Shadowsinger (4 page)

East of Itzel, Neserea

The two men sit across an inlaid wooden table in a study paneled in time-aged golden oak. Because the day is gray, and near sunset, only the dimmest of light seeps through the ancient mullioned windows, and most of that is blocked by the heavy gold velvet hangings drawn across each casement to block the late winter cold. Even so, the chamber is filled with the golden light that radiates from the almost half a score of six-branched candelabra that surround the table where the two eat.

“This table is almost as exquisite as the one in Jysmar's hold,” re
marks the younger man, after taking a sip of golden amber wine from a crystal goblet. The darkness of his blue tunic, trimmed in gold, accentuates his piercing blue eyes, fair skin, and jet-black hair.

“Much was lost when you brought his hold down around him, Lord Belmar,” replies the man in gray, who at times appears barely older than Belmar, and at other times more than a score of years older than the young Lord of Worlan.

“That was his loss, not mine.” Belmar smiles before taking another sip of wine. “Besides, the show of force was necessary. The older lords were beginning to doubt my power.” He gestures around the chamber, his hand sweeping past the polished dark oak shelves that hold the scores of leather-bound books, past the Pelaran tapestries hung on the walls between the shelves. “Would we have had such easy entry here otherwise?” He chuckles. “And Lord Girsnah is more than happy to have us served his very best. I could even request his daughter, master jerGlien, and he would offer her willingly.” Belmar glances toward jerGlien, as if seeking a reaction. “She is young, tender, and rather attractive.”

The man in gray offers a faint smile of amusement. “I imagine he would, under the circumstances.”

“I won't go that far. That sort of foolishness was what undid Rabyn.”

“Along with his other failings.”

Belmar ignores jerGlien's sardonic tone. “The entire south of Neserea acknowledges me. So does the northeast and the far northwest. Only the river valleys of the Saris and Esaria itself stand opposed.”

“That is true.”

“Now is the time to strike.” The black-haired and blue-eyed lord glanced at the older man in nondescript gray. “Do you not think so, master jerGlien?”

“Always…somewhere…it is time to strike, Lord Belmar. The skill is knowing where and how hard.”

“Meaning that you think I am too impatient?” asks Belmar.

“If you can stop the Sorceress of Defalk, then you should do what you feel necessary.”

“I defer to your experience, master jerGlien, yet I might ask why you think I am too hasty. For your words suggest other than what they say.”

A shrug comes from the man in gray. “We have made certain entreaties to Lord Robero, very quietly. He is not totally unreceptive, but he is far from convinced, it would seem to me. We must convince him…appropriately.”

“And how would that be, and why would I care?”

“I do not pretend to know Neserea, and Defalk even less, but…” JerGlien pauses dramatically. “…were I about to rule a land, I would prefer not to have an unnecessary enemy on my borders. Lord Robero is constrained by the presence of the very sorceresses who support him.” The Sturinnese smiles. “What man enjoys being constrained by women?”

“You think…?”

“One must strike before it is expected…or where such an attack is not expected, and it cannot hurt if one strikes where a loss may not be regretted totally by the ruler of a neighboring land.”

“Striking at the sorceresses of Defalk?”

“You face the least dangerous, for all her experience,” offers jerGlien. “The younger one is more dangerous.”

“She destroyed an entire fleet, did she not? The younger one? That could not have pleased your Maitre,” replies Belmar.

The man in gray laughs. “What she has done has gained her little. She remains in Ranuak, and the snows on the Mittfels and Sudbergs still deepen. She has no allies to speak of and will have to face far more sorcerers than she knows if she would wrest Dumar from us.”

“She may have gained little,” points out Belmar, “but it has cost your Maitre dearly.”

“Not so dearly as one might think, and if it positions her to fail…why then, it is well worth the cost.”

“You presume to judge such for your Maitre, my friend.”

“Were the Maitre here, I daresay he would find little to object to in my words.”

“He is more trusting than I would be.”

The Sturinnese smiles. “He is far less trusting. He cannot afford trust. He ensures obedience. That is safer and wiser. Far wiser.”

Belmar pauses, not quite imperceptibly, before lifting the goblet. “I will study the glass and the maps tomorrow. Then, we will see. Perhaps we can persuade the lady Aerlya that her daughter—young Annayal—should indeed consider a consort most quickly in these troubled times.”

“If she remains in Neserea.”

“In a winter like this, with the snow waist deep except on the roads we have cleared with sorcery…where could she go?” Belmar smiles once more.

“Where indeed?” replies the Sturinnese, lifting his own goblet. Although the rim touches his lips, he does not actually drink the wine, excellent as it may be.

Outside the guest quarters, a cold misting rain drifted from the low gray clouds, collecting on the windowpanes and running down the glass in irregular rivulets. Inside, before the low fire in the hearth, two figures embraced as though they had not seen each other for seasons, rather than just since the evening before.

After a long time, Secca gently disengaged herself from Alcaren's hug, good as it felt, and stepped back.

“Is something the matter?” asked her consort-to-be.

“You have to tell me more about your parents,” Secca said. “We're going to meet them in less than a glass, and I know almost nothing.”

“You know about my mother—or have you forgotten?” Alcaren offered a mischievous grin, his broad hand reaching out, his fingers caressing her cheek momentarily.

“I remember everything you told me, but it was all about you and your mother, and how you'd never make a trader like she is—or like your sister. You didn't tell me anything really about her. I don't know what she looks like or what…” She shook her head. “Please…just tell me.”

“Well…” Alcaren drew out the word. “She's tall, taller than I am, and her hair was sandy blonde, but it's mostly gray these days. She laughs a great deal, sometimes when she doesn't mean it. I suppose that comes from being a trader. She's never liked matters that deal with householding, and we always had a cook, because she doesn't care what she eats, and the rest of us would have starved.”

“Your sister—I'm sorry I'm interrupting, but this is all so unexpected—will she be there?” Secca paused, then added, “I'm sorry.”

“You don't have to be sorry. Nedya will like you.”

“She's your sister? You've never mentioned her name.”

“I haven't?”

“Not once.” Then, in all fairness, Secca had to remind herself, she hadn't known Alcaren that long—less than two seasons.

Alcaren shook his head. “She's small and dark, wiry, like Father, but she's strong. She can hoist cargo with the strongest of the crews. Her voice is like Mother's, though. Even when we were small, everyone in the neighborhood could hear her.”

“Does anyone else have a talent with the mandolin or with voice?”

“Father has a pleasant voice. He was the one who first taught me to play, but he dislikes sorcery, perhaps even more so than Mother, and I've never heard him sing.”

Secca winced. “What do they think about your consorting to a sorceress?”

“Nedya thinks that it's for the best…” Alcaren grinned. “She said that it would be good for me to have someone who can understand me and keep me riding in the right direction.”

“How about your father?” Secca wasn't sure she wanted to ask about what Alcaren's mother thought.

“He hasn't said much. He never does. He didn't even shake his head or curse when I broke chisels and ruined stone blocks and broke clay molds. He knew I was trying, and that I just didn't have the talent.” Alcaren's lips curled ruefully.

“What did he say when you told him about us?”

“He just smiled, and said it was about time I found someone who could take care of me.”

“Take care of you?” blurted Secca.

“Remember? I've never proved particularly adept at what they think is important. My hands can finger a lumand or a mandolin, but not work clay or stone. I get sick on ships in rough water, and I never enjoyed counting up golds.”

The sorceress almost shook her head, thinking about how well Alcaren rode, how accomplished he was with a blade, how effectively he seemed to organize and lead people, and how much he knew. “And your mother?”

“She said that I was consorting well above my station, and that it was for the best, but that I should thank the harmonies and not get airs about it.” He was the one to shake his head. “She said that being your consort would be the most difficult task I'd ever tried.” The warm smile followed. “She might be right in that.”

“Now I'm difficult?” Secca raised her eyebrows.

“What you will attempt in attacking the Sturinnese has never been successful,” he pointed out. “Then, what you've already done has never been done, either.”

Secca frowned. Anna had done far greater sorceries and become the
first woman regent truly to rule a northern land in Defalk.

“No one else has ever destroyed a Sea-Priest fleet at sea. Even your lady Anna only destroyed them at anchor in the harbor.”

“No one else was ever foolish enough to try.” Secca glanced toward the windows. “I suppose we should go. You said we would be there by midmorning?”

“Before midday.”

Secca turned toward her bedchamber to gather her riding jacket and her sabre, but Alcaren intercepted her and drew her into his arms.

“We do have to go,” she whispered.

“In a moment.”

It was a very long moment before he released her—or she released him.

By the time they had gotten their mounts from the stables, which were a good hundred yards behind the guest quarters and past the barracks that housed her lancers and the two companies of SouthWomen commanded by Alcaren, the cold rain had turned into an even finer mist. The formless gray clouds had lightened, and a cooler breeze swirled through the long, stone-paved courtyard. Infrequent light gusts of cool air alternated with warmer damper air.

“It will be colder tonight,” Alcaren said, as Secca mounted her gray.

“I like that better than rain,” she replied.

A discreet cough interrupted their conversation. “Lady, Overcaptain…”

Secca turned in the saddle.

Wilten stood by the stable door.

Beside him was the SouthWoman captain Delcetta. The strawberry blonde woman had an apologetic smile on her face. “We have taken the liberty of having a squad of lancers from Loiseau and one from the SouthWomen to escort you. They are drawn up and awaiting you. Also, your chief archer Elfens has requested to accompany you with several of his best archers.”

“The Ladies of the Shadows have not been released from the White Tower, have they?” asked Alcaren.

“No, ser. But we do not know all who may follow them,” replied Delcetta.

Wilten nodded, and added, “It is best that none think you unguarded.”

Would she seem more formidable guarded or unguarded? Secca wondered.

As she and Alcaren rode out of the courtyard, the lancers eased their
mounts into position, leaving the two of them between the crimson-trimmed, dark blue riding jackets of the SouthWomen and the green of Loiseau. The measured clopping of hoofs echoed through the damp morning as the column headed between the neatly trimmed boxwood hedges that flanked the lane leading to the main avenue.

Secca glanced forward at the SouthWomen lancers leading the way, then at Elfens, riding behind the vanguard.

The tall archer seemed to feel Secca's glance and twisted in the saddle, grinning as he offered an angled half bow.

Secca grinned and shook her head. After a moment, she turned in the saddle to take in the column behind them. “I feel almost like a prisoner.”

“You are,” Alcaren said with a laugh. “You're a prisoner of your own power. None of us can afford to lose you.”

“Even you?”

“Me…most of all.”

Once out of the lane, they turned their mounts northward, in the direction of the Matriarch's small palace. The misting rain stopped completely, but wisps of fog rose from the gray stones of the avenue, twisting into vague shapes in the seemingly more frequent bursts of cold air that had begun to chill the warmer damp air.

“What is your…your parents' dwelling like?” Secca asked after a silence.

Astride the brown gelding that was almost the size of a raider beast, and far larger than Secca's gray mare, Alcaren shrugged. “It is a dwelling with two small wings and a stable that will hold four mounts, perhaps five if we double stall in the front corner. We have no carriage. There is a small formal flower garden off the portico and a much larger vegetable garden. Father has his studio in a small outbuilding. It is all very modest.”

“Do you still have a chamber there?”

“I suppose so. I have left nothing there, but Father calls it my room.”

They continued riding past the Matriarch's palace and then turned onto another avenue that led uphill and to the northeast. Secca noted that some of the dwellings flanking the avenue were nearly as large as the Matriarch's. None was small. “Is their dwelling on this side of the hill?”

Alcaren laughed. “I fear not. It is smaller and more to the south on the lesser hill.”

Secca nodded, but as they rode to the top of the hill and then followed a narrower way to the right and down onto a lower hill, the
houses and grounds did not get much smaller. When they rode up into a stone-paved circular drive, Secca was scarcely surprised that the dwelling was more than the simple house Alcaren had suggested.

“Here we are,” announced her consort-to-be, gesturing toward the small villa with two wings branching from the circular and columned rotunda that dominated the stone-paved lane leading to the covered entry and the mounting blocks.

Alcaren reined up in front of the mounting blocks, leaving them to Secca. While she appreciated his courtesy as she dismounted, once more she felt almost patronized because of her small stature.

“Alcaren!” The young woman who hurried out through the columned archway was indeed small and wiry, perhaps even shorter than Secca herself, and more boyish in appearance. She glanced up at Secca and flashed the same warm smile that Secca had seen from Alcaren. “Lady Secca…” Then she laughed, warmly and openly. “Welcome…welcome.”

Secca tried to halt the inadvertently quizzical look that she could feel appearing on her face.

“Alcaren never said how beautiful you are,” Nedya rushed on. “Or that you were a redhead.”

Secca wondered what Alcaren
had
said, since, from what she'd seen and overheard from the younger women in her hold of Flossbend or at Loiseau, they seldom mentioned the physical beauty of women who might be rivals—or consorts to their brothers. Secca didn't have an easy response, but managed to reply, “He's probably had other things on his mind. He's been helping me plan what we have to do next.” Realizing belatedly the ambiguity of her words, she added quickly, “Against the Sturinnese.”

“He talked about that,” Nedya admitted. After a moment, she said, “I'd keep you both out here in the cold chattering, but Mother and Father are waiting inside.”

“As patiently as ever, I am most sure,” Alcaren said dryly as he stepped up beside Secca. He glanced sideways at the sorceress. “Mother has never been known for her patience. She has other virtues, but not that.”

“And my older brother can be painfully honest,” replied Nedya. “His grace is that he is as unsparing of himself as of anyone else.”

“I've always found him the soul of care and tact,” Secca admitted.

Nedya raised her eyebrows. “For that alone, we should be thankful.” She spoiled the arch effect by smiling.

Secca handed the gray's reins to Gorkon, who had ridden up behind
them, but not dismounted. Then she walked side by side with Alcaren up the steps and through the door that Nedya had left open. The entry foyer was not large, a circular space four yards across with white-plastered walls and a floor tiled in a pattern of repeating hexagons of alternating white and dark blue. A single tapestry filled the blank wall directly opposite the doors, and the scene upon it was that of a full-masted ship under sail, rendered entirely in shades of blue, save for the golden-braided border.

The broad-shouldered older woman who stood just before the tapestry in the small foyer was a good head and a half taller than Alcaren. She had a weathered face somehow both squarish and angular. Her eyes were grayish blue like her son's—except even more piercing. Beside her stood a smaller, slighter man with dark brown hair streaked with silver.

The woman spoke first. “I am Carenya, Lady Sorceress, and I welcome you to our dwelling.”

Secca inclined her head. “I am happy to meet you. Alcaren has spoken much of you and of your success as a trader.”

“Were it not for your efforts, I fear, none of us would be traders for much longer.” A wry smile, but one with warmth beneath, appeared with Carenya's words.

“I am Todyl.” The man who stood in the archway to the left offered a broad smile. “Alcaren has said how talented you are, but he had not told us that you are also beautiful.”

Secca found herself blushing, as if she were fifteen years old, instead of more than twice that. “You are most kind, and so is Alcaren.”

“Do come in,” Carenya offered, turning and gesturing in the direction of the archway in which her consort stood. “We should not be standing in the foyer.” She paused. “It is damp outside. Would you like some warm cider? Or a hot brandy?”

“Cider, if it would not be too much trouble.”

“For me, also,” Alcaren added, almost apologetically.

The trader glanced at Nedya. “If you would…”

“I'll be quick,” promised the young woman.

The sitting room beyond the archway was both as Secca had imagined it, and not at all the same. Given Alcaren's description of his mother, she found the spareness unsurprising, but not the vivid reds and yellows infusing the few hangings on the plaster walls and the three brilliant green cushions on the all-wooden settee where she seated herself.

Alcaren sat down beside her, protectively, as Todyl and Carenya
settled into unupholstered wooden armchairs across a bare low table from the settee.

“Alcaren has said that you are one of the Thirty-three of Defalk, both by ability and by birth.” Carenya offered the words as an opening, but without a tone of questioning.

“I am Lady of Flossbend. My father held the domain, but he died when I was a child, and both my mother and my brothers were poisoned by my uncle. The lady Anna defeated my uncle and restored the lands to me. I became a sorceress, and when Lady Anna died last fall, Loiseau came to me as her sorceress-heir.”