Shadowsinger (46 page)

In the gray light of an overcast morning that oozed, green-tinged, into the tiny cabin, Secca sat on the edge of the lower bunk and handed Richina yet another sliver of bread, then offered her a cup of water. The younger sorceress sipped quietly for a moment and, after letting Secca take the cup back, slowly chewed another morsel of bread.

“I feel so weak…” Richina murmured.

“Keep eating, and it will pass.” Secca did not look directly at the deep and dark circles under the younger woman's eyes, nor at the reddish welt along her jawline that was already beginning to purple.

“Not in time, I fear.”

“In time for what?” asked Secca with a laugh. “It will be another two days at least before we port in Lundholn. Just eat and rest for now.”

“Do we have a signal? From the Council Leader?”

“Not yet…but it could take almost a week to get a message to Lundholn by messenger.”

“Am I so tired…just from the wards?”

Secca shook her head. “The Sturinnese sent those firebolts against us. They were guided by sorcery…”

“The wards moved them?”

“We think so. You collapsed after the second one just missed the
Silberwelle
. Alcaren and I think the effort to protect us caused that. We may never know with certainty.” Secca offered a rueful smile. “I would not wish to see such again.”

“We are unprotected?” Richina lurched upright, as if alarmed.

“No. Everything is fine.” Secca leaned forward, easing Richina back against the thin single blanket folded into a pillow. “You need not worry. Alcaren took over the wards this morning.”

“I am so sorry I failed you, Lady Secca. I am so sorry…I tried, but I was so tired—”

“Nonsense,” replied Secca tartly. “You allowed us to destroy the Sturinnese fleet. The very last Sea-Priest fleet. If you had not held the wards, we could not have done that.” She extended the cup of water. “You need to drink some more.”

Richina took another swallow of water. “You'll have to do everything now…if Alcaren…” She yawned. “So…tired.”

Secca shook her head. “You'll have time to recover. Now…you need to rest.”

Once she had Richina—already half-asleep—settled back into the narrow bunk, Secca eased out of the tiny cabin and made her way up to the poop deck, where she found Denyst and Alcaren beside the helm platform.

A faint chill drizzle fell from the formless gray clouds overhead, and while the wind was stronger than before the battle, it was still comparatively light. Without full forward speed and the heavier swells, the
Silberwelle
seemed, at least to Secca, to be pitching more, and she grabbed the taffrail for support.

“How is she?” asked Alcaren.

“I got her to eat more, and she's sleeping.” Secca shook her head. “She looks so tired and frail. Weeks ago, she was a strong, almost strapping, young woman.”

“Sorcery,” commented Denyst. “What it does to others is terrible, but it takes a terrible toll on you sorceresses. And sorcerers,” she added as her eyes fell on Alcaren.

There was a moment of silence.

“One of those fireballs struck the
Liedmeer
,” Denyst said. “And another took the
Morgenstern
. She was one of the ships you captured
for us. Not a trace of either. Did your glass show aught?”

Alcaren shook his head. “There was no sign of either, nor of any Sturinnese ship.”

“Didn't think it could be done, Lady Sorceress,” Denyst said. “Oceans swept clean of the Sea-Pigs. Had it been any others, would have felt poorly at their fate. Terrible it was, and no more than they deserved.”

“It's far from over,” Secca said slowly. “Unless we can defeat the Maitre, it will just go on and on.”

“We cannot just defeat him, my love,” Alcaren replied. “Defeat the Sturinnese never accept. We must destroy him, or he will destroy us.”

Secca's lips tightened, even as she nodded.
He's already destroyed so many. Why is it that everything you do hurts those around you and those who follow you? Why must you destroy all the Sturinnese just in order to survive? Why?

She didn't have an answer. Not really, although she knew that what Alcaren had said was true, and that everything that had happened in the past year was proof of that.

Proof or not…an enormous blanket of sadness wrapped itself around her as she looked aft, back west. Back across the dark waters that held too many shattered ships and broken bodies.

Northwest of Elioch, Neserea

The white-clad lancers are unfastening the side panels of the Maitre's tent. The remaining panels flap in the stiff breeze, but the Maitre remains seated on the folding stool behind the camp table, even as his tent is being disassembled around him, studying the scrying glass and the image of empty dark blue waters it holds.

On the other side of the table, still standing and holding the angular lute, is jerClayne, his forehead damp. His eyes are dark-rimmed and bloodshot.

The Maitre looks up from the scrying glass, his eyes cold. “Two ships…that is all? Two ships? JerStolk lost an entire fleet of two and a half-score vessels to destroy two ships?”

The younger Sea-Priest remains mute.

“I have spent a lifetime building Sturinn. I have spent a score of years creating ships and fleets. The moment I am not there, there is failure! One small woman. One! And she has turned them all into mewling children! A fleet commander, and he has five times the number of ships, and all are armed. He has a half-score of sorcerers, and he can destroy but two ships! Two unarmed ships crewed by women!”

“Yes, ser,” murmurs jerClayne.

“Were he not already dead…” The Maitre shakes his head. “Incompetent idiot! And now the Ranuans have more ships than do we. Never…seven ships, and they have more than do the Sea-Priests of Sturinn. How did this happen?”

“Her storm sorcery…their wards…”

“They are still warded, are they not?” asks the Maitre.

“Ah…yes, ser,” replies jerClayne. “That is, we cannot use the glass to view the sorceresses or the consort of the shadowsinger. Or the Assistant Sorceress of Defalk.”

“Two sorceresses—one of them barely more than a girl—and a Ranuan tool of that weakling Matriarch…” The older Sea-Priest stops, as if at a loss for words. “A half-score of our sorcerers—gone.”

“They were on different vessels, as you ordered,” jerClayne points out.

“Did they even
try
sorcery against them after the firebolts?”

“How could we tell, Maitre?”

The Maitre's eyes harden, as does his voice. “
We
must do better. Much better. We
will
do better.”

The younger Sea-Priest does not speak.

“You say nothing, but your eyes ask me how.” A tight smile appears on the Maitre's face. “It is simple. We make her hasten. We ride directly to Defalk…and there we begin to ravage the country. We turn keeps into piles of stone. We do not kill the peasants, but we kill the lords and the merchants. We move to where we have an advantage, and then we wait while she comes to us.”

“What about the other sorceress, ser? The one protecting Lord Robero?”

“She has fled from Falcor, did you not say?”

“That we know. She is in one of the western keeps.” Tilting his head slightly, jerClayne frowns. “Dubaria. She also is warded.”

“Then…we will bring it down around her. When we get there. We will take Denguic first, and then Fussen so that we need not worry about troublesome lords following us…and so that those in Dubaria will know what we can do.”

“What of Lord Robero and Falcor?”

“Once we have crushed his sorceresses, what can he do? Many of the old lords will prefer a rule under our sufferance to one under that of the sorceresses…and those who do not will either submit or perish. They will indeed.” His voice rises into a laugh.

“Submit or perish,” repeats jerClayne, a hollow smile on his gaunt face, even as his eyes glitter almost as much as those of the Maitre.

Secca stood beside Denyst near the helm platform as the
Silberwelle
edged toward the single long pier that jutted out almost half a dek from the semicircular stone shingle beach. Alcaren stood by the starboard railing, trying to ignore the ship's motion. The wind had picked up over the past days, and Denyst had shifted the sails into harbor rig well out from the port. With the wind had come clouds, still high and gray and scudding southward swiftly, and higher waves.

Secca herself felt better than she had in weeks, but when she glanced at Alcaren, she could see the tiredness in his eyes, and she still worried about Richina.

“No lancers, no armsmen?” asked the ship mistress again, as if to make certain, even though Secca's glass had shown the blue banner flying, to confirm the Council's agreement with a landing by Secca's force.

“The glass shows none,” Secca confirmed. “None except two officers and a single squad of lancers.” She gestured toward Elfens, the chief archer, and his squad.

As if he had seen her gesture, the long-faced archer turned and inclined his head. “We stand ready, Lady Secca.”

“We shouldn't need you, Elfens, but we'd rather be prepared.”

“As would we, lady.”

“Looks as though he'd just as soon nock that arrow and send it whistling through someone as spit,” noted Denyst, before turning her head and calling an order to the woman at the helm. “Another point to starboard!”

“Coming starboard.”

Secca just watched the pier while the ship mistress began to issue commands, and sails were reefed in, and crew members scampered through the rigging as the vessel eased toward the long stone pier. She could tell Lundholn was an old town, a gray ancient whose stone walls and streets had had all color bleached from them by endless generations of brutal winters and winds off the Bitter Sea. Even the few shutters that she could see on the warehouses behind the pier were gray and weathered, as were the heavy timbers that sheathed the stone pier.

The blue pennant at the end of the pier was held almost horizonal by the stiff wind out of the northwest, and almost directly below it stood a man and a woman, each wearing a black-and-silver uniform, with silver bars on the collars of their uniform jackets. Their eyes remained on the
Silberwelle
as Denyst called out commands, and the mooring lines were thrown to a pair of men in faded brown jackets and trousers. Neither officer on the pier moved as the
Silberwelle
was winched into position at the second berth from the seaward end of the pier.

Secca stepped toward the railing to watch, and to get a better view of the two officers who waited. “What do you think?” she asked Alcaren.

“They're waiting for us.”

“Double up…make her snug!” ordered Denyst.

The hull creaked as the harbor waves lifted the ship and pushed her against the pier and the hempen bumpers. Still, there was no one on the long pier, save the two hands who had taken the mooring lines and made them fast to the bollards and the two officers in silver and black.

Delcetta appeared on the poop deck and halted before Secca. “If you would not mind, Lady Sorceress, I would first meet with those on the pier.”

“Let her,” murmured Alcaren.

Secca nodded. “Tell them I would be happy to talk with them.”

“That I will.” Delcetta bowed and turned.

From the forward section of the poop deck, Elfens glanced toward Secca.

“If you would stand ready for a bit yet,” Secca called to the chief archer, “until we have a company disembarked and on the pier.”

“We will stand ready so long as you need us,” returned the long-
faced archer. An incongruous smile appeared, then vanished.

Secca watched as the blonde overcaptain of the SouthWomen walked down the gangway, followed by two lancers, and neared the two Norweians. The conversation was brief, and then all five turned and walked back up the gangway. Delcetta and the two Norweian officers climbed the ladder to the poop deck and walked toward Secca.

Both officers halted a good two yards from Secca and bowed deeply.

The woman spoke first. “Lady Sorceress. I am Captain Salchaar. This is Undercaptain Eztaar. We have been sent to serve as your guides and escorts to Morgen and to the border with Defalk. The Council is more than happy to grant you passage and any supplies you may need. If you do not have the golds at hand, we will take draughts that you can repay once your campaign against the Sea-Priests is complete. The Council felt that if we led you, there would be no misunderstandings, and all would understand that you are a welcome guest in Nordwei.”

“We thank the Council, and we thank both of you for your service and duty,” replied Secca. “We may have to wait a day or so for our mounts to recover some strength.”

“We had thought so, and we have arranged quarters throughout Lundholn.” Salchaar added quickly, “Always by company and in secure locales.”

“You and your players and officers and a company can have the larger inn—the Snow Gull,” added the undercaptain. “We have two smaller inns as well and an older barracks—it is clean and snug, if spare. We had guessed at ten companies.”

“We will need to see to the unloading,” Secca said. “We still have six other ships to see to. We have but seven companies and a company's worth of players and archers.”

The Norweian captain frowned slightly.

“We lost two ships and all aboard in the battle with the Sea-Priests,” Secca explained.

“We did not know…we left Wei before…”

“There are no Sturinnese vessels left in the Bitter Sea,” Alcaren added, “or in any other ocean around Liedwahr.”

“Yet you need to travel…?”

“The Maitre has scores of companies of lancers riding through Neserea to Defalk. This morning they were but two days' ride from Elioch. They are destroying every town and hamlet they ride through,” Secca explained. “So we must unload and prepare.”

“We will wait until you are ready, Lady Sorceress,” replied Captain Salchaar. “Then we will show you what we can offer.”

“You and the Council are most kind,” Secca replied, “and we appreciate that friendship and kindness. And we will remember it.”

“We have few lancers, Lady Sorceress, and we appreciate your efforts against the Sturinnese.” Captain Salchaar offered a slight head bow. “We would not delay your off-loading, and we will await you at the foot of the pier.”

“Thank you.” Secca returned the bow.

As the two Norweian officers climbed down the ladder to the main deck, the cool wind gusting around them, Secca turned and walked over to Denyst. She bowed to the ship mistress. “I cannot give you thanks enough for all that you have done, and for your grace and warmth in surrendering your own quarters to us for such a long time.”

The wiry captain smiled. “Lady Secca, was my pleasure, and my duty. If the Sea-Pigs win, we'd never sail again.”

“We haven't won yet.”

“That may be, but the seas will be free for years to come, and I'd not be wagering against you in your campaign against the Maitre.”

Secca wondered if the Ranuan ship mistress didn't have more confidence than she did. “I trust in the harmonies that you will win those wagers.”

“I will. You have a way with the harmonies, Lady Secca. That you do.” Denyst glanced toward the main deck, where several crew members had opened the hatch and were rigging a crane and hoist.

Secca's eyes followed the captain's. “You have much to do. We'll leave you to that, and gather our people and gear.” She tried not to think about the several days before the mounts would be ready to ride—or the more than eight days necessary even to reach Nordfels.

“We should be able to unload all you need within a glass. I've signaled the
Schaumenflucht
to tie up behind us. We can mostly unload by twos. Wouldn't want to use the inshore positions on the pier with our draft.”

Secca smiled. “In all matters such as those, we defer to you.” She bowed again before she turned and headed forward to the ladder.

Alcaren had already gone below to the captain's cabin, and when Secca rejoined him, he had already stacked all the gear that they had packed earlier and placed it on the table. He looked up from the lumand case he had just set down. “I thought I'd get all this ready.”

“Thank you. Denyst says she will have us off-loaded in a glass or so.”

“If she says so, then she will.” Alcaren paused. “I just talked to
Richina. She is ready.” He tilted his head slightly, as if he were not quite certain of the next words. “She's still so frail.”

“She shouldn't have to do any sorcery for close to two weeks, if not longer,” Secca said. “That should help.”

Alcaren nodded.

“We'll have to alternate singing and holding the ward spells,” Secca said. “We can't have you looking like that, either, not when I'll need you to sing with me against the Maitre. Perhaps I can hold the wards for a few days on the journey.”

“Let us see,” Alcaren replied.

Secca laughed. “I think that's as close to a disagreement as you'll offer.”

Alcaren's first reply was a sheepish smile. “I should be able to hold them until Richina is better, and she and I can alternate. You have to be rested.”

“Let us see,” answered Secca, using Alcaren's own words in return.

He shook his head, ruefully, then stepped forward and embraced her.

Secca returned the embrace and clung tightly to him for a time, just hanging on to the moment, knowing all too well that, under the best of circumstances, death and devastation lay along the road before them.