Shadowsinger (17 page)

Hasjyl, Dumar

The three men sit around a table in a small sitting room, lit but by a single twin-branched candelabra that is far older than any of them. Each has a mug before him, and there is a crockery pitcher on the table near the base of the candelabra.

“I do not like that woman, nor her consort, always lurking behind her. He smiles most pleasantly, and he sings sweetly, and I trust him not at all. And the young one, the one who looks pleasing, why…” Fehern
shakes his head. “It makes little sense. She was telling the truth about that…Richina.”

“Even I could tell that,” Halyt says with a deep laugh. “The young one looks like a lady, demure, well-bred, and well-spoken.”

“Why is she here? On a battle campaign?” asks Fehern, his voice betraying exasperation. “Were it not for the sorceress's consort, I would almost say that the older woman had more than casual affection for the younger.”

“A love triangle, you think? Ah…what a thought!” Halyt's laugh rumbles forth uncontained. “Both of them are beauties, in different ways.”

“No. I am missing something.” Fehern shakes his head, then looks at the sorcerer. “What think you, Elyzar? What does your glass show?”

“The sorceress and the Ranuan are indeed consorted, and never have I seen the younger woman with them in such.” Elyzar's eyes do not meet Fehern's, not exactly.

“So why is she here?” demands Fehern again.

“Perhaps what the sorceress said was not all that far from the truth,” suggests the man in gray. “Perhaps Lord Robero wishes to bind you more closely to Defalk.”

“A consort forced upon me?”

“Not exactly. Who was the Lord High Counselor when the sorceress left Defalk?” questions Elyzar.

“Oh…” Fehern nods. “Now…now the sorceress is uncertain of what she should do?”

“Or she has received word that she is not to offer the lady to you,” muses Halyt. “A shame to miss such a choice morsel because you are not your brother.”

“Clehar did suggest that he be given a consort of worth,” Fehern says slowly. “The idiot told me that much, as if begging that fop in Falcor would gain him anything.” He shakes his head. “So again, I am to be denied? Most consorts required by necessity are pigs. Here is one beautiful and demure, and she is fine for Clehar, but not for Fehern?”

“The sorceress did say you could ask Lord Robero,” offers the arms commander. “Perhaps she is not empowered to grant such.”

“Aye, you could
ask
,” Elyzar repeats.

“What mean you?” snaps Fehern. “Say it outright.”

“She does not expect Lord Robero to grant the woman to you. Lord Robero will not go against the sorceress's wishes. He cannot, for the sorceresses are the source of much of his power.” Elyzar shrugs. “Is that
not clear? Defalk is not Sturinn. In Sturinn, as used to be in Dumar, a male ruled both his keep and his land.”

“And I do not?”

Elyzar shrugs again. “It is not my place to say. You know what you know. You know what you must do. I am but a humble self-learned sorcerer barely gifted enough to use a glass or offer a small spellsong here or there.”

“Nothing has been the same since that miserable sorceress came from the Mist Worlds.” Fehern snorts, his voice rising as he continues. “Everywhere one must look over his shoulder for fear of a woman running to a sorceress, or a sorceress destroying everything a man has striven for and built.”

“Not everywhere,” replies Halyt with another deep laugh. “I can't see the Sturinnese worrying about women. They chain them and cut out the tongues of sorceresses when they're young.”

“Someone should have done that to this one,” snaps the Lord High Counselor, “but no, I must bow and scrape if I am to have her assistance. Yes, Lady Sorceress…no, Lady Sorceress…if you please, Lady Sorceress…”

“That is true, if you require the sorceress's assistance,” says Elyzar mildly. “Would you rather do without such? What are your alternatives?”

“If I do
…if…
if I do…” He looks at the sorcerer and then at Halyt. “You both may go. I need to consider.” His voice drops. “That I do.”

Elyzar and Halyt exchange glances before rising, bowing, and then departing, leaving Fehern holding a mug of wine, a vintage well past its prime and ready to turn.

The yellow brick dwelling was most modest, with a sitting room on one side and a dining area off the kitchen on the other side of the lower level, and a narrow staircase leading up to two bedchambers
on the second level. One reason why Secca had taken over the house was that the merchant who owned it had fled, according to the sole servant remaining. Another was that it was located on the top of a low rise, and there was an inn across the street with a stable and outbuildings. That allowed Secca to have two companies both under roof and nearby while she decided how best to deal with the Sturinnese—and Fehern.

The sky was still the gray of the time just before sunrise and under thin clouds when Secca stepped into space behind the front door—a half foyer between the two rooms on the lower level. Through the narrow window, she could see both lancers—Gorkon and Dymen—stationed at the door as guards—and the squad of SouthWomen mounted and stationed on the street between the inn and the dwelling.

Breakfast had been bread and cheese, with a little cold mutton she had been able to choke down, and she found herself quietly burping from the impact of the heavy food on her system.

“Are you all right?” asked Alcaren, stepping up behind her and sliding his arms around her narrow waist.

“I'll be fine. The mutton was heavy.”

“It will stick with you.”

“Whether I want it to or not?” Secca laughed, leaning back into Alcaren's arms and enjoying the moment.

Behind her, she heard the sound of Richina's boots coming down the staircase. Almost simultaneously, there was a
thrap
on the weathered oak door.

“The overcaptains and chief players, Lady Secca.”

“Once more,” Secca murmured before replying, “have them come in.”

She turned and touched Alcaren's cheek, then stepped back through the narrow archway toward the sitting room where an assemblage of ill-matched chairs and stools had been circled around a rectangular table. Her lutar was propped in the rear corner against the wall, although she doubted she would be using it for the meeting.

Alcaren picked up a length of shimmering iron that Secca had not seen before.

“What is that?” asked Richina.

“A lance, a short one,” Alcaren replied, setting it in the outside corner of the sitting room, the corner farthest from the table, so that the lance rested against the wall. “It's for throwing, but it's not something very useful in battle.”

Richina's brow furrowed, but she did not question him as Palian,
Delvor, Wilten, and Delcetta stepped into the entryway of the small dwelling.

Secca glanced at Alcaren, and then at the lance, raising her eyebrows in inquiry.

“It may be useful for other matters in the future. I was considering—” He glanced toward those entering. “Later,” he said with a smile.

Secca nodded and moved toward the table.

Dymen closed the door after the two chief players and two overcaptains had entered the dwelling.

“Sit down…as best you can,” offered Secca, gesturing toward the motley assortment of chairs and stools, and then taking a simple straight-backed chair.

Richina took the high stool, and Alcaren a lower one beside Secca.

“What will you propose to Lord Fehern, if we might ask?” inquired the gray-haired Palian.

“That we pursue the group to the south, while he sends a small force northward, in order to keep the Sturinnese guarding the trade pass.”

“Do you trust him?” asked Palian. “After what he has done?”

“I have my doubts,” Secca replied. At the sound of hoofs, she glanced out through the leftmost of the narrow windows. Fehern had reined up outside the dwelling, along with Halyt. A full company, if not more, of Dumaran lancers was drawn up in formation opposite the inn, across the street from the SouthWomen, and less than twenty yards to the south of the window through which Secca looked.

Secca rose, as did the others.

Fehern stepped into the dwelling, followed by Halyt. Both wore leather riding jackets, unfastened, and a single Dumaran overcaptain followed them. Fehern's sabre rattled against the narrow doorjamb as he made his entrance. The Lord High Counselor of Dumar offered a broad smile. “Good morning to all.”

“Indeed it is.” Halyt followed his words with a hearty laugh. “And may the day get better as it dawns brighter.”

Murmurs of response answered the pleasantry.

Fehern settled into the chair left for him across from Secca, not bothering to remove his jacket. Secca seated herself, as did Halyt and the others. The Dumaran overcaptain stood back a pace, but between the chairs taken by Halyt and Fehern.

“What have you discovered of the whereabouts of the Sturinnese, Lady Sorceress?” inquired Fehern, almost indifferently.

“They remain split into two bodies. The northmost force is half the size of the one to the south of us. The southern force has the greater
share of drummers and archers. That would lead one to believe that there are more sorcerers with the southern force as well.” Secca smiled politely.

“So we will attack the southern force?”

“I had thought that you would ride toward the northern force,” Secca suggested. “They are farther away. If you make a deliberate pace, then it will take several days. Except you will return to Envaryl if it appears they are moving toward you.”

“A decoy? We would be a decoy?” Fehern frowned. “Ten companies as a decoy?”

“Only for the first few days. Then we would rejoin forces.”

“After you have crushed the larger force, I presume.” Fehern's tone verged on sarcasm.

“If it is possible,” Secca said. “If we fail, you are no worse off, and perhaps better by the amount of Sturinnese we destroy.”

“That is true enough, lord,” mused Halyt. “We cannot lose if we proceed.”

“Why do you need us to separate?”

“So that the northern force does not ride down upon us from behind,” Secca replied. “Also, if you do not have to fight until we rejoin, you will have more lancers.”

“You believe we should undertake this effort soon?” asked Halyt, glancing toward the dark-haired Fehern.

“I would suggest tomorrow,” Secca replied. “The Sturinnese to the south are on a part of the road where there are no side lanes or ways that lead anywhere, except to local cottages and hamlets, and it will be easier for us to move forward than for them to retreat. If we wait, they can reach a crossroads and avoid us.”

“Will that be so on the morrow?”

“Unless they travel far more swiftly than they have. In that instance, we will not have to move that many deks at all.”

Fehern fingered his chin, then slowly nodded, looking to Halyt. “Best we do what we must, then.”

“I would judge so, lord.”

Fehern smiled. “We will leave the larger body in your hands, Lady Sorceress.” He paused. “If there is nothing else…?”

“I think not.” Secca kept a frown from her lips and face. Fehern's words had disturbed her, for false as they had seemed, they had also seemed true, as though the lord had agreed to commit himself, and that worried Secca. She hadn't expected a sense of commitment from the shifty lord.

“Then…we will make ready for the morrow.” Fehern stood. “You will send a messenger if the disposition of the Sturinnese alters?”

“That we will,” Secca promised.

Fehern took a step toward the door, then paused, turning.

Secca stood waiting, wondering what else Fehern wanted.

“Lady Sorceress…a moment,” Fehern said. “I would ask your leave to discuss a matter with you.” He glanced toward those still standing around the table, then lowered his voice, “About possible consorting…”

Secca nodded. “Alcaren, Richina…you may remain. Chief players and overcaptains…we will discuss matters after I talk with Lord Fehern.”

Fehern shifted his weight from boot to boot as Wilten, Delcetta, Palian, and Delvor left, along with the unnamed Dumaran overcaptain who had accompanied Fehern. Looking self-conscious, he fumbled with his sabre belt and then one of the two belt wallets.

In deference, Alcaren and Richina moved toward the front of the chamber, affording some space between themselves and Secca and Fehern.

Halyt followed Alcaren and Secca, offering a low but hearty laugh.

Secca forced herself to keep smiling after the front door to the cottage closed, uneasy as she felt. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“In fact…a number of things…” Fehern smiled apologetically, reaching inside his riding jacket. “I have something I wished to show you…of great interest.”

“I see.” Rather than moving forward, Secca kept back from the Dumaran lord, her smile fixed in place.

Fehern's face abruptly contorted, and his gloved hand swung toward Secca.

She jerked her head aside, but liquid splattered across her cheeks and forehead, a cool liquid that suddenly began to burn.

Secca jumped farther back and opened her mouth to offer a short flame spell, even as she drew her own shorter sabre.

A sabre appeared in Fehern's right hand, and his left fumbled with a belt wallet. He lunged forward.

Secca parried the stroke, beginning the words of the flame spell.

A mass of fine powder exploded around her face and mouth, so fine, pervasive, and choking that she could scarcely breathe, let alone sing.
Gasping, she danced back, her vision blurred. She managed to half parry a second slashing stroke from Fehern, but took a glancing blow on her shoulder as she tried to cough her cords clear and avoid being backed into the corner.

Behind Fehern, she could sense a welter of motion, but her concentration was on Fehern, and her blurred vision did not reveal more than that.

“Hold still!” snapped Fehern.

Secca moved toward the taller man, blocking another thrust, but feeling the shock and numbness in her sabre hand and arm from the force of his blow.

From the front of the chamber came a spell, sung in Alcaren's voice.

Secca danced aside as she heard the words, barely managing another parry.

Fehern jerked upright, transfixed by the throwing lance, his mouth opening, then falling slack as he pitched forward toward Secca.

The sorceress stepped aside from the falling body, but kept her sabre ready for a moment. Through a powder-fogged vision, she saw Richina straightening after wiping her sabre clean on the crimson tunic of Halyt, who lay facedown on the dark wooden floor.

“He tried to kill Alcaren. He wasn't even looking at me.” Richina smiled bitterly. “I'm sorry, lady, but the sabre was faster, and I was afraid a flame spell would injure you, so close were the two of you.”

The sound of weapons and shouts penetrated the chamber.

“Lady Secca! We are attacked!” came the call from outside.

Alcaren started toward the door, his own sabre in hand.

“Outside!” snapped Secca, reaching for her lutar with her free hand.

Richina and Alcaren stood on the lower step, blades ready, as Secca darted out behind them. Below them Achar had joined Gorkon and Dymen, and the three stood shoulder to shoulder to protect the entry to the dwelling.

Mounted lancers in crimson seemed to fill the narrow street, and the squad of SouthWomen, surrounded on three sides by Dumarans, was being pushed into a tighter and tighter circle. Even as Secca brought up the lutar, another SouthWoman lancer in blue and crimson fell.

As she finished the spell, Secca could only hope she had both words and song right.

She had
something
right, because fire lashes and smoke appeared from everywhere, and the sky darkened.

Several of the Dumaran lancers looked skyward before the screams began.

Secca lowered the lutar and shuddered.

Within moments, the stench of burned flesh was overwhelming, and Secca had to swallow hard to avoid retching. Dymen was one of those unable to contain his reaction, and the young lancer was bent almost double at the base of the steps. Achar appeared pale, but remained alert, his blade out and poised. Gorkon surveyed the dead and dying Dumarans with unveiled contempt and anger.

Palian appeared through the smoke and swirling ashes, with Delvor staggering after her. The gray-haired player held a bloody sabre. Delvor bore an iron-headed staff, also bloody.

“The players?” asked Secca.

“They're all right, except for Nuel.” Palian lowered the sabre. “He was standing outside the inn when the Dumarans rode up. They cut him down. The others were inside.”

“You were out here?” Secca laughed at herself, ironically. “Of course you were. It all happened so fast.”

Palian looked at the older sorceress, her eyes narrowing as she studied Secca's face.

“Fehern tried to kill me, with some burning liquid and a sabre. He threw flour or talc in my face to keep me from singing a spell.”

“He's dead?”

“Quite dead,” interjected Alcaren. “So is Halyt. Richina killed him with a sabre.”

Wilten rode through the slowly clearly smoke, peering around. When he saw Secca, the relief was obvious on his face, and he guided his mount toward the group.

“They attacked the men where they stood…”

“I know. Fehern threw burning water at my face and flour or something at my mouth so that I couldn't sing.”

Wilten leaned forward, then winced as he saw Secca's face.

Secca hoped the damage wasn't that bad. “How many did we lose?”

“Perhaps a company's worth for us, and the same for the SouthWomen.” Wilten shook his head.