Shadowsinger (11 page)

Secca slipped a quick breath between the stanzas, still visualizing the storm of all storms, one that would sweep everything before it, ripping and rending all the Sturinnese forces, both those in the lowlands before her, and those deks away in the Dumaran hamlet.

After Secca finished the last words of the spell, she glanced downhill toward the archers. As she watched, the pale white shield vanished, and a dark cloud of arrows arched uphill. Yet, as they did, the skies darkened, and a rushing wind swept from behind Secca, out of the north, with such force that she went to her knees in the winter-tan grass, as did most of the players.

Someone had stood against the wind, for Secca could hear Alcaren and his lumand, singing a spell, one to the tune of the flame song, but with slightly different words.

“Oh!” The single scream penetrated above the sound of spells, and wind, and a dull heavy roaring, so intense that the very volume of the roar seemed to press Secca farther into the grass. Secca forced her eyes up, just in time to see a lancer transfixed by three yard-long arrows—and to see intermittent blazes of fire—spellfires that turned the incoming arrows to flame and dust, spellfires that blazed as points of light against the almost jet-black clouds that swirled overhead, clouds so dark that they bore a greenish hue.

The roaring of the wind rose so much that Secca could hear nothing else, and the light of dusk darkened so quickly that it appeared as if night had fallen. Gusts of warm, almost summerlike air mixed with air that felt as cold as midwinter ice, flaying Secca with their extremes.

Amid the crashes of thunder, and the howling roar of the wind, Secca felt herself being pummeled, as if she were being poked with a wooden spear. She blinked through eyes that burned enough to blur her vision, to see a rain of hail so thick that she could barely make out the figures of the lancers in the single guard squad that had remained—uselessly—to guard her and the others doing sorcery.

Everywhere, the white globules bounced off everything—her own jacket and head, players and their instruments. In moments, there was a white carpet covering the ground, bending the grass flat. Then, a few more moments later, the hail had passed.

Secca started to climb to her feet, only to find Alcaren's arm lifting her.

“I'm fine, thank you.” She softened her words with a quick smile, before her mouth opened involuntarily.

To the southeast, two enormous black funnel-like clouds swirled, visible despite the curtain of hail that trailed them. She watched as the clouds darkened yet more, then seemed to fade behind the curtain of hail. Then, the hail stopped falling, leaving a swath of white, almost like a massive carpet runner over the hills in the direction of the Sturinnese forces.

“Mighty sorcery,” Alcaren murmured.

“Your last spell saved many of our lancers and players—and probably both me and Richina,” Secca said, turning toward him.

Beyond Alcaren, for the first time, Secca saw the odd coloration on the white hail carpet on the lower hillside, and her eyes darted toward the lower ground from where the Sturinnese players and archers had launched their attack.

“Don't…” warned Alcaren.

Secca had to swallow hard as her eyes took in the small swath of devastation. Less than a dek away, where the squad attacking her forces had been, the hailstones were stained various shades of pink, from almost red to a pinkish froth. The sorceress forced herself to keep looking, even as she swallowed to keep her stomach from turning itself inside out. It had been her sorcery…her words, her song, that had literally shredded archers and players.

She swallowed again.

Behind her, Secca could hear Richina retching.

“I didn't mean…not to be that cruel…” Secca said slowly.

“It looks…worse,” Alcaren said. “It was faster than a blade or an arrow.”

That might have been, but Secca couldn't help but shudder.

Itzel, Neserea

Two men sit alone at the end of the long table nearest the hearth. A single candelabra bearing five candles illuminates their end of the table. The only other light in the dining area comes from the glowing bank of red coals in the hearth.

Belmar finishes a bite of mutton and follows it with a swallow of a dark red wine. he glances at the empty crystal pitcher on the table and lifts the small bell, ringing it twice, before speaking. “The Shadow Sorceress raised the winds to scatter two companies of your best archers, and yet more of your players.”

“You could do the same, were you so minded,” points out the man who goes by the name of jerGlien. “It is merely a matter of the right melodies supporting the proper words. It is most tiring, and if it fails to destroy the enemy, then the sorcerer is left defenseless.”

“She can afford to be defenseless for a short time. She has a sorceress with her. I do not have others.”

“Do you wish others to share your powers?” asks jerGlien, looking up as the door to the private dining chamber opens and a slender brunette servingwoman steps inside and bows…deeply and silently.

“Another pitcher of the wine, the good red.” Belmar turns to jerGlien as the woman bows again and departs.

After a moment, jerGlien continues, “In any case, the sorceress with the shadowsinger is not nearly so strong as she is. Also, she is not your problem. Not now. The Sorceress of Defalk is. You should not be scrying what is happening in Dumar, but what the lady Clayre may be doing in Neserea.”

“I have indeed been following the lady Clayre. She hides in that pile of ancient rock on the outskirts of Esaria, as if I could not see where she is. All the time Lord Nysl bows and scrapes, fearing her, yet fearing me more.”

“He does her bidding,” says jerGlien, his voice mild.

“Because she is a sorceress, and within his hold. Only for those reasons. Once we hold Neserea, he will fall on his knees and grovel. We will let him.” Belmar laughs. “If he grovels especially well, we might let him keep his pile of stone.”

“Lord Nysl is nothing. You must watch the sorceress.”

“That I am. She can do nothing without my knowledge.” The Neserean sorcerer takes the smallest of sips of the wine. “You had mentioned her lord, sometime back.”

“Ah, yes. I believe I did. The esteemed Lord Robero. He has little love of being indebted to women, and especially women who are sorceresses. He is coming to realize that perhaps he might not be as constrained under other circumstances, and that would be good for both of you.”

“Does the shadowsinger know this? If she does, she may well hasten to enter Neserea,” Belmar points out. “That being a possibility, I would rather not be surprised if she does.”

The door opens, and the slender servingwoman reenters, bowing, and carrying a second crystal pitcher. “Lord.”

Belmar watches as the young woman crosses the polished wooden floor. A few droplets of wine spill from the pitcher onto the wood, either from the movements of the server or from the hand which shakes as she sets the pitcher on the table.

“You should not spill good wine.” His voice is cold.

“I am sorry, ser. Most sorry, Lord Belmar.” The woman's bow is almost a grovel.

“Let it not happen again.”

“No, ser. No, lord. I will be most careful.”

Belmar does not see the flash in jerGlien's eyes. Nor does the server.

Neither speaks until the door closes once more.

“Even you accept too much sloppiness in women, Lord Belmar,” jerGlien observes.

“She is not
my
servingwoman,” Belmar points out. “I would not wish to tell those who support me how to discipline their servants. Not yet.” He smiles. “You were saying?”

“The shadowsinger cannot cross the Mittfels until the snows melt. That will be weeks from now, at the earliest. By then, you should have disposed of the lady Clayre and the ragtag remnants of the pretender's armsmen and lancers.”

“There are still some who refer to her as the Lady High Counselor.”
A sardonic smile crosses Belmar's face. “You do not care for women in high places.”

“No. I do not. No man of Sturinn does. Nor would you, if you but knew the damages wrought by the sorceresses of old. What happened in your petty Spell-Fire Wars is as nothing compared to the Pelaran Devastation.”

“I cannot say I have heard of such,” replies the younger man.

“Why should you have? Does not the world begin and end in Liedwahr?” The Sturinnese laughs, lightly, before lifting his own goblet. “You can worry about the lessons of days past once you have made your own future certain. What will you do to keep the lady Clayre from striking at you?”

“Strike first, of course, and in a fashion she will not expect. How could I do otherwise?”

“She will attempt the same, I am certain,” points out jerGlien.

“Many attempt; few succeed.” Belmar smiles.

So does jerGlien.

The gray light that seeped through the warped shutters meant it was sometime around dawn…or that the day happened to be cloudy again. Secca doubted it was near dawn as she struggled from under her blanket. She found herself so weak that even the effort to sit up and swing her legs over the side of the narrow double-width bed in the peasant's cottage left every limb trembling. Her eyes burned, and her head throbbed—worse, it seemed, than when she had collapsed into a troubled sleep the night before, and, as she glanced around, daystars flashed intermittently across everything she saw.

Neither Richina nor Alcaren was in the small bedroom, although Secca could hear low voices in the larger common room.

As if he had been listening, Alcaren appeared with a cup of a steaming liquid. “I thought you might need this.”

“More of the Matriarch's brew?” Each word felt as though it rasped from her throat and mouth.

Alcaren extended the chipped crockery mug. “I prevailed upon some that I know to provide us with a score of the brew packets. I could not have done so if the Matriarch did not approve, but I thought it best that I not approach her directly.”

Secca did not reply, instead taking the mug and sipping slowly.

“Richina and I have checked the glass, but we can find no Sturinnese force headed toward us. None from Dumar, either,” Alcaren admitted.

“The weather?” Secca took another small sip of the brew.

“It's chill and windy. There's been some sleet at times this morning, but the clouds are thinning.”

Secca nodded.

“Some of the players are as exhausted as you are,” Alcaren continued. “I took the liberty of saying that it would be unlikely that we would resume our journey to Envaryl until tomorrow.”

“Unlikely?” The way Secca felt, it was most unlikely, and if many of the players were in similar condition, there would be little point in traveling.

“That way…” Alcaren looked embarrassed. “Well…you could still tell people we were traveling…and that I had been mistaken…”

Secca laughed—and wished she hadn't as she began to cough.

“Are you all right?” Alcaren stepped up beside her and put an arm around her shoulders to steady her, taking the chipped mug and setting it on the bowed wooden floor.

“…I'm tired, and we've just started.”

“I've just started. You've been at this for almost half a year. You can rest for a while. We're not riding anywhere just yet.”

For a time, Secca leaned against his arm and shoulder, but she couldn't help wondering how much her weakness would cost them. If only…if only she were stronger. If only she weren't so small.

She straightened. “Let me get the rest of my clothes on. If we're not riding, at least we can see where we'll be going tomorrow.”

“There's some bread and cheese waiting for you,” Alcaren said, after giving her a last half hug. “You can eat, and then we'll see.” He stepped back from the bed and closed the plank door to the common room.

Secca glanced at the single shuttered window, hearing again the moaning of the wind. Spring was supposedly nearing, but the wind sounded like midwinter. With the slightest of headshakes, and another
flash of the daystars across what she saw, she threw back the blanket and reached for her boots.

Wind and cold or not, they had to defeat the Sturinnese before more ships and Sea-Priests arrived from the Ostisles.

By the next morning, the clouds and wind had passed, and the air was clear, if chill, and by midday Secca and her forces had left the near-deserted hills covered only with winter-tan grass and made their way along a road that had widened enough for Secca, Alcaren, and Richina to ride abreast, although some of the time Alcaren was threading his brown gelding along the road's shoulder in order to ride beside Secca. The higher slopes of some of the hills bore either woodlots, orchards, or the remnants of older forests. The dwellings beside the road had become more numerous, with stubble-turned fields mixed with meadows. Almost all were small cottages—and all were deserted or firmly shuttered as the lancers of Loiseau and the SouthWomen rode by, the hoofs of their mounts thudding dully on the frozen clay of the road.

Ahead of Secca, a half-dek beyond the vanguard of the column, the road curved through a grassy swale between two hills, then appeared to dip. There, at the point where the road began to descend, Wilten and one of Secca's captains—Quebar—had reined up and were talking to a pair of scouts.

“That must be where the road drops into the long river valley,” Secca suggested, glancing at Alcaren, riding to her right.

“It should be,” he answered.

“Then we're not that far from Envaryl, are we?” asked Richina.

“Not if that's the valley we think it is,” replied Secca, reaching up and readjusting the green felt hat.

“We've made good time,” Richina observed.

Nodding, Secca reined up short of Wilten and Quebar. The gray mare
whuffed
, as if suggesting that it was well past time for Secca to
have stopped. Absently, Secca leaned forward and patted the gray's shoulder, looking at the road that wound down the hill through three switchbacks and then turned almost due north. A thin line of trees marked a watercourse that ran from the horizon where the road seemingly pointed westward toward the foothills and the snow-covered Westfels behind the hills.

“If our maps are right,” Secca said, “those trees could mark the course of the Envar River.”

“That would mean we're less than thirty deks from Envaryl,” Alcaren said, easing his mount to a halt slightly forward of Secca.

“Lady Secca,” called Wilten, “there is a town below. The scouts say that there are hoofprints on the road below, the kind that lancer mounts make, but they're headed north, through the town and away from us.”

Following Wilten's gesture, Secca studied the valley below and the small town—or large village—that held close to twoscore dwellings. Already, riders and wagons were moving along the road, northward out of the town along the road.

“They aren't staying to see whether we're friendly,” observed Delcetta, reining up to join the informal council at the head of the column.

“No armed force is friendly to them,” replied Alcaren.

Secca worried about what that meant. Had Dumar become a land where all sides preyed on the people? So much so that they distrusted everyone on sight? She shook her head, wondering how Fehern—and Clehar before him—had ever let matters get to such a state.

After a moment, she forced a pleasant smile. “We'll probably need to send messengers to Fehern before too long. Perhaps tomorrow, after we've had a chance to use the glass tonight and make sure that he still holds Envaryl.”

Wilten nodded.

Delcetta glanced from Wilten to Secca, and then to Alcaren. “Ah…tomorrow?”

“You think Lady Secca should wait longer?” asked Alcaren, his voice mild.

Secca smothered a smile, for she had seen the twinkle in her consort's eyes.

Delcetta started to speak, then smiled. “Overcaptain Alcaren…I would defer to the lady's wisdom. I trust that the reason for leaving messengers until just before we arrive is to make sure there are no surprises?”

“The Sturinnese doubtless know exactly where we are,” Secca replied. “If Fehern is less than trustworthy, they will have let him know
as well, and there is no reason for us to hazard lancers. If he does not know, why…” Secca drew out the pause, “he should be most pleased to see us whenever we arrive.”

Secca wasn't sure of the logic of her reasoning, but her senses told her it was too early to send messengers, and so far her feelings had been much more accurate than her logic.

“I am most certain Lord Fehern will profess gladness to see you whenever you arrive, my lady,” offered Alcaren.

“But we will send messengers to Lord Fehern?” asked Richina, her eyes going from Alcaren to Secca, then back to the Ranuan sorcerer.

“We will,” Secca affirmed. “We don't wish to surprise the acting Lord High Counselor too much, but he should not have too much time to prepare.” She smiled more broadly and more falsely. “We would not wish him to spend great effort on welcoming us when the task is to defeat the Sturinnese.”

Richina flushed, belatedly understanding the byplay.

“I wish it were otherwise,” said Secca, her smile turning faintly sad. Richina was still young enough that she had to think to consider duplicity and treachery on the part of supposed allies. Secca had been forced to learn that lesson all too early.

“Best we continue,” she said quietly, but firmly.