Shadowsinger (37 page)

“Now.” She didn't raise her voice. Alcaren could do that.

“The first building song!” Alcaren called.

“The first building song on my mark…Mark!”

With Palian's direction to the players, Secca pushed the worries out of her mind, the concerns that the Sturinnese fleet was spread too far and across too many deks.

Alcaren stood beside her, just aft of the railing that separated the forward edge of the poop deck from the main deck below.

The Sturinnese ships appeared far closer than the two deks that Denyst had estimated, but, as the accompaniment rose from the first and second players on the main deck, Secca concentrated totally on the spell to come, on the words, on the image of the water and the spouts, spouts that would range for ten deks or more from the
Silberwelle
, and on meshing with the melody that rose from the players below, trusting that Alcaren would support the spellsong in his own way. She made a special effort to visualize the spouts striking the ships, but visualized no more than spouts and ships and winds and rain, just spouts and ships…spouts and ships.

From the first words, she and Alcaren and the spellsong were one, and from somewhere behind and underneath all that was Erde came an answering sense of harmony.

With another full breath between the stanzas, Secca continued strongly into the second, knowing that she needed to keep the images, and the intensity, through two full stanzas.

In the stillness following the last notes, a stillness so absolute that the wind died away and the sails hung limply from the yardarms above, the swells subsided into an unnatural shimmering flatness. The high once-white clouds grayed, and then darkened, and the dark blue expanse of the Western Sea turned almost jet-black under the shimmering surface of the water.

A low and growling rumble, followed by a high-pitched whistling whine, rose, seemingly from everywhere, and the two sounds merged into a rushing and roaring torrent.

In the distance, dark gray funnel spouts appeared, funnel spouts that turned jet-black, funnel spouts that also rushed and roared, as they swelled and moved toward the white-sailed and white-hulled Sturinnese vessels.

Another set of spouts appeared, less than three deks from the
Silberwelle
, one on each side of the wedge of Sturinnese vessels. Around the
Silberwelle
, the ocean remained flat, but the sails of the ships in the Sturinnese wedge pitched forward, and then back. The first spout slid into and over the ship on the right edge of the wedge, and white fragments flew upward, streaking the dark water of the spout but momentarily before the water turned even blacker.

Two more Sturinnese ships vanished into the dark spouts, and the ocean around the
Silberwelle
was no longer calm, as a swell nearly three yards high surged toward the Ranuan vessel. Another higher swell loomed ahead.

The wind continued to rise, tearing at Secca.

“Get below!” Alcaren's voice rose over the roaring of the wind. “Get below!”

“To your quarters! Now!” Palian's higher voice followed Alcaren's.

A gust of wind, more like a wall, swept across the poop deck. Secca locked one arm around the railing, then the other as the combined rush of wind and water buffeted her.

“Keep her steady!” That was Denyst's order.

In what Secca knew had to be a momentary lull, Alcaren helped her down the ladder. They both held tight to the bottom of the ladder as another blast of water and wind lashed them. Then Alcaren thrust Secca inside and closed the hatch door. They staggered along the passageway to the captain's cabin. Secca felt that water gushed from her clothing and her body, and with every step she lurched against one bulkhead or the other.

She had to fumble with the hatch, then was through the open hatchway into the cabin, ramming into the nearest chair. She managed to hold to the chair back and the table and lever herself into one of the chairs. Alcaren staggered, closing the cabin door, and struggled into the chair beside Secca, putting a hand on the table to brace himself.

Secca found herself gripping the wooden arms of the chair so tightly that her hands were aching. As the cabin—and the ship—tilted once again, she had to force herself to relax her grip somewhat. “You…were…right…about…storms…”

“I…wish…I had not been,” replied Alcaren.

Secca could hear the unhappiness in her consort's voice, could sense the physical discomfort.
He hates being at sea, and yet he has said nothing
. A second thought struck her.
You feel tired, as with heavy road-building, but only with a headache, and without double vision. Was
Alcaren right about concentrating on the spell and not on the results of the spell?

The
Silberwelle
pitched forward, hard forward, and the water rushing by the portholes cut off all light. Then as the bow came up, the light returned, only to vanish again with another dipping pitch into another massive swell.

How long the
Silberwelle
rode through the heavy swells before the pitching began to abate, Secca had no idea, save that it felt like glasses had passed, and that Alcaren appeared as green as the glass in the portholes when he finally pulled himself out of the seat he had taken.

“No worse than a small storm.” He swallowed and headed out the passageway.

Secca followed, gingerly. Her head still ached, and most of her muscles hurt, either from sorcery or from her body's dealing with the ship's motions afterward. She was especially careful to hold on to the ladder, and then the poop deck railing, as she trailed Alcaren to the poop deck.

Although the waves had diminished so that
Silberwelle
only occasionally drove through one tall enough for water and spray to cascade over the bow, the entire ship glistened with a thin coat of salt water. The sails had been reefed in so that the Ranuan ship was carrying but a fraction of the sail as before the spellsong.

Denyst eased from the helm platform to the railing at the starboard side, where Secca held to the damp but varnished wood firmly. Alcaren had his face to the wind, and the greenish color of his face had begun to fade. He did not turn to face Denyst as the captain began to speak.

“Never seen spouts like that. Didn't look like many of the Sea-Priest ships survived.”

“If we sang the spell right,” Secca said, wiping spray from her forehead with her one free hand, “none of them did. What about our ships?”

“Storms and winds scattered us as well, Lady Sorceress. Only seen a few.” Denyst gestured to her left. “
Schaumenflucht
managed to stay close, and the
Liedmeer
.”

Under the gray clouds, a good dek aft, another Ranuan ship kept station on the
Silberwelle
. Secca thought she saw a third set of sails, on and off as the deck of the
Silberwelle
carried her above and below the crests of the more distant waves.

The captain looked at the sorceress. “Had thought that your glass might tell us more.”

“By tomorrow,” Secca promised.

“She can only do so much sorcery at once,” Alcaren added, without turning his head.

“Is everyone here…on the
Silberwelle?
” Secca almost hated to ask.

“The second had to catch one of your players afore he went overboard, but she got him, and everyone else here is fine. Be glad tomorrow, to see how things are on the other ships. Need a calmer sea for the flags.” Denyst offered a wry smile. “Best you get some hardtack and some rest.”

“In a moment,” Secca replied. “The air feels good, even with the spray.”

“That it does.” A brusque nod, and the captain crossed the deck to the helm platform. “A few points to port.”

Secca looked to her consort. “Are you feeling better?”

“Much.” He presented a forced grin. “When this is done, can we return to your holdings and leave our feet on solid ground?”

“Solid ground?” Secca laughed. “I would hope so. If the Sturinnese had not left their solid ground, I'd still be there.”

“I wouldn't have met you, then.”

“One good happening.” She smiled, trying not to think about what came after dealing with Sturinn—if there was an “after.”

“There are no other Sturinnese ships here in the Western Sea, and you worry yet.”

“There is a fleet in the Bitter Sea, and there are sorcerers in Neserea,” Secca pointed out.

“You cannot fret over the battles you cannot yet fight.”

“I
should
not,” she replied, “but I do.”

“As do we all,” he replied ironically. “As do we all.”

For a long time, as the light in the west dimmed, they stood side by side at the railing, ignoring the infrequent fine spray that drifted over them.

By a glass after sunrise the next morning, while not calm, the sea state had returned to one similar to that of a day earlier, before the spellsong, with heavy but regular swells. The sky remained overcast with hazy and indistinct clouds.

Secca stood aft on the windward side of the
Silberwelle
, trying to count the number of Ranuan ships without being too obvious, to see how many were actually close.

Denyst crossed the deck and stood beside her. “You called a storm. Few like that I've ever seen.”

“That was the hope.”

“We haven't seen any Sea-Pigs.”

“The glass shows no Sturinnese ships, except for four in the harbor at Stura, and a few trading vessels scattered throughout the Ostisles and the isles of Sturinn.” Secca looked at the wiry and weathered captain.

“And our other vessels?”

“Why don't you come down and look?” Secca said quietly. “I'll show you.”

“Fear what I will see in your glass. The
Schaumenflucht
lost some spars, and so did the
Liedmeer
. The
Ozeanstern
cracked a hatch cover, and took on water, but they got it repaired and pumped out. None of the other captains have seen the
Wellereiterin
. Is that what your glass will tell us?”

Secca nodded slowly. She'd already tried to recall who had been on the
Wellereiterin
, but she hadn't checked with Wilten and Delcetta yet, and hadn't planned to, not until she informed Denyst. As Secca remembered, Quebar's company had been assigned there. Although the young lancer officer had been verbally playful at Loiseau, especially with his cousin Vyren, throughout the battles and travels Quebar had been dutiful, quiet, and effective. He was also one of the few officers from Mencha itself, and all in Loiseau would miss him. “You should see what we see.”

“That be not good news.”

Secca did not answer, but walked forward to the ladder and climbed down, still careful to keep one hand on something solid as she did, although the height of the waves had continued to decrease, and the
Silberwelle
had settled into an almost-regular motion.

Once below in the captain's quarters, Secca checked the tuning of the lutar, while Alcaren unwrapped the scrying mirror and laid it on the table. Then Secca slipped on the copper-tipped gloves and, without explaining more, sang the spell.

The glass blanked, silvered over, and then displayed a stretch of open and empty ocean.

“Afraid of that,” murmured Denyst.

“We've tried several different spells,” Secca explained. “The glass either comes up blank or shows empty ocean. We thought you should see for yourself. Alcaren and I haven't told anyone else yet.”

Denyst nodded slowly, reflectively. “Losing one vessel to more than twoscore of the Sea-Pigs. No captain can fault that. Still hate to lose a single hand.”

“I'm sorry,” Secca said, lowering the lutar. “I'd hoped that by using the storm spell early enough…”

“The harmonies do not always give us what we wish, no matter how well we plan. Saving grace is that they don't do much better for the Sea-Priests, either.” Denyst shook her head. “I'll be missing Sacayla. Good ship mistress she was, and a better friend.”

“I'm sorry,” Secca said again, knowing she was repeating herself, but with little else to say.

“Did what you had to, sorceress, and more of us'll live through it than without you. Hurts, though. Appreciate your showing me. Better that way.”

Secca had hoped so, but she still wasn't sure.

Denyst turned. “Best see about gathering everyone back into formation.”

Silently, Secca and Alcaren followed the captain out of the cabin, along the passageway, and then up to the poop deck.

From there, to the west, Secca could see breaks in the clouds, and shafts of sunlight striking the water, turning it from dark blue almost to azure.

“Where are we?” she asked Denyst.

The captain turned. “Best reckoning is that we're a good hundred deks southwest of the southernmost of the Ostisles,” replied Denyst. “We'll be shifting course more to the northwest. With this wind, be four-five days to reach the southern fringes, and another two days to get off Stura. Last two days…who knows. Say the wind in the channels is uncertain, shifts a lot.”

“Thank you,” Secca replied. “If you don't mind, I need to tell Wilten and Delcetta about the
Wellereiterin
.”

“Appreciate your letting me know first.” The captain turned toward the helm. “Flags! Need to send some course changes.”

“She and Sacayla grew up together,” Alcaren said quietly, from where he stood at the railing, just behind Secca's shoulder.

“I did the best I could,” Secca said, turning toward him. “No matter what I try, people die.”

“Fewer people than if you did not,” he replied.

“They are just as dead.”

Alcaren nodded, slowly, in agreement, then took her left hand, the one not holding the railing, and squeezed it gently.