The Shadow Sorceress (14 page)

Standing in the formal receiving room, the silver-and-blonde-haired Matriarch glances toward the clear blue crystal chair of the Matriarchy, set upon the low dais at the far end of the long room half-walled with floor-to-ceiling windows. Then she looks back at Alcaren, who waits just inside the doorway, and speaks. “A lady in a black cloak will be arriving shortly. You will wait outside the door and announce her. You will not escort her inside, but let her enter by herself. You will let no others in to see me, should they accompany her. If she will not enter by herself, she may not enter.”

“Should I not…” Alcaren stops. His eyes drop to the blue stone floor. “I am sorry.”

“You are right to worry about me, but this is one room where I am secure by myself.” A wry smile follows the words. “Unless I must face more than one other.”

“You are the Matriarch.” Alcaren inclines his head. “I am still learning. Yet…might I ask? One of the Ladies of Shadows?”

“Yes. I am certain that they wish to warn me about something sorcerous. I may already know it, or I may not, but it is better to listen and hear again what one knows than to ignore the request and fail to learn something that I should know.” Alya nods. “You may go and take your position without.”

“Yes, Matriarch.”

Once the door shuts, and the Matriarch is alone, she walks to the dais, where she seats herself in the crystalline chair, upon
the blue cushion that is the sole softness within the formal receiving room. She straightens herself and waits, thinking, oblivious to the cold autumn sunlight that angles through the clear glass of the closed windows and falls upon the shimmering blue stone floor.

Before long, there is a knock on the door, followed by Alcaren's voice. “A Lady of the Shadows to see you, Matriarch.”

“Show her in,” replies Alya.

The door opens. In walks a figure of height neither small nor exceedingly tall, but wearing a black cloak that covers all from the crown of the head down to just above the tops of the mid-calf black boots. The door closes. The hooded cloak of black shadows the face of the figure standing in the receiving room, but the shadows are not deep enough to conceal the gray hair and the age-sharpened jaw. Nor is the cloak bulky enough to disguise that the caller is a woman.

The Matriarch sits erect upon the clear blue crystal chair of the Matriarchy. “You requested an audience?”

“I did, Matriarch.” The woman bows gracefully. “We appreciate that you are willing to hear us.”

“What did you wish to bring to my attention?”

“We understand that two sorceresses of Defalk are traveling eastward into Ebra to deal with the rebellion of Lord Mynntar, and that a third is in Neserea. Further, there is a renegade sorcerer in Neserea who has been partially trained by the Sturinnese. He has already used sorcery to slaughter a company of Mansuuran lancers.”

“For women who abhor sorcery, you know a great deal.”

“We have never opposed sorcery for knowledge and communications, only its use as a tool for changing the world and weather or for warfare.”

The Matriarch waits for the Lady of the Shadows to speak again.

“Last, you have trained a man in sorcery, armed him as one of your guards, and set him before you.” The dark eyes under the hood fix on the Matriarch.

“That is true. He is where I can watch him, and he can protect me in these disturbing times.”

“Not in generations have there been so many sorceresses—and sorcerers—in Liedwahr trained for war.” The Lady of the Shadows pauses. “There are two other sorceresses yet in Falcor who may yet bring their evil arts into play, and several apprentices.”

“All that is known.”

“Matriarch, we exist because of the horrors of the Spell-Fire Wars. We would not see sorcery such as that ever unleashed again.”

“Ranuak would not be here today without the Spell-Fire Wars,” Alya points out. “All our ancestors would have died under the yoke of the Mynyan lords.”

“That was a price we cannot pay again, Matriarch, and well you know that. Ebra is yet a blighted and poor land, and Wei remains so, and cold as well. We must trade, for much of our land remains boggy and wet, and far too many of those bogs poison the land around them.” The shadow lady waits within the black cloak.

“All that is true. What would you have me do? I have trained none in battle sorcery, nor have I used such sorcery. Yet the Sturinnese have used sorcery to flatten most of Narial. Their vessels swarm around the coast. They are blocking our trading vessels, and they support the rebel Mynntar in Ebra. Defalk sees itself threatened.”

“You must insist that Lord Robero turn from sorcery.”

The Matriarch laughs, ruefully. “Defalk has perhaps thirty full companies of lancers. Dumar has less than that—or had less than that. We have twenty. The Maitre of Sturinn can bring ten times that to our shores, should he wish. Do you think my words will sway either Lord Robero or the Maitre?”

“Then close the Exchange to the Defalkans and their allies. You must. This poor land cannot bear another set of scars like those of the Spell-Fire Wars.”

“We are already losing trading vessels to the Sturinnese. Before long, few or none will port here. Then…we will need trade from Defalk and Ebra far more than they will need it from us. Do you wish me to condemn our people to starvation?”

“Better that than death in fire and flame.”

“It has not come to that. It may well not. I will do as I can.”

The Lady of the Shadows bows. “Thank you, Matriarch. We have offered what we know, and what we fear from another excess of sorcery. We have warned you.”

“I do hope that is not a threat,” Alya says.

“The Ladies of the Shadows do not threaten, Matriarch.”

“I have heard you.” The Matriarch smiles coldly, formally. “As always, I must act for all in Ranuak. As always, I will not use battle sorcery. But…” She pauses, then utters the next words slowly and deliberately, “I will not stand by and let all that the pain and suffering of the Spell-Fire Wars produced vanish from Erde because of fear. Suffering—and sorcery—are to be preferred over slavery.” Alya's eyes blaze before the fire in them is shielded once more, and she speaks her last words to the figure before her. “You may depart.”

Once the door to the formal receiving chamber closes, another kind of darkness passes over the Matriarch's face, a face that has become more angular with the years, like that of her father, rather than round as her mother's had been. She looks toward the door, not seeing it, her eyes fixed somewhere else, and her face is drawn.

Secca carried her lutar case in her right hand and the saddlebags over her left shoulder as she stepped up the stairs and in through the marble archway of Hadrenn's palace, for it was far more a palace than a walled liedburg capable of withstanding an attack or a siege. The entry hall was perhaps a third the size of that of Loiseau, and the ceiling was less than a yard above Secca's head.

Flanked by two guards in green, blades still in their scabbards, Hadrenn bowed in greeting to those entering, although his eyes did not leave Secca.

“Welcome, sorceress. Your grace and beauty have been understated,” offered Hadrenn. “Most understated.”

“As has been your hospitality and warmth.” In a damp riding jacket, hair tied back, with road mud splattered all over her, Secca had strong doubts about her present beauty. “Might I introduce those who have accompanied me.” She motioned. “My chief of the first players, Palian. My chief of the second players, Delvor, and my overcaptain of lancers, Wilten. This is my assistant sorceress, Richina.” She paused as the long-faced Elfens stepped forward and bowed deeply. “And my chief of archers, Elfens.”

Elfens managed to look suitably somber as he stepped back.

“We are most pleased to see you all. We appreciate your support of Ebra in this time of change.” Hadrenn bowed his head slightly. “But now is not the time for such serious stuff. You have traveled far and swiftly and need refreshment.”

“I also bring gifts from Lord Robero, and will have them unpacked and ready for you shortly.” Secca inclined her head.

“For such graciousness on your part and that of your lord, I am most thankful, and we will look forward to beholding such.”

A thin, harried figure slipped out from a side corridor in response to Hadrenn's beckoning finger. “This is Frengal, the assistant saalmeister. He will show you to your chambers, and once you are refreshed, we shall dine.” Hadrenn beamed even as he gestured a second time, and a lancer stepped forward, an older man with hair half sandy, half silver, and a crinkled smile. “You may recall my arms commander.”

“Stepan!” burst from Secca's lips. She couldn't help offering a wide grin to the former armsman from Flossbend.

The arms commander laughed. “You are older, Lady Sorceress, and more beautiful, but not much larger.”

“And you are older, and more handsome,” Secca replied.

The arms commander grinned, then shook his head.

“Stepan will help your overcaptain settle your lancers.” Hadrenn nodded to the arms commander. “Your chief players and
their players shall have rooms in the north wing. Frengal's assistant will see to that.”

“You brought what…four companies?” asked Stepan.

“Yes. They're mine, not Defalk's.”

“I had thought such from the green tunics.”

Secca inclined her head slightly. “How many companies have you raised here?”

“We have ten companies, and some levies from the holders—two companies worth.”

The trace of a frown flitted across Hadrenn's face, but vanished so quickly Secca could have imagined she had not seen the expression. The heavy lord said smoothly, “Frengal…if you would see that everyone is settled?”

“Yes, lord.”

Secca and Richina—and two of Secca's lancers—followed the slender assistant saalmeister up the wide stone steps that curved up off the entry foyer. Frengal continued along the corridor a good forty yards, halting before a set of half-open double doors.

“There are chambers to each side of yours, Lady Secca, for assistants.”

“Richina is my only assistant.”

“Then I would suggest the chamber to the left, lady. But let me show you your chamber first, as your assistant should be familiar with it as well.”

Secca nodded, and the two followed the functionary into the chamber. The two lancers—Dyvan and Easlon—stationed themselves at the door.

The guest chamber was comparatively luxurious for Liedwahr—despite the seeming modesty of Hadrenn's holding—and far more elaborate than anything in Falcor. A large desk was set before two wide windows, the glass comprised of leaded diamond-shaped panes. The window casements were draped in green velvet hangings, tied back with golden velvet ropes.

Secca set the saddlebags on the chest at the foot of the broad bed, but continued to hold the lutar as she followed Frengal through the arched doorway beyond the desk.

“And…here is the bath chamber.” As Frengal spoke, two serving women in gray eased into the room with heavy steaming
kettles, pouring the water into a tiled tub built into a dais in the rear corner of the bathing chamber. “The previous sorceress…suggested it.”

“She and I appreciate that,” Secca said quietly.

Frengal bowed. “If you need aught, there is the bellpull.” He pointed to a narrow crimson hanging running down from the ceiling on the wall beside the headboard of the canopied bed.

“Thank you very much, Frengal.”

“My pleasure, ladies. My pleasure.”

With a bow, the man departed.

The young lancer and standard bearer Dymen stood in the doorway with a leather-covered bundle. “Lady?”

“Thank you, Dymen. If you would just set that on the desk.”

“Yes, lady.” With a bow the young man crossed the room and set the bundle on the desk, then bowed again before slipping out and closing the door.

“You said I was your assistant,” murmured Richina.

“Apprentices are assistants,” Secca murmured back. “That was for your protection and to let Hadrenn know how seriously we take this.”

“Will you let me do sorcery?”

“If necessary and it is something you can do.” Secca smiled. “Now…go get cleaned up. I'm sure you're as hungry as I am.”

“Yes, lady.” Richina bowed and slipped out, carrying her own gear and lutar.

Secca walked around the room—dusty and not so clean as she would have liked despite its opulence, then stopped to look out the windows. The sky remained clear; she hoped that would continue.

After taking out the lutar, and using a spell to clean and reheat the bathwater, which had already chilled, she slipped into the tile tub for a bath that was briefer than she would have liked, but welcome all the same. Dressing for dinner was not a problem, since all she had was the not-quite-clinging high-necked deep blue gown that offset her hair. It was the only non-riding habit she had brought and one that rolled into a compact cylinder.

She was brushing her hair—always unruly, long or short, not
quite straight, but with not enough curl for that fashion, either—when there was a knock on the door.

“Lady Secca?”

“Come in, Richina.”

The apprentice slipped into the room. Richina wore a gown similar to Secca's in cut, but of a rich green more suited to her unfreckled fair complexion and sandy hair. “Do you need any help?”

“I doubt that even the most forbidden sorcery could do much.” Secca laughed. “We might as well go down. I'm famished. Then, I was famished when we unsaddled our mounts.”

Some functionary must have been watching, Secca decided, because Hadrenn was waiting below. So were Wilten, Stepan, Palian, and Delvor, as well as several others from Hadrenn's household or retinue.

Easlon was the guard who followed the two sorceresses and who carried the leather wrapped gift from Robero.

Stepan favored Secca with a knowing smile, even as Hadrenn stepped forth and motioned toward the dining hall. Through the open double doors Secca saw a long room paneled in age-darkened oak, and lit inadequately by candles in wall sconces.

“Before we eat, here are Lord Robero's gifts.” Secca motioned for Easlon to step forward.

Hadrenn did not quite frown as he took the bundle and slipped off the leather covering. Under the covering was an ebon-black chest, chased with inlaid silver arcs and curlicues. He glanced at Secca.

“There is more inside,” she said.

Secca did not peer, as did those around Hadrenn, for she had already seen the heavy gold chain with the pale green stone, and the golden seal ring circled with small diamonds.

The Lord High Counselor of Ebra did smile as he saw the objects on the blue velvet inside the chest. “Your lord is most generous. Most generous.”

Secca had thought Robero had been far too generous. “He is known for that, especially for those who have been fast friends.”

“We have always endeavored to be such.” Hadrenn presented another smile.

“Lord Robero recognizes that.” Secca inclined her head slightly, but did not bow.

“Ah…” Hadrenn paused, as if he had forgotten something, then turned to the woman in green silk gown and jacket beside and slightly behind him. “This is my consort, Belvera,” Hadrenn said. “Dear, this is the Lady Secca, Sorceress-Protector of the East.”

“I am most pleased to meet you,” Secca offered.

“And I you, Lady Sorceress.” Belvera did bow to Secca.

Hadrenn led the way into the dining hall and the long table, where Secca found herself at Hadrenn's right, across from his consort. Wilten was beside Belvera, and Stepan to Secca's right. Then came Richina, Palian, and Delvor.

The gray-haired and ample woman in the shimmering green tunic smiled warmly across the table at Secca. “It's so good to see you.” Her smile broadened. “You are a mite of a thing for such a large title, but then, your predecessor was as thin as a twig, and it made no difference there, either.”

“It is hard for sorceresses to be other than thin,” Secca said with a laugh. “No matter what we eat and how often.”

“So I've heard. My father said that Lord Brill was a slender fellow too, and all the drawings of the Lady Asentar show her as thin.”

“Asentar?” asked Secca.

“Ah…yes. She was the grandmother of that evil man, the Evult. It's been said that he buried her alive in her tower, but we'll never know, not since all of Vult lies yet under steaming rock. You know, the Zauberinfeurer yet pours molten rock over the valley. A shame. It was once a pretty place.”

“Dear…” Hadrenn coughed.

“Oh…I suppose you want to offer an invocation so that everyone can eat. I'm sorry. Please do.”

Hadrenn cleared his throat again, then intoned in a voice an octave lower than his speaking voice, “May Harmony grace this table and all those around it, now and in the days and seasons to come.”

“Aye, Harmony,” came the murmurs from lower on the table.

When Hadrenn looked up, his eyes met Secca's for a moment, and she noted that his orbs were deep and brown, almost cowlike except for the dark rings around them and the intentness they held. “Let us be served!”

Serving girls, each wearing a green apron trimmed in yellow, appeared with large platters, and with baskets of bread. A youth stepped to the table with a ewerlike pitcher, but the contents were a golden wine which he poured first into Hadrenn's pewter goblet.

Hadrenn leaned toward Secca, ignoring the goblet. “Having learned some of the habits of sorceresses over the years, I will not long defer to meaningless chatter.” A bright and false smile followed the words, indicating to Secca that Hadrenn would have preferred a more leisurely approach.

“Were times more settled, Lord Hadrenn, I would welcome such,” Secca said politely. “Perhaps upon my next visit.”

“I sense as much. Your presence and that of your lancers bears an urgency not mentioned in the message I received from Lord Robero announcing your imminent arrival. Ah…but a moment.” Hadrenn looked up and waited until the youth serving the wine had filled the goblets of Belvera, Secca, and those at the head of the table before lifting his own. “To our most honored guests.”

Secca took the slightest of sips, knowing she dared little else until she had eaten. The wine was passible, better than what the vineyards around Mencha produced, but not so good as the barrels she regularly had carted from Flossbend.

“I do wish Haddev could have been here tonight,” offered Belvera. “He always says that sorceresses must be ugly old women.”

“Your son?” asked Secca.

“Our eldest. He will reach his score at the turn of spring. He and his brother Verad are visiting my parents' hold. It is strange, in a fashion, for I grew up not so far from your holding.”

Something tugged at Secca's memory, but she could not remember, and smiled encouragingly.

“Being the youngest daughter at Silberfels…so much younger than Selber—that was strange, too.”

Belvera was Lord Selber's younger sister? Then, Hadrenn would have had to have taken a consort from a lordly holding in Defalk. Where else could he have gone? “I was the youngest, also,” Secca said.

“For a sorceress, does it matter, dear?”

“Ah…lady…” Stepan said gently. “Lady Secca holds Flossbend by birth, and Mencha by right of sorcery.”

Belvera smiled. “So…she is doubly-landed, and beautiful. Haddev will indeed be regretful.”

“You may convey my best,” Secca offered her own smile before taking another small sip of the wine.

“Your urgency?” prompted the Lord High Counselor of Ebra, an almost amused tone in his voice.

“Lord Mynntar has assembled twenty-score lancers or more. He rides westward toward Synek.” Secca broke off a chunk of the crusty and flaky warm bread, taking a quick mouthful.

“I had heard tales that he might, and Stepan has already raised some of the levies, and readied our own lancers. How soon might he arrive?”

“I would guess four days, if he presses and we remain here.”

A server eased half a fowl of some sort onto Secca's platter, then ladled a golden glaze over it, while the second server added what looked to be potato dumplings.

“You do not sound as though you wish to remain near Synek.”

“Synek is not the best place to fight,” interjected Stepan gently. “As I have suggested, ser. Even a day's ride east would provide better terrain, especially for a sorceress.”