The Spellsong War: The Second Book of the Spellsong Cycle (27 page)

While the Falche—to the west of Cheor—was wider than at Falcor, and much wider to the southwest after it was joined by the Synor, the Synor itself was a narrow river. The water flowing under the old bridge wasn’t much more than twenty yards wide, with grasses and rushes extending a few yards beyond. As Jecks had pointed out, though, for the forty deks upstream of Cheor the Synor ran deep enough that it was well over the head of even a mounted rider, with several yards to spare.

Despite the flatness of the land, she had noted that there were scattered boulders, some sizable, along the river, probably either from beneath the delta or carried downstream over time. She was counting on there being enough for her sorcery. Otherwise . . . she shook her head.
You do what you can
.

Anna continued to survey the river and the bridge, pondering how the old timber bridge had lasted. She thought she could see it waver even as her lancers crossed it and then set up a picket line to keep the road and bridge clear.

Farinelli
whuffed
and sidestepped as Jecks eased his
mount up beside Anna. Jimbob halted his mare slightly farther back.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Jecks frowned.

“We don’t have any battles to fight. I have a set of players, and that means I’m not doing it all myself. And that bridge is the key to all the lands in the south of Defalk, isn’t it?”

“Except for Morra, that is true. Still, your bridge will also let an enemy march north to Falcor.”

Anna smiled grimly. “If an enemy gets that far, we won’t be around to worry.”

“A regent who does not retreat.” Jecks gave a short laugh.

Alvar and Fhurgen had reined up slightly behind Jecks and Anna, but neither spoke as the sorceress continued to study the river and the bridge.

“When we fight on their lands, our people don’t suffer as much.” Anna wondered where she’d thought of that, even as she said it.

An expression flicked across Jecks’ face, too fast for Anna to identify it. Was it surprise? Or dismay? She wasn’t sure she liked either. She turned in the saddle, absently patting Farinelli on the neck. “Alvar, I think the lancers should keep everyone on this side back, say, as far as that path that joins the road there. That should provide enough of a margin of safety.”
You hope
.

“Yes, Regent Anna.” The captain turned and rode back toward the lancers, and the cart and wagon they had detained. “All squads back. Back behind the cross-path there.”

Anna dismounted and extracted the two sheets of paper she had prepared earlier—the spell and the sketch of the bridge. Then she looked at the still-mounted Lord Jecks, then at Fhurgen. “If you would not mind hanging on to Farinelli, Fhurgen?”

“He has not troubled me before. Let us hope he does not today.”

“I hope not.” She turned to Jecks.

“Have you a task for me?” The white-haired lord smiled, a faint twinkle back in his eyes.

“No. This time, you and Jimbob can just watch.”

“You . . . I . . . we will watch.”

Anna wondered what Jecks had been about to say, or why he hadn’t. Offer a compliment? Was she that formidable? “Thank you.” She tried to make her words warm, and she smiled.

Jimbob smiled back, almost with a puzzled cross between a smile and a frown, and Jecks returned the warmth.

Then Anna walked to the top of the low rise where she could see both river and bridge. On the far side, her armsmen were stretched out. Two had stopped a cart drawn by a pony, and a woman leading two sheep.

She hummed the spell tune, then started through a vocalise. “Holly, lolly, polly . . . pop . . .” She coughed up mucus. It was going to be one of those days. Thank goodness, or the harmonies, it wasn’t a battle or some other disaster.

The youth spell hadn’t really returned her to youth, not her own youth. She’d never had bad allergies when she’d been young. Brill’s dying effort had rejuvenated her current body, given it strength and a youthful form, but she was still struggling with allergies and intermittent mild asthma.

Clearing her throat, she tried another vocalise. Her voice didn’t feel clear until she’d run through four vocalises, and she tried to ignore the impatience she felt was building around her.

Across the river the lancers had stopped another wagon, and on her side, Alvar had halted a cart and a shepherd with a dozen sheep.

Finally, Anna turned and motioned to Liende, and waited until the red-and-white-haired woodwind player rode forward. “I think about here would be right.” The sorceress added, “We’ll use the long building spell. Warm up and run through it a few times while I finish getting ready.”

“Players to position,” said Liende, with a gesture to the others to dismount and circle around her.

Anna walked forward a few steps, looking at the sketch of the bridge and trying to visualize it over the waters and the still-brown rushes of the Synor.

While the strings and horns began to tune behind her, she began to sing the notes of the spell, using “la” instead of real words, and visualized the stone arch she wanted to replace the rickety wooden span that had seemed to sway and sag even under a single wagon earlier.

After one run-through, Anna concentrated on just the drawing of the bridge the spell was supposed to create, ignoring the cacophony of tuning, and the creaking of yet another wagon nearing the river.

Then, as the players waited, she finished a last vocalise and mentally went over the spell melody and the words. Finally, she nodded to Liende. “The long building spellsong.”

Once the melody rose, Anna sang, not belting, but with full voice.

“. . . replicate the blocks and stones.
Place them in their proper zones . . .
Set them firm, and set them square
weld them to their pattern there . . .

“Bring the rock and make it stone . . .”

The ground around the river shuddered, but Anna held her mind on the image of the new bridge and the stone approachway to it, keeping her voice open and clear.

The shiver in Erde’s underlying harmonies seemed less pronounced. Was that because the players were stronger? Still, there was a flicker of lightning across the half-clear sky—again visible to but her, she suspected. The few puffy clouds did darken into a heavy gray.

Anna swayed on her feet, feeling dizzy, lightheaded, but she caught herself.

Damn it all! More rest before we get out of here
. All she ever did, it seemed, was cast spells and get weak and recover in time to cast more spells. Her eyes narrowed. The new bridge seemed solid, although the stones shimmered as if they had been glazed.

“Lady Anna?” Jecks stood beside her, offering her both her water bottle and a biscuit bigger than his fist.

“Thank you.” She took a swallow from the bottle and then a bite of the crumbly biscuit, and another . . . and another. After a moment, she realized she’d eaten the entire biscuit. She was still lightheaded, but didn’t feel as though she’d fall over any moment, and she had no problem with double images.

With a smile, Jecks offered another biscuit.

“Thank you,” she said again, taking it, and chewing off a crumbling corner.

Alvar eased his mount toward her. “My lady? The bridge? Can it be used?”

“They can use it,” she confirmed.

“Another bridge that will outlive us both,” Jecks said, with a shake of his head.

“Better bridges than battles,” she mumbled as she finished the second biscuit and lifted the water bottle.

I
won’t. I can’t.” The girl sits up in the bed, and swings her legs over the edge, letting the sheer green cotton fall away from small and well-formed breasts that shimmer in the faint light that comes through the door from the outer room.

“You’re sure?” Rabyn’s voice is concerned, warm.

“I can’t . . .” She shakes her head. “That . . . that’s awful.”

“I’d hoped you’d be sweet to me.”

“The other . . .” She shakes her head. “Not that. . . .”

The dark-haired youth sits up beside her, offers her a goblet of wine. “Here. It’s all right. I didn’t realize it would upset you.”

“You’re so young. You’re not old enough to think like that. How . . .” She takes a swallow, and her mouth puckers slightly. “Sweet. Too sweet.” Another smaller swallow follows.

“Honey. I like my wine sweet. I like girls sweet, too, Dylla.” Rabyn offers a smile.

“Sickening . . . sweet.” She wipes her lips with the back of her hand, and her mouth puckers again.

“I like things sweet. That’s why you should have done what I asked,” he adds slowly, taking the goblet from her, as her hands begin to tremble.

“You . . .” Her mouth opens spasmodically, and she begins to choke. Her hands reach for him, but the trembling increases, and Rabyn steps out of her grasp easily.

“You should have been sweet to me,” he repeats as he stands and steps away from the bed, carrying the goblet.

Dylla slumps, then topples forward, and her nude form, lying half across the green braided rug and half across the cold tiles, twitches and shudders for a time. She also moans softly, softly only because she cannot make a greater effort.

Before long, twitches and moans cease.

Then Rabyn pulls on his tunic and trousers, and a pair of gold threaded sandals, and walks into the antechamber where he rings the crystal bell and waits by the single flickering candle.

“Yes, sire?” answers the page as he opens the door.

“I would like to see Nubara. Now. Here.”

“Now?” The servant glances toward the dark window, then at Rabyn. “Yes, sire.”

The door closes.

Rabyn goes back to the bedchamber and amuses himself for a time, waiting for Nubara.

When he arrives, the hand of the regent does not have himself announced, but throws open the door and marches through and into the bedchamber.

Rabyn smiles. “She wasn’t nice to me, Nubara. I don’t like people who aren’t sweet to me.”

Nubara looks at the naked body on the floor. “Was that necessary, Rabyn?”

“Lord Rabyn,” corrects the dark-haired youth. “She wouldn’t do what I wanted. She didn’t make me feel good.” Rabyn smiles. “You said she was only a peasant.”

“I beg your pardon, Lord Rabyn.” Nubara’s voice is cold. “She still had family, and they will not be happy. Neither will their friends.”

“Tell them she died of the flux. It does happen. Offer them a few golds as consolation. Every peasant loves golds.” Rabyn’s lips curl. “They see few enough of them.”

“Would you be so kind as to help me dress the body? It might be easier to explain.”

“I’m the Prophet, Nubara. I’m sure grandsire wouldn’t wish anything to happen to me. You know that, don’t you?” Rabyn pauses. “Her clothes are on the chair there.”

Nubara compresses his lips, then walks to the chair and picks up the silken trousers. His eyes go to the still form. “What a waste,” he murmurs to himself.

“She should have done what I wanted,” Rabyn repeats. “You will, won’t you, Nubara?”

Nubara forces a smile. “Of course, Lord Rabyn, of course.”

A
nna looked out the guest-chamber window at the low clouds and the driving rain, then walked back to the table and picked up a flaky roll—better than a biscuit—and began to eat slowly as she sat down.

She finished the roll with a sigh, and topped off roll and sigh with a long swallow of water. Her eyes flicked toward the window and the rain outside.

“You still wish to travel to Synope?” Jecks asked from the other side of the writing table.

“After the rain lifts, assuming it does lift, yes, I do. I worry about Anientta, and I don’t like the idea of her controlling Flossbend.”

“That is a hard ride of eight to nine days,” Jecks pointed out. “You know that there is little you can do about this consort of Lord Hryding’s right now. If you are worried about repairing the ford at Soprat, you could turn north at the wide bend in the Synor and travel straight north. That would save almost five days’ travel in returning to Falcor.”

“Why are you so worried about time? You and Hanfor practically insisted nothing was going to happen for months—seasons, I mean.”

“You have spent more time in Synfal than you had planned.”

“There has been more to do than I expected.” Anna took another sip of water. “You want me to get back to Falcor to announce that Jimbob will inherit Synfal?” She grinned. “I thought we’d agreed that should wait a bit.”

Jecks looked at the time-dulled oak of the table, then
gave an embarrassed smile. “Menares sent a message scroll to you through me.”

Anna frowned. Again . . . it had to be bad news. No one wanted to tell her that sort of thing directly.

“What’s the trouble?” she said, reaching for another roll.

“There are two troubles.” Jecks coughed. “You had best read it yourself.” He handed Anna a scroll.

She began to read, skipping over the flowery salutations.

. . . I have not made any contact with the ladies of Wei. This you must know and convey to the lady Anna. Yet they have taken it upon themselves to impart information, and I have enclosed their very message scroll as proof. The lady Anna must know this, and yet I fear that she will not believe I have acted in good faith.

Still if what they have sent is true, and they have not lied about what has happened elsewhere in former scrolls, you both should know the contents. . . .

My humble best to you and to the great and glorious regent, whose fairness has become legendary. . . .

Anna laughed. “He knew you’d give this to me, the scoundrel.”

“His last words are sung in your direction,” Jecks said. “They are true, but they are a plea.”

True? What’s true is that no man around here would plead to a woman. Damned few, anyway
. “He addressed his plea through you.”

“Most men would.”

“It would be better if they didn’t.” Anna managed to keep the words polite—barely—reminding herself that Jecks wasn’t the problem. He’d dealt with her directly from the beginning. Was that because he’d had a strong
daughter? Had his consort been like Alasia? She pushed that thought away.