The Shadow Sorceress (3 page)

Secca sat to the left of Lord Fustar, a man ancient, thin-faced and beak-nosed, with thin wispy white hair. The lord's green eyes were intent as he turned to the sorceress. “I know I have said this before, but it is indeed a pleasure to have you in Issl.” There was a twinkle in his eyes as he added, “You have not said why you offered your skills to rebuild an old lord's dam or why you present these old eyes such a feast.”

Secca inclined her head slightly before replying. “Lady Anna would have liked to have been here to offer her best wishes, but
she could not. She also felt it was best that I come to know all the lands in the north and east. I have never been to Issl before.”

“Ah, yes…the Sorceress-Protector. I have but met her a bare handful of times, and always she looks the same. She will doubtless see us all go and still preside over the defenses of the east.” Fustar laughed, but the laugh turned into a wheezing cough. He reached for the goblet and took a small swallow of the wine. “Dissonant time when wine's best used to kill a cough.” He shook his head as he set the goblet down.

“She was granted the appearance of youth after she crossed from the Mist Worlds,” Secca said, “but not immortality.”

“She seems to have such.”

“She says she will die as do we all.”

“That…that will be interesting,” cackled Fustar. His eye flicked toward the figure striding through the door. “Here comes our wayward heir. Much longer and he would have been eating scraps.”

“I beg your pardon, ser, for coming to table late.” Now wearing a shimmering purple silk tunic, Kylar approached the table and offered an indifferent bow, then turned his eyes upon Secca. “A pleasure to see you again, Lady Secca.” His tone was overly hearty, the cheerfulness forced.

Upon closer inspection, Secca could see that his thick hair was as much silver as blonde, and that fine lines radiated from the slightly bloodshot eyes. “You look well in purple, Kylar,” she replied politely.

Kylar settled into the empty seat across from Secca. “I had a matter to attend to, except someone had already taken care of it.” His eyes flicked lazily toward his father, but did not actually meet the gaze of the older man.

“Ah, yes…the peasant's woman, wasn't it?” asked Fustar mildly.

“She seems to have vanished, along with the peasant. I cannot imagine what happened.” Kylar filled his goblet from the pitcher on the table, then inclined his head to Secca. “Would you like more, lady?”

“Not for a bit,” Secca demurred. “Until we eat.”

“I cannot understand why a peasant would leave his cot…
or how anyone could suffer such to happen.” Kylar looked at neither Secca nor his father, using his knife to spear two slabs of meat from the platter tendered by the serving woman, then his fingers to seize and break off a large chunk of the rye bread in the basket to his left.

Secca also took two hefty slabs of the mutton, knowing she needed at least that much food after the day's sorcery, and hoping she could force it all down.

“Peasants do leave, you know. That happens when they obtain coins and a chance at something they see as better.” Fustar sipped from the pewter goblet.

“Or when they fear they have done wrong,” suggested the son. “I had thought, ser, that the peasants deserved a lesson. They should not have been hunting the pheasants. Those are reserved for us.”

“Kylar, do you think that they like a good fowl any less than do we?”

“But…they are peasants.”

“Yes…they are. They eat; they drink; and they piss just like we do.” Fustar offered a dry and cackling laugh.

“They are little better than trained animals.”

“They must be somewhat better.” Fustar smiled politely. “Else you would not be so wroth at one leaving the lands. Or was it his consort you wished to discipline?”

“That he would have understood.”

“I am certain he understands now. He did not remain here to receive such punishment.”

“How…?” Kylar shakes his head in disgust. “How…”

“It might be better just to let the matter lie, Kylar.” Fustar's voice was again mild, deceptively so, with but the slightest accent upon the words “let the matter lie.”

Kylar offered another indifferent nod. “As you wish, ser.” His eyes glittered for but a moment before he turned to Secca. “How are you finding Issl, lady?”

“Your sire has been most instructive and kind,” Secca replied.

“He has always enjoyed instructing others,” Kylar said, continuing after the slightest of pauses, “Have you seen the mews?”

“No, I have not.”

“The falcons are Kylar's pride,” observed Fustar. “Along with his daughters.”

“You have several daughters?” asked Secca.

“Seven,” admitted the stocky heir. “As you doubtless have heard, my dear Tressa did not long survive the last.”

Secca had heard that, and more, considering that Tressa was his second consort, and that Kylar had approached several other lords of the Thirty-three for the hands of their daughters. “I was most sorry to hear that.”

“As were we all,” said Fustar. “But enough of sadness.” He raised his goblet. “To the lady and sorceress who graces Issl.”

After a moment, Secca raised her goblet. “And to those who have so graciously hosted us all and made us most welcome.”

Fustar smiled broadly, Kylar politely, before both drank.

Secca trusted neither smile, nor her own, but she drank, if far less than they, before quickly cutting a chunk of the mutton and beginning to eat.

She had finished both slabs, had taken a third, and was halfway through that and her second large chunk of bread, when Kylar spoke.

“You are not large, lady…” He gestured toward her platter. “Yet…”

“I think I mentioned that sorcery takes much energy,” Secca replied. “You will never see a fat sorcerer or sorceress.”

“Would you like another slice?” Kylar smiled slyly.

“Yes, please.” Secca smiled demurely, and quickly ate the fourth large slab of the mutton, which was not nearly so strong in taste as she had feared.

“She'll eat you under the table.” Fustar laughed once more, grinning at Kylar. “Never underestimate a sorceress. Those who do have paid most dearly.”

Secca was beginning to understand the old lord. While Fustar certainly believed in the older standards of masculine rule, he was sharp enough to understand that times had changed, and wise enough to alter his course and actions just enough to avoid having Anna or Robero act against him.

“I defer to your judgment, as I do in all matters such as these.” Kylar refilled his goblet and glanced at Secca.

“Half please,” she said politely, before turning to Fustar. “Your family has been at Issl long, has it not?”

“Aye, lady. We date to the Corians, if not before. The first of the line…he was said to be able to plow twice what any of his peasants did in a morning. That was why people once asked whether they measured by an Issl morgen or a Corian morgen.”

Secca nodded. Although a morgen had long since been set at a square of land a hundred yards on a side, it had once meant the area plowed in a morning.

“Why…in the upper tower,” continued Fustar, “there is an inscription still in the original Corian…”

Secca sipped, smiled, and asked a question every time the old lord paused, or added a few words, and then asked something that demanded a long answer.

In time, Kylar pushed back his chair. “If you would…”

Fustar stifled a yawn. “We all should.” He smiled at Secca. “You have been most charming and gracious, and you may tell the Lady Anna that either of you are welcome here at my table at any time.”

“I enjoyed greatly hearing about Issl and your family,” replied Secca, not entirely untruthfully.

Followed by Achar, one of the younger lancers from Loiseau who was acting as her guard, Secca made her way, led by Fustar, to the third level of the keep, and the corner guest room. Once inside, with Achar outside, she stretched, then took a deep breath, and ran through one soft vocalise, then a second, before taking her lutar from its case and softly checking its tuning.

From her saddlebag, she extracted a single small bottle, opening the stopper and setting the bottle on the window ledge.

Then she stood in the shadows, just back of the casement, behind the open window that faced the casement—and the windows of Kylar's chamber—watching.

When she was certain Kylar was in his room, from the play of shadow and light, she lifted the lutar and began to sing.

As the last couplet died away, she swallowed and stepped back, shivering. Methodically, she recased the lutar, then lifted the bottle and poured the contents down the outside of the stone wall below the window, so that the liquid left a thin and almost colorless line on the ancient stone. After the bottle was empty, she restoppered it and replaced it in her saddlebag.

The spell would put a drain on her for several days, but she would be well away from Fustar before Kylar felt the effects. At least, that was what Lady Anna had said.

The physical drain was the easy part. The knowledge of what she had done would weigh on her—as Secca knew it weighed on Anna, for all that the older sorceress had done over the years. When Anna had first introduced Secca to the shadow side of sorcery, Secca had asked one question: Why?

“Because it is better that one sorceress bear the burden of deciding wrong than for scores or scores of scores to die for the vanity of justification.” That was what Anna had said to Secca, and what Secca might well have to say to Richina in years to come.

Kylar had abused peasants, and worse, according to the glass, and he was the sole heir to Issl. It would be so much easier to let time show Kylar to all Defalk for what he was, to wait until scores more died, another consort or two, until either all the peasants fled or a revolt occurred. People were always people, Secca reflected. Always reacting, always thinking that to act before a disaster was cold-blooded. Yet it was always perfectly acceptable to react to a large cruelty with battles and war, or even assassination
—after
scores or scores of scores had died.

For all the arguments, there was still the other question: Who was she—or Anna—to make such decisions?

Part of that answer was simple. There was no one else who could decide on the fate of just one man. Lords were supreme on their own lands—unless the Lord of Defalk or another lord wanted to go to war. So, acting openly created even more suffering for far more than a lord or heir. Yet…a life was a life.

Secca shook her head. If she and Anna were wrong, and a revolt did not occur, then one man already proven at least cruel, if not far worse, would have died before his time. If they were right, years of suffering and scores of deaths were prevented.

Still…all the reasoning didn't make it much easier. A life was a life. But Kylar's peasants hadn't deserved beatings and abuse; his former consorts hadn't deserved to be suffocated in their pillows when they were already ill.

Secca had to keep in mind that Kylar—and the others—had already demonstrated their cruelty. She had to keep that well in mind. She had to.

Secca walked to the door of the guest chamber, checking the iron bolt.

She turned back to the high guest bed, laying out her short sabre on the table beside her bed. While she doubted Kylar would be foolish enough to try to enter her chamber, even if there were a secret entrance, she wanted to be prepared. For a moment, she
almost
hoped he would.

Then she shook her head. Far better to remove him from the shadows. Acting in the open always created more anger and resentment, and led to the need for ever greater force. That had become most clear over the years she had been at Loiseau…and before.

The woman in pale blue stands and walks to the window of her study, gazing out into the darkness, a darkness that bears the faint hint of salt air and the ripeness of harvest time.

Her consort, also sandy-haired, if with less silver-gray in his thick, short thatch of hair, also stands and turns. He eases up behind her and slips his arms around her waist. “You are worried, are you not?”

She nods.

“Why?”

“There is a time of great change coming. I can sense it. Much will change, and the Harmonies themselves will suffer dissonance and disharmony.” Her lips form a crooked smile. “And I, as Matriarch, can say not a word yet, except to you.”

“Do you know where these changes will strike?”

“All Erde will change.”

“But you cannot tell anyone else?”

She laughs. “A Matriarch
knows
, but how she knows, that cannot be explained, and what she senses cannot be explained or revealed too soon because the Matriarch is either disbelieved or blamed for being the cause of the trouble.”

“How bad is this trouble?”

“I fear it could be as bad as the Spell-Fire Wars. It could be worse.”

“How soon?”

“Soon.” The Matriarch shrugs. “We will know when it begins.”

The two look silently into the darkness for a time.

Secca had no more stepped in through the arched doorway of the main hall at Elheld when she was greeted by a young woman—one of the fosterling pages from Falcor, she thought.

“Lady Secca…? Lord Robero will await you in the private study, a half-glass before dinner is served.”

“Oh…thank you.”

“I am to escort you to your guest chamber.” The rangy blonde page bowed a second time. Secca wondered if the fosterling were a daughter of Ytrude, but decided against asking as she followed her guide up the wide polished wooden steps to the second level. The guest chamber was modest, but not cramped, with a single double-width high bed, an armoire, a working desk and chair, and tables on both sides of the bed. Adjoining the guest chamber was a bath chamber, clearly added later, and probably converted from half of another adjoining chamber, from the way the paneling on the inside walls did not match.

Secca enjoyed the bath, even if she did get a slight headache from using her lutar and a spellsong to reheat the water in the long tub which swallowed her. She managed to lie back on the bed and doze for almost a glass before rising and donning the single blue gown she had carried with her from Loiseau. Then she took a deep breath and ventured forth into the ancient and
dimly lit hall, making her way back down toward the private study.

“Lord Robero, Lady Secca,” announced the guard at the door to the study, opening the door almost immediately, and then closing it behind Secca.

The study was as it always had been, its dark wood paneling warm and welcoming in the illumination cast by nearly a score of polished bronze lamps, some in wall sconces, others on the desk and side tables.

Robero stood and offered a boyish grin, an expression somehow at odds with his thickening midsection and the thinning mahogany hair above his bushy eyebrows. The grin also reminded Secca that, changed name or not, the Lord of Defalk was in some ways still a “Jimbob.”

“Secca, it is good to see you.”

“It's good to be here,” she replied, bowing, as much to his office as to him.

The Lord of Defalk gestured to the armchair set at an angle to the one in which he had been seated, then sat down as Secca did. “How was your journey?”

“Long enough,” she replied with a smile. “Mencha is not close to anything.”

“That's why you will be glad when you finish the road.” He grinned.

“We did add another dek or so along the way, but the journey is still long.”

“You visited Lord Fustar, did you not?” asked Robero.

“You know I did. Lady Anna has suggested that I visit many of the lords of the east and north. She requested that I convey her greetings and best wishes to Lord Fustar.” Secca smiled and added, “While we were there, I rebuilt the dam that gathers and supplies the water to his keep. It would have failed within seasons.”

“I am certain he was pleased.”

“Not particularly,” Secca admitted. “He and Kylar wanted me to replace three deks of wooden aqueduct as well. With stone.”

“Fustar has never been the kind to appreciate generosity. I am surprised that Lady Anna wished to gift him so.” Robero's smile turned chill. “I understand that less than a week after your departure, his son and sole heir sickened and died. Before he could consort again.”

“He did?” asked Secca.

“He did, and I have my doubts as to your surprise.”

“Rulers must have doubts,” Secca said quietly. “From what I saw, I would have been less astounded had he been murdered by someone on his sire's lands.”

Robero shook his head. “Just because…”

“Because what?” Secca asked politely.

“Lord Fustar cannot live that much longer, can he?” Robero's eyes narrowed.

“I would not know. Using sorcery to seek such is Darksong. I do believe Kylar left a number of daughters,” Secca said. “One of them might well be suited to inherit.”

Robero sighed. “Are you going to continue the shadow legacy?”

“The shadow legacy?”

“You know very well what I mean, Secca. I may not see everything, but I see enough. Disloyal lords break their necks when a bridge collapses or a mount stumbles. Heirs who are arrogant and stupid die when no one is around.”

Secca laughed gently. “If such have happened, well…they are far better than what once occurred. I recall vividly armsmen running toward me with blades and screaming for my head.”

“Lady Anna cannot live forever.”

“No. But her mind is most clear.”

“She is not that strong, is she?”

“Do you want to spend your armsmen reining in unruly lords? Or returning to a time when the Lord of Falcor could count on but a handful of the Thirty-three? Do you really think her death will allow you to go back to the days of Donjim?”

This time, Robero was the one to laugh. “With three sorceresses and a handful of apprentices trained by Anna filling Defalk?”

Secca smiled and waited.

“What will you do now?” he finally asked.

“Return to Loiseau. I had thought that I would spend a day or so adding to the paved section of the road between Mencha and the River Chean. Within another year or so, the paving will run all the way from Loiseau to Elheld.”

“After almost thirty years.”

“You have better roads and bridges than any land in Liedwahr,” Secca said lightly. “And the one from Nordfels to Denguic serves as much for defense as trade.”

“I believe I do…and the cost has been high.”

“I think I'd like you better if you weren't always feeling sorry for yourself.” Secca kept her tone light.

“I think it would be better for you if you did not accept all that Lady Anna says as truth.”

“It might be better for you, you mean.” Secca shook her head. For Robero, it had always been Anna. He had never accepted fully the debt he owed her, first for restoring his kingdom, and second, for forcing him to accept women as equals. Or maybe it had been as simple as his inability to accept that Anna was stronger and had been a better ruler in the years she had been regent, until she had handed the land back to him.

“Let us not argue,” he offered, flashing his boyish grin again. “We must do as each of us sees best. You have always supported what you thought best for Defalk, as has Lady Anna.”

“We have always supported you, if not precisely as you have wished.” Secca smiled. “I will not argue more…tonight.”

“That is all I can hope for.” The Lord of Defalk chuckled. “I have taken the liberty of inviting a guest. He is waiting for us.”

“I cannot say that I am surprised.”

“He is someone I wanted you to meet. It has always seemed odd that you have not.”

Secca did not conceal a frown.

“You certainly have heard of Lythner. You have met his sire, Lord Clethner, I believe.” Robero stood. “And he is my neighbor.”

Secca also rose. “But not your closest.” She offered an impish grin.

“It is but dinner.” He turned and headed toward the study door.

The man who waited for them outside the dining hall was
not especially tall, nor was he short, but a good head and a half taller than Secca and clean-shaven. His dark black hair was cut short. Brilliant blue eyes dominated a face that somehow was both masculine and square-jawed, yet slightly elfin. With his smile, the hallway seemed to warm. “Lady Secca, my sire has said much of you.” He bowed deferentially, but not excessively. “I can now see why he has done so.”

“Lord Clethner has always been honorable and straightforward. I see that you take after him,” replied Secca, returning the bow.

“Since Lythner lives not that far from Elheld, and since you had never met nor been introduced, I thought you should.” Robero smiled, before turning to the slightly taller and younger man. “I appreciate your delaying your departure for an additional day.”

“For the pleasure and honor of meeting Lady Secca, and dining with her, it is well worth the delay.” Lythner spoke in a way that the compliment was delivered as a fact, and not flattery.

Secca managed not to flush. “It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.”

Robero turned to Lythner. “We should eat before whatever is fixed becomes too cold.”

There were but the three of them at the end of the long table—and that was the smallest grouping for a meal Secca had had with Robero in more than a score of years.

She could not help but smile at the half fowl presented on her platter, covered with a pear glaze, and accompanied with sweet-fried late apples and crisp lace potatoes.

“I thought you might like something like this after Fustar's table,” Robero said. “He has very good mutton, and more very good mutton, and even more very good mutton.”

“I did eat a great deal of mutton,” Secca admitted.

A warm twinkle appeared in Lythner's eyes.

“It is solid fare for sorcery,” Secca continued, “but this fowl is most welcome.”

“Alyssa did not come with you?” Lythner asked Robero.

“She will be joining me tomorrow,” replied Robero. “She was visiting her sister.”

“In Wendel?”

His mouth full, Robero nodded.

“Lady Chelshay has done wonders with Wendel…”

“No doubt due to the advice of your brother,” suggested Robero.

The faintest trace of a frown crossed Lythner's forehead, then vanished. “Nerylt is a dear fellow…and he does well with arms, far better than I…”

Secca repressed a smile, knowing that Nerylt was a well-meaning bumbler whose principal virtues were his love of his children, an understanding that his consort was far his better, and his willingness to follow her directions. Secca was glad to see that Lythner had few illusions about his younger sibling.

“He is a good fellow,” Robero agreed, “and a fair instructor in arms, I've heard.”

“He loves the practice yard, though there is little need of that skill at present in Defalk.”

“It may not always be so.” Robero lifted a goblet and took a sip of the amber wine.

“Oh?” asked Lythner.

“There is some young fellow in Neserea, scion of one of the old families. Rumors are that he's trying to suggest he's the true heir of the Prophet of Music.”

“Rabyn didn't have heirs,” Secca pointed out. “Not that he didn't try with every woman he could find.” She resisted smiling as the server slipped another half fowl onto her platter.

“This one traces his lineage back to Behlem's brother or cousin.” Robero broke off another chunk of bread. “Lady Jolyn reported that the Sturinnese have sent another fleet to the Ostisles.”

“They have held the isles for a generation.” Lythner paused. “You think they may attack somewhere in Liedwahr?”

“Anything is possible, but when the Maitre starts amassing fleets, one should watch closely.”

Secca continued to eat, but nodded. Sturinn had been quiet for years, and that had scarcely been the pattern of the Sea-Priests throughout the history of the sea-warriors.

“We are most fortunate that they cannot land on the coast and harbors we do not have,” Lythner said with a smile.

“This is a good vintage. I appreciate your sending it to us.” Robero held up his goblet. “How are the vineyards coming?”

“The root rot is a problem…but we've begun to graft the white grapes to wild root stock, and it looks like…”

Secca continued to eat, to smile, and to ask an occasional question, but she had to work even to keep her eyes open.

“…too much water…as much of a problem as too little…going to try for ice-wine in the higher fields this fall…”

Secca jerked, realizing she had almost fallen asleep at the table. She could not help but yawn. She managed to stifle the first, but not the second.

“Am I boring you?” Lythner disarmed the question with his warm smile.

“No. Quite the contrary. I have been trying not to show how tired I am. I rode here from Issl, where I had used sorcery to repair a water dam. Before that, the players and I were extending the finished sections of the road between the River Chean and Mencha.”

“Some day, it may even be completed,” suggested Robero.

“Shortly,” promised Secca, trying to hold back another yawn and keep her eyes open.

Robero shook his head. “Ever were you among the first to bed and the first to rise.” He stood and glanced at Lythner. “I will see Lady Secca to her chamber, if you do not mind. I appreciate your courtesy, and trust you will convey my best to your sire.”

“That I will. That I will.” Lythner stood and bowed, first to Secca, then to Robero, before the two turned and departed.

“He did not see me at my best,” said Secca once they were outside.

“It was an introduction, not a matchmaking,” Robero said dryly. “He might as well know that you do not chatter into the night. Then—as I learned early—you never did offer idle chatter.”

“I had thought he was consorted, and even has some children.” Secca raised her eyebrows.

“He was consorted. His consort died last summer of a consumptive flux, and even Lady Jolyn was unable to save her.” Robero's voice was even.

Secca started up the steps to the second level. “So…you thought…”

“You, Lady Sorceress, would not cross the corridor to meet someone suited to you,” Robero pointed out. “He may be suited to you or the reverse, but it could not hurt to have you meet. I did not intend more than that at this point.” He continued walking along the corridor.

“I suppose Jolyn recommended him?”

“Hardly. What recommended him to me was that he was not interested in her.” Robero laughed.

So did Secca, if more gently. “You still would like to see me consorted.”

Robero shook his head. “Secca…we have known each other since we were scarce more than children. I am not the Lord of Defalk you would want, but I do wish you well. I do not think you are so happy as you insist you are.”