Shadowsinger (54 page)

West of Aroch, Defalk

The Maitre looks up from behind the camp table at the officer who faces him. To his left and slightly behind him stands jerClayne.

“She is moving eastward along the back roads, toward Aroch,” offers the grizzled Sturinnese overcaptain. “Her forces are larger than before, and they are moving swiftly.”

“We will reach Aroch first, and we now hold it, do we not?”

“Aye, Maitre. We hold Aroch, but as for your forces holding it against an attack…Marshal jerLeng did have to breach the walls in two places, and it may be a day more afore they're repaired, even with sorcery.”

“So…we must delay her. We have the better roads, and we can flank her and attack from the south,” declared the Maitre. “That should slow her, and we can slay some of those lancers with her.”

“Begging your pardon, Maitre, but how might you suggest that we do so against her sorcery?”

“You will do so. I will send one of the Sea-Priests and some players. Take…jerWyal…have him create a fire in her path…or a flood…or both. Or whatever he can do. A rainstorm to turn the back roads into mud. Then, while she deals with such, attack the outliers.”

“Yes, ser.”

“Fall back, and do it again, or something like it, each time. Don't charge her directly. Kill those away from her protections, and that will slow her advance enough to give us time to prepare at Aroch.”

The overcaptain bows. “Yes, Maitre.”

After he departs, the Maitre looks to jerClayne. “Does she still hold the wards?”

“Someone does, and the other sorceress has joined her.”

“Good. We will not have to chase them both, and we will finish this whole matter within a week, if not sooner.”

They both nod in agreement.

Twilight had turned into early evening by the time the players had recased their instruments, after the last sounds of the warding spell died away. Secca stood in the damp clay of the lanelike road that ran between the small cottages of the unnamed town. A light wind ruffled through her hair, a wind with a chill that signified that spring had yet to come fully.

Secca looked at Richina, then at Anandra. “Remember. Eat well and rest as much as you can. Your strength allows us to do what we must.”

Both younger sorceresses bowed slightly. “Yes, Lady Secca.”

Secca looked to Alcaren, then Jolyn. “Is there anything else I should tell them?”

“Not to talk all night,” suggested Jolyn. “There are three of them now, with Valya.”

A guilty look passed from Richina to Anandra. Behind them stood the Rider heir, and a smile crossed her lips.

“You can talk for a while,” Secca said. “I need a few words with Jolyn.”

Alcaren nodded. “I should talk to Wilten and Delcetta about our order of march tomorrow, and as we near Aroch.” With a smile, he bowed slightly and turned away.

The hamlet was larger than Sedak, in that there were almost twoscore dwellings, but none of them were much more than one- or two-room cottages, rudely built of dried mud bricks. Secca and Jolyn walked toward one of the larger ones, the one that would hold the sorceresses, Alcaren, and Valya. The two-room cottage had not even a table, but just a plank wedged between a course of bricks and supported by two bricks protruding from the rough mud brick wall.

Secca pulled one of the two stools to a corner of the plank. Jolyn took the other. Before sitting down, Secca found a striker and lit the stub of a candle set in a crudely carved wooden holder, then slid the
holder to a more level spot on the plank, not quite against the grease-splattered mud brick wall.

“You have much to say, from your eyes and carriage,” Secca offered gently, easing herself onto the stool, far less comfortable than her saddle. Although Jolyn was less than a head taller than Secca, she was far more muscular, and Secca had always thought of her as taller than she was.

“You know I enjoy using a blade or both blade and board, don't you?” Jolyn asked quietly.

Secca laughed gently. “You've always enjoyed it, and there are more than a few men who wished you did not.” She frowned. “Now it bothers you?”

“No,” answered the older sorceress. “I'd rather use a blade. I can't say I like using sorcery to destroy people. Even Sea-Priests.”

“After what they've done?”

“I don't like what they've done, and I'd cheerfully lop off their maleness myself and then slit their throats. It's doing it with sorcery that bothers me. It's like they're bricks in a wall, or stones in a road.” Jolyn shook her head. “Death is too final, too important, for people to be cut down as if they were grain before a scythe.”

“The Sea-Priests started this war by using the ocean as a scythe against Narial,” Secca pointed out. “And in all battles, they have used or tried to use sorcery to allow their blades to control the field. That isn't much different from using sorcery directly. In a way,” Secca reflected, “it's even more dishonest. They use sorcery to weaken or disable their opponents, and then overwhelm them with lancers and blades.”

“You would see it that way. So did Lady Anna.”

Secca thought.
What can you say against feelings?

“You don't agree with what I feel. I can tell that,” Jolyn said.

“I can see why you feel the way you do,” Secca replied, her words slow and careful. “Sorcery is terrible, and I have used the most terrible spells. If we are to defeat the Maitre, there will be others. As Alcaren keeps telling me, we are not the ones who keep invading others' lands. We are not the ones who insist that women—or men—be chained as slaves. Or that women who essay sorcery have their tongues cut out. We should be able to live as we choose, so long as we do not harm others, or harm them as little as possible. And we should not lose that freedom simply because we do not have scores upon scores of half-captive lancers with sharp blades.”

Jolyn sighed. “I know. You're right. I tell myself that time after time. And I do what spells I must. But it does not
feel
right to kill so with sorcery.”

Secca's laugh was hard and brittle. “You believe I
enjoy
such spells?”

“No. They will tear at you until you bleed inside.” Jolyn paused. “But you will do what you must, and you will use whatever spell may be needed. In that, you are no different from Lady Anna. You know, she thought herself a small woman?”

“I know. She always felt she was small. She said that was because she was small in the Mist Worlds.” Secca raised her eyebrows. “Because we believe ourselves small, you think we have less aversion to using terrible spells?”

“I had wondered.”

Secca pursed her lips, thinking. Finally, she spoke. “I may have less aversion to such spells, but I cannot say that it is because I am small. I have slain men with sorcery and with a blade. Those slain one way are as dead as those slain another. And I cannot see much difference between a ruler who slays scores upon scores with thousands of lancers and one who slays the same number with sorcery.”

“But at least in combat, a better lancer has a chance.”

“Does he?” asked Secca. “I have seen many slain from behind where their skill mattered little. I wonder if you value the illusion of such chance more than its worth merits.”

This time Jolyn was the one to pause before speaking. “That could be, but is not most of what we value in life at least part illusion? You will strip that illusion from us, Secca, and while you may weep bitterly, you will not hesitate.” Jolyn held up her hand. “I will sing whatever you wish, and I will sing it as well as I can. For, as you have said, there is no choice now. Perhaps there never was. But I will regret, as long as I live, that sorcery must be used such, and it will feel wrong that long, if not longer.”

“I'm sorry,” Secca said.

Jolyn offered a crooked smile. “Do not be. Liedwahr needed Lady Anna, and it needs you even more. You will do what you must, however much it pains you, and your spirit will bleed for the rest of your life, and all will walk in fear of you and the long shadow you cast, even as they revel in the freedom you have given them.”

“You make it sound as though it will be nothing to defeat the Maitre,” Secca protested.

“No. I did not mean that. You are overmatched. He still has a half-score of sorcerers and twoscore players and drummers, and close to a hundred companies of lancers. All will fight beyond death, if they can. Against all that, if you can but survive, you will prevail, for there is nothing you will not do to be free to choose your life. Because you
believe all women should have such choice, you will survive. You are like fire, Secca, and one does not wager against fire, no matter what the odds.” Jolyn laughed, softly, sadly. “And your Alcaren worships that fire.”

Secca was silent.

“Show me your terrible spells,” Jolyn said. “It is too late for aught else.”

With a slow deep breath, Secca stood. “They
are
terrible.”

“How could they be otherwise?”

Secca shifted her weight in the saddle, then looked to the right, across a wide and empty meadow that had but scattered shoots of green peering through the winter-browned grass. The light wind and high hazy clouds had left the midafternoon pleasant enough for riding, but she remained uneasy. Once more, she reseated herself in the saddle. This time, Songfire
whuffed
.

“I know,” Secca replied to her mount, her voice low. “I'm fretting too much.” That morning, the scrying glass had shown a large column of Sturinnese lancers headed eastward on the main road, clearly moving to reinforce Aroch. The Maitre's main force, twice that size, was farther west, if far closer to Aroch than was Secca.

Worried as she was, Secca had ordered Wilten and Delcetta to send out more scouts than usual, and farther. She didn't want to spend too much energy or time scrying every glass, but she had checked the scrying mirror at noon. From what she and Alcaren could determine, the nearer group of Sturinnese had been more than ten deks away, and heading eastward on the main road, already farther eastward than Secca, if parallel to Secca's track on the back roads.

She stiffened as a rider in red livery raced toward the vanguard, reining up before Wilten and Delcetta. Scarcely moments passed before Wilten had urged his mount back to Secca, who reined up. Behind her, the column slowed, then stopped.

Beginning even before he fully reined up, Wilten offered words that were clipped, precise, but spoken very quickly. “There is a fire three deks ahead. The woods are burning, so fiercely that the road is blocked. The scouts have seen tracks of riders, but have not seen the riders.”

Secca sniffed the air. She should have noted it earlier. The scouts were right. Something was burning somewhere.

Kinor eased his mount closer to Secca and called to her, over both Wilten and Jolyn. “The ground and the trees are too wet. A fire is not natural at this time of year.”

Secca looked at Wilten, then stood in the stirrups. “Chief player! We will stop here. Prepare the players. The first building spellsong, for the storms.”

“We will prepare,” Palian called back. “First players assemble!”

“Second players assemble!”

“First SouthWomen to the fore!”

“Green company!…”

Alcaren had eased his mount up beside Songfire and leaned over to unstrap the scrying mirror. Songfire
whuffed
and edged sideways.

“Easy, lady,” Secca said, patting the mare's neck. “Easy.” She guided Songfire to the side of the road, looking for a half-clear space that wasn't muddy, settling on a patch of flattened brown grass, beside which she dismounted. She looked up to find Valya offering to take Songfire's reins, and let the Rider heir have the leathers.

By then, Alcaren had the mirror on the grass.

Secca quick-tuned, and then tried the seeking spell.

Instead of showing a blank silver mirror, as Secca had half expected, the image of a young-faced Sea-Priest appeared, riding beside a gray-and-black-bearded overcaptain in Sturinnese white. A column of riders in white followed, and not a particularly long column. That bothered Secca.

“He has no wards,” Richina murmured from the side, still mounted, beside Jolyn.

“They mean to exhaust you, and they will sacrifice even a young sorcerer to do that,” Alcaren said. “I can do the storm spell this time, if we can get within two or three deks, I think.”

“But—”

“This I can do,” Alcaren said. “The lady Jolyn must get more rest,
and you must not be worn-out when you face the Maitre.”

“Let us see what riders they have,” Secca said. “And where.” She lifted the lutar again.

The mirror displayed five separate images, but all were large bodies of mounted lancers. The first column was crossing a bridge. A second was riding through a stubble-filled field. Secca looked at the second one, seeing wisps of smoke. She gestured to Wilten, who remained mounted, and back from Valya. “There's one group coming from the east, from near the fire.”

Alcaren turned to Palian. “Can you set up the players on that rise there.” The spot to which he pointed was barely a yard higher than the rest of the field and meadowland through which the road they had followed had run.

“Here?”

“I fear that by the time the players set up and tune, one group of Sturinnese will be upon us,” Alcaren replied.

“Companies! Form up by squads!” Wilten and Delcetta were not waiting. That was clear, and Secca had the feeling that, once more, everything was on the edge of reeling out of control.

Alcaren was singing a vocalise and walking toward where the players were quick-tuning.

“Bretnay! Now!” Palian snapped at the laggard violinist.

“Yes, chief player.”

As the sounds of tuning died away, and the players began their warm-up tune, Secca looked to the east, where two companies of lancers had formed into an attack line, even though no Sturinnese were visible. To the south, halfway across the field, a company of SouthWomen had taken station.

A distant and dull rumbling began to rise, and Secca could feel the air tremble, or so it seemed. Secca turned, looking at Richina, then to the north. With the rumbling came a too-familiar hissing scream as a blaze of fire whooshed out of the north and plunged toward the ground perhaps a dek to the south. A dull
boom
followed. Then the ground shook, and a column of smoke, mostly whitish, rose against the hazy sky.

Both Richina and Anandra had paled. Secca looked at the two.

“It was like someone was pushing at us,” Richina said.

“Just hold on,” Secca urged them, looking toward the players.

“We stand ready, Lord Alcaren,” Palian called.

“On your mark,” Alcaren called back.

“At my mark,” ordered Palian, “the third building song. Mark!”

Standing on the low rise, the grass now somewhat muddy from the players' boots, both the first and second players began the spellsong. Secca almost joined in at the third bar, but shut her mouth as Alcaren's baritone filled the air.

Secca found herself breathing faster, nervous for Alcaren, and yet visualizing the storm of all storms, and hoping that her consort was as well as he began the second stanza.

After Alcaren completed the last words of the spell, Secca looked to the east, where the pall of smoke was definitely thicker, as her nose insisted.

The skies darkened, particularly to the west, and the rushing of the wind rose swiftly into the roaring torrent that Secca disliked more each time she heard it. So strong was the wind that Secca found herself holding on to Songfire's stirrup strap. Valya yelled something, but, against the wind, Secca could hear nothing, even though the Rider heir was less than a handful of yards from her. Gusts of bitter-chill air blasted through the warmer springlike air, pulling and pushing at the sorceress. Amid the crashes of thunder, and the darkened skies, fine ice needles pelted Secca, flying across the open fields and meadows almost sideways.

The ice pellets vanished, and the air turned strangely still, and the sky was almost dark green as, to the west, two enormous black funnel clouds swirled, with the dark misty moisture of rain surrounding and trailing them. Faint yells and cries rose in the distance.

Then rain, not ice, swept back over Secca and the others, and she held herself against the comforting bulk of Songfire. The rain lashed at her with cold needles, so hard and thick that she could see nothing. The howling roar filled her ears, seemingly coming from both east and west.

After some fraction of a glass—Secca wasn't sure how long—the hard rain subsided into a lighter rain, and then stopped, leaving a foggy mist rising from the ground.

Secca looked around Songfire to the east, where she watched for several moments, perhaps longer, as the last funnel cloud slowly vanished. Then she turned.

Alcaren was sitting on the grass. His face was ashen, almost corpselike, and he was slowly eating some bread and sipping from a water bottle that Valya was holding while he ate the bread.

“He swooned,” the Rider woman explained.

Alcaren looked up at Secca sheepishly. “I did finish the spell.”

Secca wanted to protest that he shouldn't have done the spellsong, but, looking at him, she knew he'd been right. And so was she—they were being stretched to their limits.

Behind Alcaren were Richina and Anandra. The two youngest sorceresses also were eating, but did not look so pale as Alcaren.

Farther to the south were the players, frantically using cloths to dry instruments and strings. Secca hoped that there had not been too much damage, but usually the players had more time to prepare and had a better idea of what to expect after the spellsong.

“Secca?” The contralto voice was that of Jolyn.

The redheaded sorceress half turned.

“That firebolt. Is that what they used on Denguic?” Jolyn stood by her mount, reins in hand, water from the sudden rain and ice storm oozing from her hair across her forehead.

“And Esaria, and Elioch, and Fussen,” Secca replied, absently blotting away the water she belatedly realized was dripping from her own hair.

Jolyn nodded slowly. “Then we must do what we must, and I will sing with both heart and voice.”

That was as much of an apology—or a reconsideration—as Secca would get from Jolyn, and it was enough. “Thank you.”

Jolyn glanced sadly across the fields, then looked up at the sound of a rider against the silence.

Secca looked to the west and watched as Wilten rode toward her. The overcaptain swallowed once, then again. Like Alcaren, he was pale.

Secca wanted to ask him what the problem was, but she had a good idea, from the yells she had heard just before the funnel cloud had swept across the long field to the west of her force. Instead, she waited.

“The Sturinnese…mayhap five companies, they were charging the green company and overcaptain Delcetta's second…when the storm struck them…”

“How many did we lose?” asked Secca quietly.

“A score and a half, lady, and there are five who will survive but will not soon fight.”

Secca nodded slowly. “I am sorry.”
It's your fault. You should have checked the glass more often
. But everything was a trade-off. If she checked too often and became exhausted, she wouldn't have the strength left to use the sorcery she needed. Alcaren was physically stronger than she was, but the strain of carrying the wards for nearly two weeks had worn on him as well.

“There are none of Sturinn surviving. Not near here.” Wilten swallowed convulsively. “I would not have any ride west. The grass is pink, and…”

Secca waited again.

“We will have to ride north for a time, Lady Secca. The winds snapped the trees across the road, as if they were kindling. The rain did douse the fire, and so there are steam and smoke, but few flames. If we ride north for a dek or two, we can head eastward once more, or so the scouts say.”

“We need to travel eastward some. Perhaps we can find shelter before dark.”

“That would be good, Lady Secca.”

“Thank you, Wilten.”

Secca watched as the overcaptain turned his mount toward the intact companies still stationed on to the east. Then she looked toward Alcaren, and the others. “We need to ride and find shelter. There will be more attacks.” Of that, she had no doubts.