Shadowsinger (3 page)

The smile remained, and she said nothing until the door closed. Then she sighed as she turned to the window and looked toward the harbor, although she could see only the masts of the ships tied at the piers.

“Everyone thinks we can do this,” she said slowly.

“If we cannot, the Liedwahr we know is doomed,” Alcaren said, stepping up behind her and slipping his arms around her waist, if loosely.

“If we can, it is also doomed,” she replied softly.

“I know.”

For a long moment, they stood together, enjoying the moment, before Secca turned in Alcaren's arms, hugged him, and kissed his cheek. Then she slipped from his loose grasp and stepped back toward the conference table, looking down at the papers and scrolls. “With the new recruits, the SouthWomen will be nearly as strong as my lancers.”

Alcaren shook his head. “You still have nearly three companies' worth.”

“And a very cautious overcaptain.”

“Wilten does not care that much for me,” Alcaren observed.

“We have talked about that before. He does not dislike you. He dislikes anything that is unknown or offers a risk. You are both.” Secca tilted her head, thinking, realizing that, even after all the years of seeing Wilten, she would be hard-pressed to describe the overcaptain, except in a general way. He affected neither beard nor mustache, and he was neither tall nor short, neither ample nor excessively slender. His eyes seemed to take on whatever color surrounded him, and his face was not oval or square or round or thin.

“He is like too many in Encora these days, then.” Alcaren snorted. “They would have someone else bear the risk, essay the song-sorcery, and then complain that the way in which their liberty was preserved was not to their liking.”

“That is true in all lands, perhaps in all worlds.” Secca pulled out a sheet of parchment, then shook her head and took one of the crude sheets of brown paper. “We still need to send a request to the Matriarch.”

“We?”

“It takes a man and a woman to be consorted. We both should sign the request.”

Alcaren laughed. “That way, neither those in Defalk nor those in Ranuak will be pleased.”

“Are they ever?” Secca raised her eyebrows.

They both laughed.

Wei, Nordwei

Outside the window of the study, the light from the late-winter sun reflects in all directions from the glaze ice coating the two-yard-deep snow that covers the city and the ice on both the River Nord and Vereisen Bay. Because of the glare, the dark window shutters are almost entirely closed, except for a slit where they meet.

The woman who sits at the desk of polished ebon wood, her back to the window and the thin line of bright light, has fine silver hair and dark black eyes. Once her hair was as dark as her eyes, but those eyes, set as they are in a finely wrinkled skin, still are clear and miss little.

“Leader Ashtaar, the Lady of the Shadows.” The voice comes from outside the closed study door.

Before answering the announcement, Ashtaar covers her mouth with a dark green cloth and coughs—once, twice—then sets the cloth aside.

“Enter.” Her voice is firm and clear.

The woman who enters is cloaked in black, with a black hood and a gauzelike black veil.

The Council Leader of Wei nods to the polished wooden armchairs across the ebony desk from her and waits for the woman in the dark hood to seat herself. The Lady of the Shadows takes the seat farthest to Ashtaar's left, well away from the thin line of glaring light.

“You wished to see me?”

“Leader Ashtaar, you know well our concerns about sorcery.”

As Ashtaar nods, her fingers find the polished black agate oval on the desk.

“Defalk's Sorceress Protector of the East has stretched the harmonies until all Erde vibrated, and then the illegitimate sorcerer of Ranuak used Darksong to save her from her folly.”

“That is what the seers reported,” Ashtaar replies mildly.

“Is that all you have to say?”

“She destroyed all the Sturinnese warships in the ocean along the south coast of Liedwahr. That was in our interest. Do you wish me to condemn that?” asks the Council Leader.

“This time
…this time
it benefited us. Do you not think that the Mynyan lords thought the same when they first unleashed song-sorcery?”

“That may be, but there is little I can do about this. What do you wish of me?”

“At the very least, you could send a messenger to Lord Robero.”

A crooked smile crosses Ashtaar's lips. “What will I tell him? That he must forbid his sorceresses from the sorcery that is all that keeps his realm from falling to the Sea-Priests? Or that we will send the lancers we do not have to attack him?”

“You made sure we had few lancers. That was your doing,” points out the hooded woman.

“Indeed it was, and I would do the same again. With the sorcery of Defalk, and the strength of our fleet, we may yet survive and prosper. You would strip Liedwahr of all that would keep it from the chains of the Sturinnese for fear that sorcery you cannot describe might prostrate us in a fashion you cannot define.”

“Words, honored Ashtaar. Elegant and well-spoken, but only words. The
facts
are thus. We do not have enough lancers to stop Defalk from using sorcery. We do not have enough ships to stop the Sea-Priests from bringing their sorcery to Liedwahr.”

“You sit on the Council, lady. You know as well as do I that we have spent all the coins we could on our fleet, and that fleet has protected our traders well enough that we yet prosper. Would we have prospered had we spent the golds on lancers? Had we any more golds to spend on ships?”

“Yet you risk two of our fleets by sending them westward?”

“As you know,” replied Ashtaar, letting a trace of tiredness and exasperation show in her voice, “the Council agreed that it was far better to do that than to leave the fleets either caught in the ice or laid up at their piers and moorings. The presence of our vessels in the Western Sea will at least make the Sea-Priests more cautious.” She pauses for the briefest of moments before continuing. “Besides complaining about matters neither of us can change, what do you wish?”

“What we always wish. Your word that you will not support the sorcery of Defalk in the war between the Defalkans and the Sturinnese, and your word that you will not allow your seers to turn to sorcery.”

Ashtaar's eyes seemed to darken further. “That I cannot do. It would be most unwise.”

“You will regret not renouncing the sorcery of Defalk.”

“I am most certain that I will,” replied the Council Leader. “I am also certain that I would regret acting as you wish far more. Neither of us would wish to survive under the rule of Sturinn, and if we did, even you would regret most bitterly condemning song-sorcery.”

“You presume too much, Ashtaar.”

“No. I do not presume at all. Sturinn has been planning to take Liedwahr for years. The Maitres built their fleets and trained their sorcerers and lancers and waited until the Great Sorceress and the old Liedfuhr died. In this time of change, they have acted. We are at a time when the whole future of all Erde will be fixed for generations, if not forever. I will not place Nordwei in the van of opposition to the Sea-Priests. That would be foolish for many reasons. But I will not do anything to harm the efforts of those who oppose them, and where we can help, we shall.”

“You are old and mad. You will have sorcery destroy us all, worse than in the Spell-Fire Wars.”

“I think not. The harmonies will prevent that,” Ashtaar asserted quietly.

“Words. Vain words, especially from one who does not believe in the harmonies.”

“I admit that I do not believe in your harmonies. Harmony is a force. So is dissonance. They will balance. We may not like the resulting balance, but it is better to strive for the harmony we wish than to abdicate to those who would use dissonance because we fear the changes that struggle may bring.” Ashtaar's fingers rest on the polished agate oval, unmoving.

“We will see.” The Lady of the Shadows rises.

“We
will
see, and I will also regret having to use a seer to ensure that your assassins are less than successful.”

“We will see about that as well.”

Ashtaar nods. “You may go.”

After taking a step toward the door, the hooded woman turns back toward Ashtaar. “If I might ask, why did you not attempt to use your fine words to persuade me? Why did you oppose me so strongly?”

“Would fine words have changed what you believe?” asks the older woman. “Would you have believed me if I had promised to look into the matter most carefully?”

The hooded lady laughs, harshly. “We will see.”

Ashtaar's eyes follow the dark figure until the door closes.

From her seat at the conference table, Secca glanced toward the harbor and the masts she could see from the second-story windows of the guest quarters. The faint smell of spring-damp earth eased through the windows on the light breeze that still held a hint of chill.

Secca's amber eyes dropped to the papers and scrolls before her, the topmost one a rough map of Dumar she had sketched out in her efforts to plan where she and her forces might best land. Envaryl still held out, although Secca had the disturbing feeling that it should have fallen weeks before. The Ranuans were hurrying, according to Alcaren and the Matriarch, but it had been almost a week from the day she had asked the Matriarch to consort her to Alcaren and to hasten their departure for Dumar.

On one day she had set a consorting and an invasion—although few would have considered her meager forces as adequate for such, even with two sorceresses and an untried sorcerer. Then, Alcaren was not untried in battle, just in battle sorcery.

“Chief Player Palian, lady,” announced Gorkon.

“Please come in,” Secca called as she looked toward the door.

“You asked for me, Lady Secca?” The gray-haired chief player inclined her head to Secca as she stepped into the guest chamber.

“I did.” Secca gestured toward the chair beside hers at the conference table and waited for Palian to seat herself.

“You were the one who taught me my instruments all those years ago. You knew me when I was a little girl.”

Palian nodded.

“You were younger than I am now, closer to Richina's age.”

Palian smiled faintly.

“If I might ask…if you would not mind,” Secca ventured. “Why did you never choose a consort?”

Palian chuckled, ruefully. “I was never asked…and never did I see someone I wished to ask. Before I knew it…well, there was little point
in doing so.” She paused. “After playing for Lady Anna, and under Liende…”

“You did not wish to consort for the sake of consorting?”

“Did you, lady?” asked Palian softly.

Secca shook her head. “But now…I have decided to consort.” Secca looked at the older woman. “I never thought it would be like this.”

“You knew that Lord Jecks threw himself before an enchanted javelin to save Lady Anna, did you not? That was when she took Dumar. A Sea-Priest was hidden and cast two at her.”

Secca smiled, almost wistfully. “No. She never told me, but I was barely eight when Lord Ehara sent lancers into Defalk. It does not surprise me. It would have taken an effort such as that…” Abruptly, Secca laughed. “I'm more like her than I'd known—is that what you're suggesting?”

Palian smiled. “Alcaren could not have shown he loved you any more than he already has. Or than Lord Jecks did for Lady Anna.”

“That is true…but…being consorted by the Matriarch of Ranuak…in Encora?” Secca raised her hands. “In less than two days…”

“You do not have to. Not even Lord Robero could force you to consort,” Palian pointed out.

“I had always thought—Flossbend, or Loiseau. Even Falcor. Never had I thought I would be consorted in Encora.”

“Were it not Encora,” asked Palian quietly, “would you be consorted at all?”

Secca didn't even have to think about that. She'd already met most of the men anywhere near her own age and position in Defalk. A rueful smile crossed her face, but before she could speak, there was a knock on the chamber door.

“Lady Secca, there is a messenger here,” Gorkon announced.

Secca frowned. “A messenger?”

“There are two, with a guard. They're from the Matriarch.” There was a hint of laughter in Gorkon's voice. “They very much need to see you, and I would say you should see them.”

Neither Gorkon—nor any of her lancers acting as guards—had
ever
presumed to suggest whom she should see. Secca glanced at Palian. The chief player shrugged, her face also expressing puzzlement.

“They…can enter—without the guard.”

The “messengers” were two girls—and they carried something thin and almost as long as the older girl was tall—something obviously very light and wrapped loosely in dun cotton. “I'm Ulya, Lady Secca,” offered
the dark-haired girl, bowing. She was not quite as tall as Secca.

“I'm Verlya.” The younger and smaller blonde also bowed.

“Mother said that we could bring these. They're consorting gifts from Mother, Father, and us,” explained Ulya.

“Mother?” Secca asked, although she suspected who the two must be.

“She's the Matriarch, but we call her Mother still,” said the younger blonde—Verlya. She added quickly, “You have to open these now.”

“Thank you.” Secca smiled as she glanced at Palian. “You're all very kind.”

The girls had mentioned gifts, but she saw only the one, carried by both. Ulya lifted it toward the sorceress.

Secca took the light bundle and laid it across the conference table, then slowly peeled back the dun cotton until she had revealed a gown—shimmering blue fabric, but the blue of Loiseau, not the pale blue of Ranuak—with three-quarter-length sleeves and a high-collared neck. Looking at it, as she lifted the garment and held the shimmer-silk before her, she realized it had been somehow tailored for her. She studied the gown closely, then smiled. It was a gown in appearance only, with a full skirt over three-quarter-length trousers, clearly designed to let her ride.

She glanced at Palian, inquiringly.

Palian shook her head.

“Lady Richina let us borrow one of your gowns while you were riding one day,” explained Ulya.

“And some trousers. Mother said you would need to ride to the ceremony. Lady Richina promised she wouldn't tell,” Verlya said, asking quickly, “Can we come to your consorting? Mother said we had to ask you.”

Secca smiled softly. “If your mother agrees, you may come.”

“Good!” exclaimed the small blonde. “She said we could come if you said we could.” She paused. “Oh…I forgot the second gift.” She fumbled in her leather jacket and brought out a rectangular box of polished white oak and extended it. “The real gift is inside, but the box is for you, too.”

Secca slipped the bronze catch and opened the box gingerly. Her mouth opened. Inside was a necklace—a choker—of white gold. She studied the design of interlocking sections, noting almost belatedly that on one side—set inside a framed gold diamond shape—were a miniature sabre crossed with the symbol for a half note. Where the two crossed was inset with a small diamond. On the other side was a thunderbolt
crossed with a note, and the jewel was a small emerald.

“This is gorgeous,” Secca said slowly. “I do not think—”

“You have to,” insisted Verlya. “It was made for you and Alcaren. He was the best of Mother's guards.”

“I gather I have no choice.” Secca smiled at the two sisters. “I thank you both…and your mother and father for being so thoughtful and generous.”

“Mother says a consorting like yours happens but once in the life of a land,” offered the older and dark-haired girl.

While she could have disagreed had Palian or Richina—or even Alcaren—said those words, somehow she could not contradict Ulya. “I do not know about that. I do know that you have made it more special, and I cannot thank you enough.”

Ulya bowed. After a moment, so did Verlya.

“We must go,” the older girl said as she straightened. “Mother said we were not to tarry.”

“Or dally,” added the blonde.

“By your leave, Lady Secca?” The two bowed again.

“By my leave, and do convey my deepest thanks to your mother.”

“Yes, lady.”

The two turned and walked solemnly to the door—except Secca caught the glimmer of a smile from the younger sister.

After the door closed behind the departing girls, Palian looked to Secca. “They were most polite and restrained for the heirs of a land.”

“They're not automatically the heirs,” Secca said absently, her eyes still on the white-gold choker she almost wished she had not been given. “This Matriarch is the younger daughter. Alcaren said that her mother was actually a cousin of an earlier Matriarch.”

“That might be better for other lands, as well.” Palian's voice was dry. She stepped forward and stood beside Secca, looking down at the open box beside the gown and studying the white-gold choker. After a moment, the chief player turned to Secca. “It carries a message, lady, though none is written thereon.”

“I know.” Secca nodded slowly. “I know.”

“The lady Richina,” announced Gorkon.

“Do have her come in,” Secca said coldly, winking at Palian.

Richina inclined her head almost before she was inside the chamber. “Lady Secca.”

“I understand that you have been lending out my gowns,” Secca said sternly. “My only gown.”

Richina bowed her head.

Secca laughed. “Best you see the fruits of your deviousness.” She held up the gown.

“It is beautiful, lady.” After a moment, Richina added, “It is my fault. I wanted you to have a consorting gown, but I cannot sew well enough for such. So I asked the Matriarch for her assistance. You do not mind, do you?”

“You have more boldness than I do in such,” Secca confessed.

“In that, you also resemble the lady Anna,” Palian said. “Never would she ask anything for herself if ever she could avoid it.”

Secca flushed, then looked down at the polished wooden floor before raising her eyes again.

“If you can,” blurted Richina, “you might keep the gown a surprise from Alcaren.”

“I will say nothing,” Secca promised. “That does not mean he will not know. This is his land.”

“I do not think any will tell him,” observed Palian dryly. “Not about a consorting gift from the Matriarch.”

All three women smiled.

Secca held up the gown again, stepping toward the mirror on the inside wall. “It
is
beautiful.”