Shadowsinger (51 page)

A faint and sad smile crossed her lips as she took another tiny sip of the red wine. Bed and sleep would have to wait, and she hoped she could remain alert.

For dek after dek, Secca and her forces had ridden south along the great gray stone road across the seemingly endless valley, where faint green shoots had begun to appear at the base of the winter-browned prairie grass. The ground was so level that the only depressions were the small ponds created years before when sorcery had removed the rock beneath the soil to provide the paving stones and gravel for the road itself. The wind remained warm and light, although Secca could see clouds building up over the Mittfels to the west.

After the struggle to cross the Nordbergs, Secca felt almost as though they were flying southward. Yet so wide were the glasslands that they seemed to make little progress. Still, for Secca, it was a relief that they could ride abreast, with Alcaren to her left and Richina to her right, and that they had escaped the muddy roads of the north.

“They say that there are snakes in the grass,” Richina said. “Large ones.”

“It is too early in the year for the snakes, and for that I am glad.” Secca hid a smile as she continued. “The old Rider of Heinene told Lady Anna that some were five yards long and could swallow a gazelle.”

Alcaren raised his eyebrows, before adding, “That is nothing compared to the serpents of the Southern Ocean. Traders say that they have been known to swallow longboats whole. Only the largest serpents, that is.”

Richina frowned slightly as she turned in the saddle toward him.

“Others say that they must snap the boats in two with their tails before they can swallow them.” Alcaren grinned. “What are grass snakes compared to those?”

“Gazelles move far more swiftly than longboats,” Secca countered, stifling a laugh. “I would rather face a sea serpent than a grass snake.”

“Especially here,” riposted Alcaren.

Then, both Secca and Alcaren burst into laughter.

After a moment, so did Richina, flushing as she did so.

After the laughter died away, Richina, still flushed, peered southward. “How much farther, do you think?”

“We should see the hilltop where the Rider has his Kuyurt before long,” Secca promised Richina.

Secca was curious about what she would find at the Kuyurt, a hilltop domicile, not really a keep, of Lord Vyasal, the Rider of Heinene. Vyasal's father had been an early and strong supporter of Anna, and Vyasal had continued his vocal support after his sire's death. Especially after having seen the smoldering ruins of Denguic in the glass that morning, Secca could only hope that the Maitre would move slowly and that Vyasal would support her as well as had Cassily, at least in terms of supplies. She would need all the support she could muster in the aftermath of the Maitre's destruction of towns and keeps.

Fussen, Defalk

The wind blows out of the north, across the granite-studded ridgeline and toward the town of Fussen in the shallow valley below. To the southwest, above the town, looms the keep. Not a single wisp of smoke rises from the silent town, for all that it is chilly, even in the sunlight. Not a body or a mount is visible in the town. Nor is there any sign of life from the keep. The faint high haze that weakens the sun lends an additional sense of chill to the morning.

The players and drummers have formed in an almost-perfect arc on the ridge, facing the town below. Behind them are twenty-five companies of lancers, mounted and ready to attack or defend, should either be necessary. Another sixty-five companies are stationed along the stone-
paved highway from Denguic. Standing before the players and drummers are a half-score of Sea-Priest sorcerers, headed by the Maitre, and Marshal jerLeng. Their white uniforms are spotless and shimmer under the cold morning sun.

“They have abandoned the town and keep, Maitre,” jerClayne reports.

“Are there men with arms nearby?” questions the Maitre. “Those of Defalk or Fussen itself?”

“The glass shows small groups of armed men. Some are lancers, and some wear livery of a lord. They have avoided our sweeps. They are not near the town, but many would be within several deks, we would judge.”

“Good. They will not escape the way the last ones did.” The Maitre's voice is cold. “We may not get all of them, but enough will suffer.”

JerClayne looks to Marshal jerLeng, but jerLeng neither acknowledges the glance nor speaks.

The Maitre steps forward and gestures to the players and drummers. “The firebolt song! On my signal.”

“We stand ready, Maitre,” comes back the response.

The Maitre raises his left hand, then drops it. The drumming rises from a rhythmic backdrop into a pulsing roar, then softens to fall beneath the Maitre's baritone as he begins the spellsong.

Lines of flame sear through the high overcast, narrow needles of color seemingly jabbing at the ground randomly. As the lines of fire subside, the Maitre sits down heavily on the camp stool that awaits him.

He watches, his head moving from side to side, until no more flame needles flash down from above the overcast. Only then does he turn and look to jerClayne and the two younger Sea-Priests. “That will leave their women for suitable use. You will handle the spells to turn the keep and town into rubble.”

“Yes, Maitre.” JerClayne bows, then steps forward. “The hammer song.”

“The hammer song. We stand ready,” replies the head player, the only one with gold rings on the sleeves of his white tunic.

Squaring his shoulders, jerClayne lifts his left hand, then drops it. He waits, then joins the players and drums with his voice and words.

As the words and accompaniment fade, the ground, and even the hard granite underlying the ridge shivers underfoot to the rhythm of blows, as if delivered by an unseen hammer that flattens everything in the town, and all structures of the keep to the west against the anvil of the very earth. Dust rises dozens of yards into the sky, creating veils that shroud the land and the rubble beneath those shrouds.

Within moments of the last words of the spellsong lifting into the air, jerClayne pitches forward, his fall barely stopped by the taller of the young sorcerers.

“Make sure he gets food and rest,” the Maitre says. “We have much more to do. Much more.” He turns and walks toward his tent.

To the southwest reddish dust swirls around the crushed and crumbled stone that had been the keep of Fussen. In the valley below the keep, where the town had been, tongues of fire roar into the sky, creating a wall of flame and smoke that obscures even the outlines of the shattered hilltop keep.

To the south and the east, lines of thin black smoke rise everywhere, out of woodlots and from behind hills high and low.

The hilltop Kuyurt of the Rider of Heinene was not a keep, but a series of stone-walled and white-plastered rooms built in an oval and joined by an enclosed corridor set on the inside of the rooms. Separate from the Kuyurt were the guest stables, slightly downhill and to the west. At the south end of the oval was a walled garden. At the
north end were a great room and the banquet hall where Vyasal had feted them the night before and where Secca and Alcaren sat at one end of the long table, eating a breakfast of fried flatbread, soft white cheese, and honey-spiced baked apple slices.

Vyasal had eaten earlier, but sat at the table with Secca, Alcaren, Richina, and the two chief players. His dark brown eyes, intent and deep above his trimmed black beard, fixed upon Secca. “You still do not wish me and my riders to come with you?”

Secca took another sip of the warm cider, thinking, before answering. “We face sorcery. For now, I would not wish any riders because the Maitre might destroy them before they could ride against his lancers. Against such sorcery, we cannot protect a large force. If we prevail in sorcery, then…then we will need riders.” She paused. “If you could spare a few riders, and one or two that we could send back to summon you when the time comes…?”

Vyasal nodded. “That…that we can do, and my daughter Valya, she will ride with you.” The Rider of Heinene laughed. “Always, she has said that she would do as the men do. Now, I can send her with a true battle sorceress.”

Secca nodded, hoping she had not shown her concern inadvertently, for she had met Valya the evening before, and the girl—while tall, muscular, and wiry like her father—was a good three years shy of her score.

“She is the eldest, and since I have but daughters, best she learn from a woman who commands.”

While the words were a statement, Secca understood the appeal as well. She smiled. “I will see that she is with me or Richina at all times.”

Vyasal inclined his head ever so slightly. “Valya has made ready, in hopes that she would accompany you.”

“She will.” Secca forced herself to take another deep swallow of the warm cider as she finished a second section of the hot flatbread, onto which she had piled apple slices.

“How long before the lancers are ready, do you think?” She glanced at Alcaren, who looked somewhat more rested than the night before, although there were still dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

“A glass or so.”

“Before you go,” insisted Vyasal, “you must see our horses.” His dark eyes sparkled. “I must insist.”

“I am not a rider,” Secca protested, even as she wondered if she could see the horses quickly enough so that they would not be delayed. It was still a good two days' ride to Dubaria, and a day and a half beyond that to the ruins of Westfort and Denguic. Her lips tightened at
the thought of the destruction the Sturinnese had already created and the concern about what else might be devastated before she could reach the Sturinnese. She tried not to think about her fears that what she knew might not be enough—or that she might have to use even more terrible spells than those she had already employed.

Vyasal laughed. “Once, perhaps, that was true. I saw you ride into the Kuyurt. You are a rider. So you must see our horses.”

Secca rose. “Best we do so now, then, for I fear to delay much will offer the Maitre more opportunities for destruction.”

Vyasal stood as well, saying in a low voice, “Would that others had such concerns.” He added more loudly, “I will meet you by the guest stables.”

“We will be there as soon as we get our gear.” Secca turned to Palian. “You will have a bit more time to gather the players.”

“I fear some will need it.” Palian's voice was dry. “We will be ready when you return.”

Delvor merely nodded.

Secca, Alcaren, and Richina walked from the banquet hall.

As they made their way along the stone-walled inside corridor, Richina spoke. “Lady Secca, might I accompany you to see the horses?”

“Of course. So long as you are packed and ready to ride from there.”

“I am already packed.”

Alcaren said nothing until he had closed the door to the guest chamber, a room nearly as large as the one they had occupied in Nordfels, but whose white-plastered walls and arched ceiling were draped with dun silks, giving it the impression of an enormous tent. “Those words referred to Lord Robero.”

“They did indeed, unhappily.” Secca set the lutar on the foot of the low bed, which was a circular affair in the middle of the room with no headboard or footboard, but with dun silk quilts and more than a half-score of pillows. “If what Jolyn wrote us earlier is correct, Defalk is splintering once more, into the factions of the old traditions and the new ways.”

“I have but seen those favoring the new ways.” Alcaren shouldered his saddlebags.

“Most of those in the west favored Anna,” Secca pointed out, “save Ustal, and Falar is the warder of his heir.” She slipped on her riding jacket and tucked the green felt hat into her belt.

Alcaren shrugged helplessly.

Secca shook her head, realizing, belatedly, that Alcaren would not have known. He was so good at understanding that at times she forgot
he was unfamiliar with much of the history of Defalk. “The demesne of Fussen. Falar was the younger son, and Ustal the older. Ustal nearly destroyed the demesne with his insistence on following the old traditions, but he died when a crossbow wire frayed and slashed out his throat. Falar is also the consort of Lady Herene of Pamr, but he has been acting as warder for the heir. I think young Uslyn reached his score while we were at sea. There was talk of that just before we left Defalk in the fall. In any case, the other western lords supported Lady Anna. Many of those in the center of Defalk, or in the south, did not, and still some of those favor the older traditions.”

“The ones who never had to shed their blood against invaders,” Alcaren observed dryly, “or who never had to worry about such.”

“Just so.” Secca lifted the saddlebags and lutar.

Alcaren opened the door, and they walked out past Dymen and Easlon, who fell in behind them. Richina was waiting by the guest stables and had already saddled her mount. Gorkon had saddled the gray and held the mare while Secca strapped on the saddlebags, then the scrying mirror and lutar.

Vyasal rode up on one of the huge raider beasts, a stallion with a coat of so deep and lustrous a blackish brown that it shimmered in the early-morning light almost like polished black stone. Riding beside him was Valya. Like Secca, and unlike the other women Secca had seen in the Kuyurt, her black hair was cut short. She wore the black leather shoulder harness of a rider, with the twin short blades across her back. A small circular shield rested in front of her right knee.

“Good morning, Valya,” Secca said. “I see you are prepared for the worst.”

“Or the best, Lady Sorceress.” Valya inclined her head. “Thank you.”

The Rider of Heinene studied the gray mare intently, then looked to Secca. “Are you ready, Lady Sorceress?”

Secca tightened the straps holding the lutar and mounted.

“The horses I want you to view are downhill and just to the west,” Vyasal said, easing his mount to Secca's left.

Alcaren rode to the right, while Richina and Valya followed the three down the gentle slope. Easlon and Gorkon brought up the rear.

The ride was indeed short, less than a dek, Secca judged, when Vyasal reined up beside a stone wall little more than a yard high that formed a circle with a circumference of roughly a dek. There was a gate of sorts formed by two poles crossing an opening perhaps two yards wide in the stones. The area inside the wall was heavily grassed, and a
narrow creek ran through it, with openings in the wall to accommodate the thin line of cold rushing water. There were five large horses—raider beasts—standing less than fifty yards from the wall.

“They could jump this if they wished. It pleases them to stay,” Vyasal said with a laugh. “I could whistle, and they would come, but I will not.” He turned in the saddle and faced Secca, the smile fading. “You must have a beast that matches your spirit.”

“How will you know that one of them does?” Secca asked, amused in spite of herself at the Rider's assurance, amused and wondering whether to be offended.

“Your mother?—the great sorceress? She was fortunate to find her first beast because she had no Rider to aid her. I am the Rider. I can tell you will find a mount. You must walk up to them by yourself…you will find the one that suits you.”

Alcaren's eyes widened.

Secca slowly nodded, understanding more than Vyasal would ever say. She dismounted and handed the gray's reins to Gorkon, who took them solemnly. Then she walked to the gate and ducked between the two poles. There were some advantages to being small.

Secca wondered what she was doing—walking up to the largest horses in all Erde, beasts trained to kill enemies and any threat to their riders—if they accepted a rider. She smiled, ruefully. Perhaps she was so small that she would be seen as no threat, even if none liked her.

Her eyes ran over the five horses, all of whom had lifted their heads from where they had been grazing. The one farthest to Secca's left was a mare, her coat a shade that Secca could only have described as firegold. Beside her was another mare, with a darker coat, more the shade of the mount that Vyasal rode. On the right side was a palomino stallion, almost like Farinelli, the first beast that Anna had ridden. The stallion snorted once, and turned, neither moving closer, nor farther away, but just watching Secca. The other two horses, both mares, with more silvery tinges in their palomino coats, also looked at Secca, almost indifferently.

Secca took another few steps, looking at the two mares to her left. The firegold mare raised her head slightly, then lowered it, and her eyes seemed to meet Secca's. The sorceress took another step toward her. The mare with the darker coat eased back, away from both Secca and the firegold.

Before she quite realized it, Secca stood by—or beneath, she felt—the firegold mare. Slowly, very slowly, she extended an open hand. The mare lowered her head just enough to sniff Secca's hand. After a moment, Secca's fingers gently touched the mare's shoulder. The mare con
tinued to look at Secca, almost impatiently, Secca felt.

Now what do I do?
Secca glanced toward Vyasal.

“You walk toward us. She will follow. It must be her choice as well,” the Rider called.

Feeling foolish, Secca turned and walked slowly back toward the gate. She could feel the firegold's breath on her neck, following her step for step. She stopped at the pole gate and turned.

The firegold mare snorted, gently, her muzzle just spans from Secca's face.

“She is ready for you to saddle her,” Vyasal said.

“I…never have I seen mounts do that,” Richina murmured, if loudly enough for Secca to hear.

“Then never have you seen a well-trained raider beast,” replied Vyasal. “They know who will be their rider.”

Alcaren dismounted and began to unfasten the gear strapped behind Secca's saddle.

“You will need a Rider bridle.” The Rider of Heinene grinned as he lifted one in his left hand. “I thought to bring one.”

Secca shook her head. “You
knew
.”

“You are a sorceress, Lady Secca. I am the Rider.”

Secca leaned across the gate and took the bridle, then studied it. The bridle had no bit, and appeared to be a modified hackamore. Somehow, that didn't surprise Secca. A Rider-trained raider beast would obey because it valued its rider, not through pain or force. When Secca turned, bridle in hand, the mare had actually lowered her head to be bridled. With a smile, Secca slipped the bridle over the mare's head and ears, and fastened it in place.

“Here.” Alcaren handed the saddle blanket across the gate to his consort.

Secca was still dazed. Here she was, saddling a beast whose shoulders she could barely reach, even stretching, and what was amazing was that the firegold mare was letting her, even seeming to encourage her. Secca wondered about the length of the girths from her own saddle, but they were long enough—if with little to spare.

Once she had finished, Secca mounted, and this time she definitely had to jump-mount, just to get her foot in the stirrup. The mare did not move, except once Secca was in the saddle, to toss her head slightly, as if to indicate that she would be glad to be moving on.

Vyasal had dismounted and removed the two poles to let Secca ride out of the stone corral. He remounted and did not replace them.

Secca looked down at the faithful gray mare, then turned to Vyasal, inquiringly.

“You worry about the little gray? Do not.” Vyasal smiled. “She has carried you far. She should be honored, and we will feed her and pamper her so long as she lives. We do not mistreat or discard even the oldest and the smallest.”

At that moment, a low, evil-sounding note—a dissonant harmonic—shivered through Secca. Secca glanced toward Alcaren, who had paled. Richina shivered.

So cold…so deadly
. Secca swallowed.

“You are troubled,” Vyasal said. “Do not be. We will take your little mare and we will give her the best of care and pasture, but she is tired…”

Secca shook her head. “I'm sorry. It is not that. Somewhere, someone has done some terrible sorcery, and I fear it is the Maitre.”

Vyasal nodded, if sadly. “You are like your mother in that as well—sensing what most could not and would not.”

“We need to see.” Secca feared what the glass would show.

Alcaren had already dismounted, once more, and laid the scrying glass in its leathers upon a flat area of ground, amid the tan winter-browned grass stalks of the previous season and the green shoots that were beginning to herald the spring.

She dismounted and offered the firegold's reins to Vyasal. “If you would…”