. He’s not asking for peace, not with one messenger and no escort. Even I can figure that out. That messenger felt he was expendable. He expected to get killed.” Anna shrugged, then flicked Farinelli’s reins. “I want to get to Stromwer, get some food, and a bath. Then, we’ll see what Ehara has in mind.”
As if you don’t know already. . . .

“I doubt we will learn aught more than we already know,” suggested Hanfor dryly.

“No,” Anna agreed, letting Farinelli move out at a quick walk, “but he’s being a good boy, telling us how bad we are and why he has to go to war and get all sorts of people killed so that the lords or holders of Dumar can feel justified.” She could feel Jecks stiffen in his saddle, but she didn’t care—almost.

“Not all lords are like that,” said Hanfor.

“No—just most of them.” Anna thought, and added
quickly, “The good ones keep getting killed, except for Jecks here, and he can’t make a difference by himself.”

Hanfor offered a laugh. “That was how Lord Behlem gained his power. He removed the good lords and elevated those who wanted all to worship their names.”

“It’s how a lot of rulers get power.” Anna glanced to the left of the road, beyond a low stone fence where three young men and a girl stared, almost openmouthed, at her. She forced a smile, then offered a wave.

The dark-haired girl with the hoe turned to the youth next to her, but Anna did not hear the words. The sorceress’s eyes went to the road ahead, but her thoughts remained on lords and people with power who always seemed more interested in making themselves seem more important and powerful than in doing much constructive.

After a time, Jecks cleared his throat, rode nearer to Anna, and asked, “About the Sea-Priest, the sorcerer . . . have you thought . . . ?”

“About a spell to protect me?” asked Anna. “Some.”

Jecks waited, and Anna let the silence draw out slightly, knowing she was being petty, bitchy, or worse. But she was tired, and everyone kept asking things, little things, big things—tariffs, arms, smiths, blades, the list seemed endless.

Jecks waited, a patient half-smile on his face.

Anna glanced at the keep, still another two or three deks ahead, gray-and-red stones rising out of the center of the south end of the long valley. Finally, she spoke. “I think I could enchant your very small shield . . . maybe. I have some ideas, and I will try to work them out when we stop at Stromwer.”

“Thank you, Lady Anna. I would feel much better, would you try that.”

“I’ll try,” she promised—after a bath, after some decent food.

Again, they rode in silence, Anna occasionally blotting away sweat, trying not to think about how she felt and
smelled as the force neared the end of the valley and the walls and ramparts of the keep.

“Out with the standard!” ordered Hanfor.

One of the scouts broke out the banner with the crossed spears over the golden crown with the
R
beneath. The standard-bearer rode to the front of the van as the hoofs of the mounts struck the stone slabs of the causeway leading up to the gates of Stromwer.

The sharp
clopping
of hoofs on stone echoed around Anna and back down the valley. Heads popped up from the battlements of Stromwer, heads that just watched as the regent entered the gates.

The brown-haired Wendella stood on the front steps of the main keep building within the walls. “Greetings, sorceress and regent.”

“Greetings, Lady Wendella,” Anna reining up Farinelli, but making no move to dismount. “We’re only stopping for the night.”

Jecks reined up beside Anna, while Rickel and Fhurgen stopped farther back into the courtyard. Hanfor and Alvar continued toward the wider section of the stone-paved yard before the stable.

“For the night only?” Wendella looked up with a crooked smile. “And I had wondered if you returned to take my hold from me.”

Anna shook her head, forcing a smile. “Your hold is yours unless you fail to keep it well. You should know . . .” The sorceress didn’t bother finishing the sentence, realizing that Wendella was baiting her, almost as if to say that as Lady of Stromwer she was loyal, but didn’t have to like it.

“Have you heard of what happens in Dumar?” asked the brown-haired lady, cradling Condell in her left arm.

“We have heard little,” Anna said. “I know that Ehara is marching all of his armsmen toward Stromwer. What have you heard?”

Wendella offered the same crooked smile. “There are tales that Lord Ehara is so angry at Defalk that he has
turned his back on all of Liedwahr and ordered the women into chains, as in Sturinn. . . .”

Jecks glanced at Anna.

“ . . . And that Sturinn has pledged its entire fleet to bring down the . . . Sorceress of Defalk. . . .” Wendella swallowed.

“I assume that was ‘the bitch-sorceress of Defalk’?” asked Anna. “Or words like that.”

“Yes, Lady Anna.”

“We will discuss that.” Anna paused, then added, “You should join us, Lady Wendella. After I stable and groom Farinelli.”

Jecks raised his eyebrows.

Wendella glanced from Anna to Jecks to Anna, then nodded. “As you wish, Lady Anna. I would suggest the private study.”

“Thank you. That would be good. I won’t be long.” Anna inclined her head and flicked the reins gently. Farinelli followed her guidance and carried her to the area before the stable where Hanfor, with the stablemaster standing by the arms commander’s mount, directed the armsmen.

“Purple Company—that’s the rear section to the right. . . .” Hanfor nodded to Anna, then continued. “. . . subofficers check all blades before supper.”

The sorceress swung out of the saddle. For a moment, her knees felt like jelly as she stood on the stone. Then she headed into the stable.

The dark-haired stable boy bowed as Anna led Farinelli through the open sliding door. “Regent and lady, the front corner stall . . . it is ready.”

“Thank you.” Anna smiled.

Farinelli
whuffed
once as Anna stepped into the stall, swept and filled with fresh straw. A bucket of oats also awaited the big horse.

“Grain, too.”

“They all respect their regent here,” said Jecks with a laugh from the adjoining stall.

“If it weren’t required by spells, I’d be happier.” Anna loosened the girths, then racked the saddle and hung the saddle blanket next to the saddle. She groomed the big gelding without speaking.

When she was finished, she carried the lutar and scroll across the courtyard and up the steps to the private study, accompanied by Hanfor and Jecks, and trailed as always by a pair of guards, this time Lejun and Rickel. One of the younger guards followed with the leather-cased traveling mirror and her saddlebags. All three halted and stationed themselves in the dim stone-walled corridor while Jecks and Anna entered the study where Wendella waited.

Anna set the lutar on a chest. Jecks surveyed the study, then nodded at Hanfor who closed the heavy door gently, but firmly.

“You wished my presence, Lady Anna?” asked Wendella, still holding a sleeping Condell.

“I did. I thought you might like to hear what our neighbor Lord Ehara has to say to us.”