After laying her spell file on the antique writing desk and setting the lutar on top of the shorter bookcase, Anna paused and glanced in the wall mirror of Ehara’s private study, which she’d commandeered as a conference and workroom.
Despite a bath, a good night’s sleep, and an enormous breakfast of eggs, fried ham slabs, cheese and bread, the woman who looked back at her hardly looked feminine at all—an angular and thin face, hard blue eyes, tanned skin rougher than was fashionable anywhere, and a firmly set jaw. Even the short blonde hair could have passed for masculine.
She shook her head, and her reflection did also. After another look at the reflection she found hard to believe, she turned, walked past the low bookcases, and sank into the chair behind the desk, waiting for Jecks to join her. She remained tired.
Nearly a dozen seeking spells had dragged her and half the armsmen all over Dumaria the afternoon before—and they’d discovered a score of armsmen—half of whom were wounded. Three had tried to attack . . . one way or another, and there were three charcoaled bodies lying in the streets of Dumaria. The others—shamefaced—had just pledged loyalty to Anna, and were being “reeducated” toward greater loyalty to Defalk, along with being required to serve in the special armsmen—paid slightly more generously than the locals had been.
And that pay may bind them . . . maybe . . .
Even so, after the long ride to Dumaria, the spells had exhausted her, and wiped out the players. Liende had been staggering, and Delvor and Yuarl had collapsed halfway through the last spellsong. For now, Dumaria was officially loyal to Defalk, and the Regency.
Anna permitted herself a slight smile. Even if Ehara did elude her, even if something happened to her, the Lord of Dumar would find his capital city and much of northeastern Dumar subdued for years, and certainly wary of Defalk. Not for years . . . people here are as shortsighted as anywhere.
Anna ran her fingers across the slightly dusty surface of the dark wooden writing table. The mantel of the oil lamp was sooty, as though Ehara had spent many late nights in his study. Perhaps he had.
Slowly, she took out the spell file. She needed to work out in final form the ideas she had for destroying enchanted weapons. The spell probably had to be through-composed, with no repeating words or music, and more complex.
The sorceress was finishing the last lines when Jecks peered in the door.
“Come on in.” She slipped the spell into the folder. She’d need to work on that later.
“You look more rested,” he said, sitting down in one of the straight-backed chairs set at an angle to the writing table.
“I couldn’t have looked less rested than last night,” she pointed out. “I’m still tired.”
“You essay making Dumar part of Defalk in weeks. For most rulers it would take years.”
“We don’t have months or years. We may not even have weeks. Lord knows, I mean—the harmonies only know what’s going on in Defalk.” She focused on him. “We have been sending scrolls chronicling our great victories, haven’t we?”
“We have. So long as you report victories, little will happen.”
“But we don’t know for sure—even with my scrying. We haven’t seen one scroll from Falcor.”
“No . . . that is the difficulty with extended campaigns.” Jecks offered a bland smile. “With those in Defalk, all should be well.”
“But we don’t know.”
“No.”
“Everyone loves a winner. Let’s hope that’s enough.” She paused. “You checked Ehara’s treasury?”
“There is little enough there—a few thousand golds, probably what he could not take with him. Mysara—he is the chief bookkeeper, like Dythya is—he said that Ehara rode off with two large chests. He thought there were two thousand golds in each.”
“Dumar is going to pay for this war.” Anna shook her head. “But I can’t take everything, or it will make things worse.”
“Mayhap we can recover the golds.”
“I don’t think we can count on that.”
“The lady Siobion,” announced Fhurgen from the study door. “At your request.”
Both Jecks and Anna stood.
The slender brunette stepped into the study and bowed. “What would you have of me?”
“Your loyalty,” Anna said bluntly after Fhurgen had closed the study door. “Defalk deserves that at least. Your consort fomented rebellion in my land.”
“What matters my loyalty now? My consort flees you, and you will kill him.” A sad smile crossed Siobion’s thin lips. “And us, at your pleasure, no matter what you promise now.”
Anna wanted to shake her head. “Please sit down.”
Siobion eased into the chair directly across the writing table from Anna, her eyes flicking toward Jecks, then back to Anna, who seated herself.
Jecks sat last, with a quirk of his lips, as though at some unspoken jest.
“I probably will kill your consort if he remains in Dumar, if I possibly can,” answered Anna. “But someone has to rule this place, and I’m not interested in creating some sort of empire,” Anna said. “First, even if I were, it wouldn’t last. Those things don’t. Second, what’s the point?” We can maybe get Jimbob to be a good ruler of Defalk, but an empire would be too much, especially if he takes power young.
“Do not jest with me . . . I beg of you.” Siobion’s voice was thin, but firm.
“Lady Siobion, I don’t jest or joke.”
“Many have discovered that, to their rue,” added Jecks.
“I really want to clean up this mess in Dumar and go home.”
“Did you not create . . . this mess?”
Anna admired the woman’s spunk, but not her naiveté. “Not until your consort started funding rebellions and sending lancers into Defalk.” The sorceress squared her shoulders. “Which child of yours is most fit to be Lord of Dumar?”
Siobion pursed her lips, remaining mute.
With a sigh, Anna stood and walked to the bookcase, reclaiming the lutar and tuning it as she stood there. “Do you want me to enchant your will? Or just drag in all your children?”
Siobion’s eyes widened. “You cannot drag in Haeron. He is with his sire.”
“Then he will probably die,” Anna said coolly. “Do you wish to tell me . . .” She turned to Jecks. “Have the remaining children brought in.”
“No . . .” After a moment, Siobion stammered, tears running from her cheeks. “Clehar. He is strong, and he is just.”
“You’re not doing that to save another?”
“No . . .” Siobion’s voice was low. “Byon is but six, and Feharn five, and Eryhal is still in the cradle.”
Anna set the lutar on the thin-planked floor beside the table leg, then looked at Jecks.
The white-haired lord stood and walked to the door, opening it. “Rickel, have Clehar, the son of Lord Ehara, brought here, if you would.”
“Yes, ser.”
Jecks closed the door and took his seat again.
“No . . .” sobbed Siobion. “No . . . he has done little wrong. Spare him. . . . Please spare him.”
Anna looked coldly across the writing table, knowing she must appear a total bitch. She almost didn’t care; no one ever seemed to want to take her at face value, and it didn’t seem as though that would change anytime soon. “Lady Siobion, you’re assuming I’m like your consort. I’m not. There’s no point in my talking about it, though. No one believes me.”
Anna seated herself to wait.
Siobion fidgeted ever so slightly in the chair.
“Young Lord Clehar,” Fhurgen announced, escorting the youth into the room.
Clehar was thin like his mother, but dark-haired like his father, and looked to be slightly younger than Jimbob—eleven or twelve, Anna judged. He stood just in front of his mother’s shoulder, his thin lips like his mother’s, set tight.
Anna rose and looked at the two. “Try to listen. Try to understand what I am telling you. Even when three lords rebelled against me in Defalk, I did not kill the heirs. The only lands I took were those of one who died without heirs—and his offspring died long before I ever came to Liedwahr. You can believe me or not, but it is true.” Anna paused, wondering if anything she said penetrated.
“I sent your consort a scroll, Lady Siobion. I asked for peace between our lands and a thousand golds in payment for the unrest he created in sending armsmen of Dumar into Defalk. Your consort mocked me, and demanded golds of me. I blocked the river, and requested peace and the thousand golds. He refused that. The river destroyed much of Dumaria and Narial, and your consort still refused peace. What choice did I have? To let him continue to send armsmen into my land? I would not have it, and I will not.” Anna’s eyes hardened, and she fixed the brunette with them. “You will be loyal to me and Defalk, and you may rule as regent for your son until he is of age.
“Now. It’s very simple, Lady Siobion. You are the Lady Regent of Dumar. You will administer Dumar, with the assistance of whoever I name as your chief armsman. You will also pay for the cost of my coming into Dumar. Once those costs are paid off, you owe Defalk nothing except free and open trade, and resistance to all invaders. And, of course, the continued appointment of whoever the Regency chooses as your chief armsman. We do expect formal friendship. I doubt that any of us will remain too fondly in your thoughts, but blame that on your consort.”
“You jest. . . .” Siobion’s tone was uncertain, for the first time.
“I don’t jest. I never have. All I’m interested in is keeping Defalk strong and independent and keeping the dissonant Sea-Priests out of Liedwahr.” Anna paused. “And probably keeping the Liedfuhr out of any place he isn’t already.”
“You do not intend to make an example of . . . us?”
“Why?” Anna asked. “All that would do would be to make people mad and wanting to hate Defalk more, especially later. Some already hate me for the flood, but that was your consort’s fault, not that any good Dumaran would wish to believe that.” She took a deep breath. “If I killed you all, then I’d have to figure out how to govern Dumar, and I’d be spending more time here than in Falcor. It’s your land. You can run it. You just have to be loyal to Defalk, and since we don’t really want a war, and you can’t . . .” Anna laughed, not quite harshly. “. . . Why, things should work out.”
“How can you trust . . . ?” asked Siobion.
“I can raise enough of a flood to make the last one look like an afternoon rainstorm. Do you want all your main towns and cities washed away again?”
Siobion looked down. “You will not live forever.”
“No. I won’t. But I hope by then everyone will figure out that peace is easier . . . and more profitable.”
Siobion frowned. “Do you think to stop the Sea-Priests?”
“I don’t have to,” Anna pointed out. “You do.” Siobion paled. “You are cruel.”
“I’ll help, as I can. But would you rather spend the rest of your life in chains, the way the Sturinnese women do?” asked Anna.
“You . . . leave few choices.”
“Your consort left me none,” Anna said quietly. Did you really have to invade Dumar . . . or are you rationalizing again? “Not if Defalk were to remain independent for long.”
Jecks nodded at Anna, and she realized she’d said enough, possibly more than enough.
The sorceress stood. “You may go.”
“By your leave, Regent?” asked Siobion. Her hand touched Clehar’s shoulder.
“By your leave?” echoed the dark-haired Clehar.
Anna nodded, watching as the two walked to the study door, opened it, and slipped from sight.
“Did I say too much?” the sorceress asked once Fhurgen again closed the door firmly.
“I would not say such. There was no need to say more.”
“I’m becoming such a bitch,” Anna mused. “I don’t like it.”
“As you said, my lady, the harmonies have left you little choice. As you also made most clear to me. . . .” Jecks’ voice was warm, sympathetic, and Anna wished—for a moment—that he would just hold her. Not long before, she’d wanted to clout him. Would it always be like that?
“Damn . . . dissonantly little,” she agreed. “Tomorrow, we’d better start after Ehara. The mirror says he’s moving slowly, but it’ll still take nearly a week to catch him. I just want this to be over.”
“Are you saying it won’t ever be over?”
“I had thought to enjoy my lands once Alasia consorted with Barjim.” Jecks offered a wry smile. “Now I accompany a warrior sorceress and consider myself lucky to have survived.”
“I’ve never been that angry at you,” Anna said with a grin.
“There have been times . . .” Jecks’ voice was ironically rueful.
They laughed, and Anna enjoyed the laughter, pushing away thoughts of the morrow . . . and those to follow.