Shadowsinger (60 page)

Mansuus, Mansuur

The two men stand on the balcony outside the Liedfuhr's private study, looking out over the city and at the River Toksul in the quiet of twilight.

The younger and taller Liedfuhr glances sideways at Bassil. “So I must plead to the Sorceress Protector now?”

“I think not, sire. She will entertain a simple request, courteously sent, and accompanied with several thousand golds as a token of your
esteem and gratitude for ridding Liedwahr of the scourge of the Sea-Priests. You could even suggest that because she used her own resources on behalf of Liedwahr you are sending the golds to her personally as the merest token of recompense.”

Kestrin laughs. “Such words reek worse than steer manure.”

“She knows that, and you know that, but she will accept them, and she will entertain your request.”

“The woman could destroy all we have in a season, and you think she will entertain such a request?”

“Yes, sire. It is simple. First, she will have to become Lady of Defalk. She may protest, and rail, for she is clearly not one to enjoy dealing with scheming lords and ladies, but there is no one else. She is young enough to bear heirs, and against that too, she may rail, but she is a woman who will do what needs to be done. Only sorcery will rebuild Neserea and western Defalk, and the only sorcerers and sorceresses are of Defalk. Neserea will become part of Defalk. That means that Dumar will not.”

“Not now,” snorts Kestrin.

“There is already word in Dumar that the Sorceress Protector had suggested your niece and her consort as the Lord and Lady High Counselors of Dumar. The Sorceress Protector will have her hands filled to overflowing in consolidating her power in Defalk and in rebuilding Neserea. You merely congratulate her on her wise decision in naming your niece and young Eryhal and promise another installment of golds in a year, once Mansuur has recovered from its own losses.”

“She might accede there, at that,” muses the Liedfuhr.

“Later, when she feels more secure, you request that she train a sorceress for the defense of Mansuur. She can say yes or no, but I would wager that she will accede if you are gracious enough.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps.” The Liedfuhr's lips twist into an ironic smile.

“Given what might have happened, we have lost little,” suggests the older man.

“Is that not the usual refrain, Bassil? That matters could have been so much worse?”

“Always, sire. Always.”

Kestrin laughs once more.

Secca rode the last dek toward Elheld, northward from the town of Elhi, which lay several deks to the south of the hold, a town that had been little more than a hamlet until the time of Robero's great-grandsire. Her lutar was already tuned and held ready while she guided Songfire left-handed. As she neared the ancestral hold of Lord Robero, Secca glanced at the ancient gates to Elheld—open, as they had always been—but deserted. Even at midday, under a warm spring sun and a cloudless sky, the reddish granite stones held a silver shade. But then, everything that Secca saw still held silver tinges, and always would, she suspected. The gates were not to a keep or liedburg proper, but set on each side of the lane and in the low walls that surrounded Elheld at a distance of well over a dek. Elheld was a sprawling stone mansion, not a true keep, and never had been high-walled in the fashion of Loiseau or Falcor.

The vanguard preceding Secca and Alcaren contained a company of lancers from Loiseau and one of SouthWomen. Jolyn and Anandra had remained in Falcor, and Jirsit had been persuaded to leave half of the surviving companies—five companies—of the Lancers of Defalk in Falcor under his assistant, Elber. Jirsit himself had insisted on accompanying Secca. So the column that stretched out behind her ran almost a dek back toward the town of Elhi and the Fal River.

Past the open gates, the lane leading up to the main dwelling was empty—except for a single lancer officer, mounted on a roan stallion. The officer wore the bright blue tunic of Lord Robero's personal guard.

The column halted while Delcetta and Jirsit rode forward to talk to the officer, then all three rode back toward Secca.

Alcaren left his sabre unsheathed, his eyes on the approaching officer. Secca continued to hold the lutar ready.

The tall lancer officer reined up well back from Secca, and bowed in the saddle. “Lady Secca, I am Overcaptain Bryn, commanding Lord Robero's personal lancers.”

“Yes, Overcaptain?” Secca's voice was impersonal.

“Might I speak with you, Lady Secca?” asked Bryn.

“You may speak here, Overcaptain Bryn, where my consort and all may hear. About this, I would have no secrets.”

“So it has always been said about you, lady.” Bryn inclined his head. “Very well. Our problem is most simple. We are pledged to Lord Robero. Lord Robero has not carried out his duties and has exceeded his authority in trying to take your demesne from you. He has, if I may be perfectly blunt, also exceeded his intelligence. Nonetheless, we are pledged to him. You have the power to destroy us all, possibly without losing a single lancer. We neither wish to break our pledge, nor to die needlessly.”

“I can see your problem.” Secca nodded slowly. “Yet, here is mine. Lord Robero ordered me to allow the Sturinnese to depart after they had destroyed all of northern Neserea and too many keeps and towns in Defalk. He feared losing his power and position more than he feared his people losing their lives and their freedoms.” She paused. “I cannot release you from your pledge. Only Lord Robero can do that. Nor can I fail to do my duty to Defalk and its people. All I can offer you is that whatever happens between Lord Robero and me will occur between us—as woman to man, man to woman.” Her smile was cold. “Surely, Lord Robero does not need his lancers to protect him against one small woman.” Her silver-pupiled amber eyes fixed on the overcaptain.

As if for the first time, Bryn saw her eyes. He swallowed.

“Yes…or no, Overcaptain? Does your pledge mean attacking one small woman who has done right by Defalk in order to defend a man who has done wrong? Does it mean losing all your lancers to defend a man who has already broken his pledge to his people?”

Bryn looked away. “If we do not attack…what will you do?”

“Leave you free to tender your pledge to Lady Alyssa, to protect her and her children. They may hold Elheld here, but no more than Elheld.”

Bryn slowly nodded. “We will not interfere. Should you prevail, as you will, we will protect the Lady Alyssa. Our men are drawn up in formation to the west of the hold house.”

“Overcaptain Delcetta and her first company will accompany you to ensure that naught occurs, if you do not mind, while I meet with Lord Robero.”

Jirsit cleared his throat. “Lady Secca…we would also accompany the SouthWomen. All five companies.”

“I would appreciate that, Arms Commander.” Secca turned in the saddle. “Richina! Palian?”

The younger blonde sorceress rode forward. “Yes, Lady Secca?”

Palian followed.

“You and the players will follow Arms Commander Jirsit and set up by the hold house. There are several companies of Lord Robero's personal guards drawn up there in formation. If Overcaptain Bryn and his men make one move to leave or attack, you will use the flame spell and destroy them all.”

“Yes, Lady Secca.” Richina looked coldly, imperiously, at the older overcaptain.

“Your players stand ready, Lady Secca,” added Palian, her voice colder than Secca's or Richina's.

Secca could see a hint of silver in Richina's eyes as well.
Will that mark all of us who were at Aroch and survived? Forever?

Bryn looked away from Richina and Palian.

“Unlike some, Overcaptain, I keep my word,” Secca said. “So does Richina, and she is almost as powerful as I am.” She looked to Alcaren and Wilten. “We need to meet with Lord Robero.”

“Lady…you must not step into the dwelling,” Wilten said. “Not until we have secured it.”

Secca did not argue. “Go ahead. Except…tell everyone that if even one of your lancers is harmed, I will use sorcery against every man in Elheld. Everyone.”

“That I will be pleased to announce. We will disarm them all.”

Secca eased Songfire to the side of the lane. As most of the column of lancers and players rode northward and up the long gentle slope, Secca and Alcaren watched.

“Do you think any will try to trouble you?” asked Alcaren.

“I would think not,” Secca replied, “but I trust no one here who is not pledged to me.”
And it is sad that it must be that way
.

Less than half a glass passed before Captain Peraghn of the SouthWomen rode back down the lane and reported. “Elheld is yours, lady.”

“Was there any trouble?”

Peraghn shook her head. “Some faces were sad. I think all expected this.”

That, too, was sad, Secca reflected as she urged Songfire up the lane. Anna had hoped and worked for a stable lineage to rule Defalk, but Robero had proved, in the end, unequal to the task.
You would have to be the one to tell him
.

As she neared the hold itself, Secca studied the ranked guards in blue to the west—and the Defalkan lancers arrayed between them and the entrance to the mansion itself, and then the players set up just beyond the
entrance and the mounting blocks. She doubted that ever had Elheld seen so many lancers at once, and never so many from such different sources.

Wilten stood by the archway that led inside, waiting.

“I will meet him in the open hall outside his study,” Secca said as she reined up, “where all can see.”
Where he cannot hide some treachery
. She dismounted, and then recased the lutar and restrapped it to Songfire. If she needed sorcery against Robero himself, her voice would be enough.

After patting Songfire once on the shoulder, Secca turned, climbed the two low steps, and walked through the archway and then the foyer. Alcaren's sabre was out, as were those of the four lancers who flanked her. Their boots echoed hollowly on the polished floors of the ancient building.

Near the end of the corridor stood Robero, his paunch more noticeable than when Secca had last seen him two seasons earlier, his thinning mahogany hair longer and disarrayed. Secca's lancers lined the corridor, their blades out.

“All hail the usurper, the new Lady of Defalk.” Robero offered a deep and mocking bow. His face bore a reddish mark across one cheek, but his scabbard still held a blade. “You have always wanted to pull me down, Secca, and now you have done it. Are you happy? How much else of Liedwahr will you destroy to prove you're more of a man than any man?”

Secca just looked at him, shaking her head. “You were always a bully, Jimbob,” she said, using his childhood name to emphasize her point. “Nothing Anna did could change that. And the more she did, the angrier you became. In the end, you would have enslaved every woman in Liedwahr and turned the land over to the Maitre rather than admit your weaknesses.”

“Will you burn me down with fire, Secca?” asked Robero. “The way Anna destroyed Behlem? Or will you poison me the way you handled Kylar and so many others you never bothered to tell me about?”

“I think not,” Alcaren said, lifting his sabre. “All know you cannot stand up to a woman. Perhaps you can try to stand up to a man.”

“Ah…the loyal consort. Such devotion.”

Secca held up her hand, gesturing for Alcaren to stand back. “When you were fourteen, I said that you were a self-centered bully. Anna did her best, and when she gave you back your lands, you even changed your name. Neither was enough.”

“Words, dear little Secca. Words. You would replace me. How could you, when the great Anna couldn't? Everyone will fear you, but none will love you.”

“You may well be right.” Secca smiled coldly, then sang.

Robero's mouth opened as she began to sing. “You can't…” He fumbled for the decorative sabre at his belt, then lunged forward.

Alcaren stepped in front of Secca, slashing once with his own blade.

Robero's blade clattered on the polished stone of the corridor.

There were no screams as the whips and lances of fire ripped into the lord called Robero, who had once been a bullying boy named Jimbob.

Tears streamed down Secca's cheeks.

Alcaren looked on, his face impassive.

Secca forced herself to stand and watch, watch until a charred figure lay on the polished stone.

Wei, Nordwei

Ashtaar muffles the coughs that have become more insistent—and more bloody—with another green cloth. When they finally subside for a moment, she takes first a sip from the beaker on the polished table-desk, and then a swallow.

Marshal Zeltaar looks across the table at the silver-haired Council Leader. “How long can you keep up the façade, Ashtaar?”

“Long enough. Long enough.” Ashtaar takes another swallow from the beaker. “Long enough for the shadowsinger to become Lady of Defalk in name as well as fact.” Her lips curled into a smile, almost a grimace. “All of Liedwahr knew it before she did.”

“A sorceress as ruler? I cannot say that I like such.”

“You'll like it very well, Zeltaar,” predicts Ashtaar. “It will be very useful for you as Council Leader.”

Zeltaar's eyes narrow. “Is that your idea of a joke?”

“Not at all. Escadra is the best of the seers, and she is far too young and trusting. Fuhlar is a fool, as we both know. The lady…need I say more? And as for Adgan, she is so cynical that she believes nothing, and that is worse than being too trusting.” As she takes yet another sip from the beaker, Ashtaar waves off any objection the marshal may have. After finishing that swallow of the bitter draught, she continues. “Your hardest task will be to convince the Council to back a resumption of trading with the Ostisles, and to combine that with establishing a naval base there totally under our control. You will need a second base there, probably at the western harbor of Alphara, say…three years after the first. I'd suggest trying to find our trading concerns solid partners out of Defalk, or Dumar, but even someone out of Wharsus will do in a pinch…” The Council Leader covers her mouth with the green cloth and doubles over in another fit of coughing.

The marshal waits.

Ashtaar recovers and takes another swallow from the beaker.

Then Zeltaar asks, “I assume you plan for Nordwei to take over the Ostisles?”

“What else?” Ashtaar smiles, an expression as much of pain as pleasure. “Defalk has neither ports nor ships. The Matriarchy cannot expand. There is an absence of trading power with the destruction of Stura, but it will not last. We fill it, or the Sturinnese will as they recover. If you make that clear to both the Liedfuhr and the shadowsinger, they might even support you. They certainly will not oppose you. No one wishes a resurgence of Sturinnese fleets and power.”

“And the shadowsinger?”

“Let her do as she will. She will have to take over Neserea. There is no help for that, and that will take most of her life and effort. She hates fighting, and that is what makes her such a terrible enemy.”

The marshal frowns.

“Do you not see? She does not believe there is honor in any form of fighting. So…whatever works most effectively is what she will use. Do you think the Neserean lords will rise against her—after they have seen what sorcery can do? They are not terribly bright, but they are bright enough to see that they suffered the sorcery of the loser, and that the Sturinnese lost every last lancer and sorcerer. The Liedfuhr will beg for assistance. It may not look like begging, but he is no fool. The Ladies of the Shadows do not wish the shadowsinger back in Ranuak, nor do Lord Hadrenn and his sons wish to contest her. So, Defalk will hold the midsection of Liedwahr, from Ebra to Worlan, and Dumar will do as Lady Secca wishes, and will do so gladly. And we, we will prosper, with our southern flank pro
tected by the greatest power in Erde. Can you think of a better position in which to be? Or would you rather be the shadowsinger, who must watch every shadow for envy and ingratitude, even as she builds and rebuilds, and who must wonder if she will ever outgrow the shade of her mentor, even after she casts a shadow over all of Erde?”

The marshal smiles wryly. “Being Council Leader sounds much better.”

They both smile.