Shadowsinger (47 page)

In the late afternoon, Secca stood under the overhanging eaves of the Snow Gull's side porch, looking down from the rise on the now-empty harbor of Lundholn. In the shadows cast by the headlands to the west and north, the water near the shore looked almost a shimmering black. The wind had subsided to a light breeze, so that only gentle wavelets lapped on the shingled beach and against the stone buttresses of the long pier. Less than a glass before, the last Ranuan ship had reprovisioned from the stores that had been mustered by the Council of Wei, and all were, Secca hoped, on an uneventful return voyage to Encora.

She had noted a pair of passengers being escorted to the
Ozeanstern
, the last ship to leave the harbor of Lundholn, just before the big trader cast off, and absently wondered who would take passage to Ranuak in such unsettled times.
Then, they really aren't that unsettled on the oceans, now…but who would know that?
She shook her head. She had more than enough with which to concern herself without worrying about two passengers.

She glanced sideways at Alcaren. “It's been two days, and Delcetta tells me that the mounts still are not ready, even to be walked more than a few deks.” Her lips tightened. “The glass shows that the Maitre is nearing Defalk, and all we can do is wait. There are not even a double handful of mounts to purchase here.”

Alcaren cleared his throat. “I did purchase some ponies. I thought that if they could carry provisions…”

Secca laughed, ruefully. “That will help.”

“But not enough.” He paused. “Do you know where Jolyn is?”

“She is in a hold, Dubaria, and she seems safe for now, although we cannot scry her directly.” Secca frowned. “You think we should warn her?”

“She probably knows that the Maitre approaches. And she may try something. He is not thinking about her, but he will be if she does.”

“Send her a warning to strike from afar, and only at the lancers and animals well away from the Maitre and his Sea-Priests.” Secca nodded. “We should—I should do that now, before other sorcery is called for. I should have thought of that sooner, but with the mounts and the maps and the draughts for supplies, and the study of the…those spells…” She pushed back a lock of unruly red hair that was getting far too long. “We should have her warn the lords around there to abandon their keeps. The Maitre will pull them down around them.”

“You think so?” Alcaren laughed at himself. “Of course he will. If he has done that in Neserea, why would he not do worse in Defalk?”

Secca took a last look at the shadowed harbor. “I should have done this earlier.”
Why does it always seem that way? Because you are still not that experienced in planning battles and travels and sorcery and all that goes with it?
She wasn't, Secca reflected, but the problem was simple. There wasn't anyone else who was, except Alcaren and Palian. Alcaren still didn't know enough about Defalk to see what she was missing or had overlooked, and Palian had her hands full managing the players and keeping Delvor in line. “We'd better check the scrying glass first, then I'll write a message.”

The two walked along the narrow corridor to the large room in the
southeast corner of the sprawling stone-walled inn that sat on the bluff overlooking the town proper. Secca nodded to Mureyn as she and Alcaren passed the lancer acting as guard, and closed the door behind them.

Alcaren unwrapped the scrying mirror from its leathers while Secca moved the pitcher and basin off the small wash table. Then he set the mirror in place. Secca tuned the lutar quickly, then sang the seeking spell, asking to see the dwelling in which Jolyn was staying.

When the image of a redstone-walled keep appeared, they both studied the glass.

“Dubaria—that's Tiersen's keep. Good. I'm glad she's still there. She should be, but she could have ridden somewhere else.” At Alcaren's puzzled look, she added, “Tiersen's consort is Lysara. She saved my life and almost lost hers doing it. I would want them warned above all others. Then Kinor.”

She sang the release spell and recased the lutar. Then she went to the narrow wardrobe and opened it. A smile crossed her lips as she took out a fresh sheet of paper, one of the twoscore sheets she had managed to find in the chandler's the day after they had landed—along with a half-score of fresh parchment sheets. For a time, at least, she wouldn't have to be writing notes and spell drafts on the sides and corners of papers that already had every span covered with writing.

“I'm going to draft the letter to Jolyn. I'd like to read it to you when I'm finished. You can tell me if there's something I should add.” She paused, then swallowed, as she lifted out the leather folder and the manila envelope within—Anna's “Armageddon” file—and handed it to Alcaren. “While I'm writing, if you would read these, and see which ones might be useful against the Maitre.”

His eyes widened as he took the aged parchment and recognized what she was handing him. “Me? How would I…?”

“You'll know, my love.”

A wry smile crossed his face. “You would share these with me?”

“Who else?” asked Secca. “You will be the one singing with me against the Maitre.”

“Me? Why not Richina?” Alcaren rewrapped the scrying mirror and set it in the corner beside the narrow wardrobe.

“Because the spellsongs are stronger—at least, Anna said so—with a man's voice and a woman's voice. And because I do not wish Richina to be singing such until she is older.” Secca pulled a stool over to the wash table and seated herself.

Alcaren took the folder and sat down on the foot of the bed that
was barely of double width, narrower even than the bunk in Denyst's cabin aboard the
Silberwelle
.

Even from the first words of the first sheet, Secca could see he was frowning. She forced her thoughts back to the message she should have written earlier. She had sent the warding spell in time, and Jolyn was still fine.
You should have done it earlier
. Secca winced, but she kept searching for words.

After almost a glass, as the sun was dropping behind the conifer-covered hills to the west of the Snow Gull, Secca finally scratched out the last words she disliked and replaced them with another phrase—her third attempt. Then she cleared her throat.

Alcaren looked up.

“Will you listen?” she asked.

He nodded.

Alcaren laughed softly as she read those words.

“What do you think?” Secca asked.

“Are there any other spells you should send?” he asked.

“I would not send the terrible ones. Her players are half the number of ours and do not know the fourth, fifth, and sixth building spells.”

“That is not the only reason why you will not send them,” he said quietly.

“She cannot use them,” Secca protested.

“That well may be true,” Alcaren agreed, his gray-blue eyes meeting her amber ones.

“I fear to have many see or hear them,” she admitted.

“Do you think to keep them hidden?”

“If I can…if I can.”

“It will be even harder if we succeed,” Alcaren replied.

Secca understood all that he meant, for if they succeeded, sorcerers around Erde would search for the means they had used. If they failed, no one would look further.

They shared sad and knowing smiles.

Northwest of Elioch, Neserea

The column of men in white stretches more than two deks westward, back toward yet another hamlet whose demise is marked by trails of smoke winding skyward, but lost soon against the high gray overcast. The lancers ride in precise formation, as always.

A lancer undercaptain in Sturinnese white rides up to the Maitre, slowing his mount, then bowing in the saddle. “Maitre…”

“What is it?” The Maitre reins up, as do all those who follow.

“The riders we reported—they were Defalkans, bearing a scroll from Lord Robero. They wished to deliver it personally.” The undercaptain flashes a hard smile.

“I see you persuaded them otherwise.”

“Yes, Maitre.” The undercaptain extends the scroll, not to the Maitre, but to jerClayne, who rides to the left of the leader of Sturinn.

The younger Sea-Priest breaks the seal and checks the document without reading it before handing it to the Maitre. In turn, the Maitre takes a quick look at the seal on the bottom, then impatiently reads through the document.

Beside him, jerClayne waits, a puzzled frown upon his face.

The Maitre laughs—harshly—and lowers the scroll.

“Ser?”

“That weakling suggests that we meet to discuss an agreement of mutual advantage. I can guess what that will be.”

The younger Sea-Priest waits.

“He realizes he is about to lose control of his land. He does not know that he lost it to the Great Sorceress years ago. So he would like us to remove the sorceresses and let him rule his tabletop demesne.”

“He wrote that?”

“Of course not. He is less than brilliant, but not that stupid. His words mean the same thing.” The Maitre flicks the reins to urge his mount forward, ignoring the undercaptain, who has turned his mount to ride behind them. “He is right to be worried. No matter what happens, if the fighting continues, he will lose. So he will do anything to stop it. Anything that will allow him to keep his title and lands.” The Maitre laughs again.

“What will you do?”

“What any prudent man would do. Promise him that we will talk, but I will neglect to say when or where.”

Another look of puzzlement crosses jerClayne's face.

“Yes, we will talk…when the time is right.” The Maitre continues to ride, his eyes studying the road ahead, as the column moves eastward along the river, toward the road that will take them south to Elioch.

Secca walked beside the gray mare, the reins held loosely in her right hand, her boots hitting heavily on the gray paving stones of the ancient Corian road to Morgen. Her feet, legs, and back were sore, and her face raw from the damp winds off the endless low hills of western Wei.

A good hundred yards ahead rode the Norweian officers and their squad of lancers. Their mounts didn't need extra care, Secca reflected. Something bothered her, and she had not been able to grasp what it was…what might be wrong that she wasn't seeing. She looked to the hillside to her right, but the brown grasses and the leafless bushes, and the scattered low junipers could have been anywhere. Anywhere. Then, she nodded and turned to Alcaren, who walked beside her, leading his chestnut gelding.

“You have that look, my lady,” he said with a smile.

“I realized what has been fretting at me.” She gestured to the hillside. “What is wrong with the hillside?”

He frowned. “Little that I can see.”

She nodded. “Did you not tell me that Nordwei had also suffered in the Spell-Fire Wars?”

Alcaren smiled. “There was not so much sorcery used here in the west—except that many of the forests burned and have never regrown. The places that look like Ranuak are to the south and east of Wei itself, mostly along the River Ost. That was closer to the Mynyan holdings.”

“No one ever mentions that in schooling in Defalk,” she said slowly.

Her observations were cut short as the toe of her boot caught the slightly upraised edge of a paving stone, and she stumbled forward, barely catching her balance. “Dissonance!”
You were the one who suggested walking the mounts…
And she was. She'd just forgotten how slow and painful walking was, even on the antique metaled road. And how cold in a land where spring came late, and winter lingered.

“Are you all right?” asked Alcaren.

“I am.” She shook her head, aware once more how her feet hurt. “How far?”

“About a dek since you last asked,” he said with a smile.

“I didn't look pleased when you didn't feel well on the
Silberwelle
,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Walking is hard on sorceresses with small feet and short legs.”

“I am sorry, my lady. I was not taking pleasure in your discomfort.”

“Then…why the smile?”

“It was more of a wistful smile,” Alcaren said slowly. “I was thinking about music. I don't suppose I'll ever look at it or listen to it the same way.” He paused. “Yes…you know that music is the basis of sorcery, but in Ranuak, instrumental music was acceptable—without words and only on a single instrument. Now…it's more of a tool.”

Secca tilted her head, recalling Anna's words.

“You look thoughtful,” her consort observed.

“I was thinking about Anna. She said something like that. She missed music by what she called the great masters.”

“Who were they?”

Secca shrugged. “She used many names. They were all from the Mist Worlds. I remember Mozart and Schumann and Poulenc. She talked about them more than the others. Sometimes, she'd say something about the tragedy of music in Liedwahr was that it was nothing more than a tool and never would be more than that because complexity introduced the possibility of greater error and because no working tool needed greater errors.”

“Hmmmm. I can see that. But…how could it be otherwise? Even dinner music is a tool of sorts, something to put people at ease.”

“Only in Ranuak,” Secca replied. “It didn't put Fehern at ease.”

“Nothing would have put him at ease.”

“Any use of music puts off most people,” Secca suggested.

“Like dancing?”

Secca shook her head. “There is a reason for that. Spell music that affects the body is Darksong. People dance to music, and the old books talk about dance music with drums being especially harmful.”

“So, because dancing
looked
like Darksong, the old rulers banned it?” Alcaren snorted.

“I didn't say it made sense.” Secca shrugged. She found her steps slowing as she climbed the last few yards of the gentle hillside curve in the road, until she reached the crest, where her eyes took in the mist of
the valley that opened below. “There is supposed to be a town here, at the far end, with an inn. That's what Salchaar said.”

“Good. We could use the rest—if we can get there before dark.”

Secca hoped so, even as she tried not to think about where the Maitre and his sorcerers and lancers might be and what they might be doing.