The Shadow Sorceress (30 page)

Thuruummmm…

At the long roll of thunder, Secca blinked and glanced upward. The clouds that had been creeping out of the north were suddenly almost overhead, and gusts of wind far colder than the breeze that had chilled all the riders earlier blasted across the rise.

With the wind came fine flakes of snow.

Secca turned toward Melcar and Wilten. “We need to ride to that town…the one…sent provisions…need shelter.”

“It is ten deks, lady.”

Secca gestured toward the steaming rubble and the curtain of white that had begun to fall just to the north of what had been the proud keep of Dolov. “Is there shelter here?”

Dumbly, Wilten shook his head.

“Players…prepare to ride.”

Secca winced at the tiredness and bleakness in Palian's voice. In front of the players, Palian blinked, her face tight with lines of pain. Then Secca stepped forward to help Richina stand.

Both sorceresses looked for a long moment through the fine white flakes that fell around them, then back at the lifeless gray dust and rubble that had been Dolov.

The snow fell in large fat flakes, just damp enough to cling to leathers, jackets, tunics, and to the skin and manes of mounts, but not wet enough to turn into slush on the damp clay of the river road. The daystars that flashed across Secca's eyes showed no signs of becoming less frequent, despite the mor
sels of bread she had choked down, and her headache was, if anything, worse than when she had climbed into the saddle deks back at the ruins of Dolov. Beside her, Richina rode silently, one hand on the left side of the low front pommel of her saddle.

Within less than a glass from the time they had left Dolov, everything had become covered with white. Silence swathed the entire line of riders, the snow muffling even the sound of mounts breathing and hoofs striking the frozen ground.

Cold water from the snow that had clung to her hair and neck began to trickle down Secca's back, and she wished she had brought a scarf like the one Richina was wearing. The worn green felt hat she had, nearly a copy of Anna's except for the color, was not enough protection in a heavy snow. Then, she hadn't exactly expected to be traveling in a snowstorm.

Melcar and Wilten rode up beside Secca.

“The lancers can ride for a time, but the wind is rising, and before long, we will need shelter…”

“How far is Hanlis? That is the nearest town, is it not?” asked Secca.

“Another five deks. That is what the scouts say.”

“We will need to take shelter there.” Secca didn't like the idea of commandeering a town, but better that in an area whose lord had rebelled than having lancers die from the cold. At the same time, she knew that most of the townspeople probably had little to do with the rebellion. “They are not to harm any of the townspeople, not unless they are attacked. We are taking only shelter. Any food we take, we should keep accounts.” She wasn't about to promise recompense, not when what had started as a rebellion was looking more like a war that might involve all of Liedwahr.

“That we can do,” said Wilten. “Will you offer payment?”

“Say I will if we can once I return to Defalk.” Secca just hoped she could.

Perhaps she should have tried to craft a spell to extract any coins from the rubble of Dolov. Except how could she have done so? Half the players had collapsed, and neither she nor Richina had been in shape to sing a second spell. No matter what outsiders thought, sorcery had its limits. The sheeting snow
concealed her bitter smile as the column continued on through the storm.

How long it was before they reached the town, Secca couldn't have said, but neither the headache nor the daystars had subsided in the slightest by the time that she reined up outside the stable of the Copper Pot in Hanlis. Nor had the snow diminished. It continued to fall in heavy curtains so thick that Secca could barely make out the half-open stable door and the stable boy who stood there, his mouth open at the figures of horses and men looming out of the snow.

“How many stalls, boy?” asked Wilten.

“A half-score. That's all, ser.” The boy's voice trembled.

“Wilten, Melcar…” Secca's voice cut out, as if she had strained her cords, and she had to swallow before she continued. “Take care of the rest of the lancers. We have our guards.”

“I will offer any aid the sorceresses require.” Alcaren eased his mount forward. “My SouthWomen rode ahead, and they secured a barn.” He shrugged as he dismounted. “They have their captains. Under such conditions, they would prefer I be here.”

“Go ahead, Wilten, Melcar,” Secca said. “Look to your men.”

“I will leave another four guards so that they may take turns in guarding and resting,” Wilten said.

“Thank you.” Secca nodded.

“Dyvan! Easlon, Gorkon…”

As the guards rode up and listened to Wilten's charge to them, Secca tried to ease herself out of the saddle, but, in dismounting, she staggered. She had to grasp the lower part of the saddle cantle to catch her balance, and just stood for a long moment, hanging on to the saddle.

She slowly straightened and looked up to see Alcaren studying her intently. “Are you all right, Lady Secca?”

“I'm fine,” she said.

Alcaren said nothing. While his face—even seen through the daystar flashes that blocked her vision intermittently—showed nothing but a polite smile, she could sense his disbelief.

“Sorcery like that is sometimes hard,” she added. “With food and rest, I'll be fine.”

“That will help.” The Ranuan overcaptain bowed.

Secca didn't mind even that Alcaren walked before her into the foyer of the inn, or that two of the guards carried her saddlebags, lutar, and mirror. She just concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Behind her, Richina seemed to be doing the same thing.

The foyer was dark, lit but by a pair of oil lamps on each side of the archway that led into an empty public room to the right. To the left was a short counter desk, no more than a yard wide and less than half that in depth. Behind it stood a graying thin man in a sheepskin vest.

Alcaren stepped toward the man.

“Ah…ser?” The thin innkeeper swallowed as he saw the broad-shouldered overcaptain—and then caught sight of the six guards who followed Secca and Richina.

“This is the Lady Secca, Sorceress-Protector of the East, and the Lady Richina. They will have your best room.”

“Ah…would not the keep at Dolov…?” stammered the innkeeper. “Not that I would not wish…”

“It might have been,” Alcaren said smoothly, “save for the fact that the sorceresses leveled it and turned all the stones into gravel. Such is the price of rebellion.”

“Yes, ser.” The innkeeper bowed, once, then twice. “Yes, ser. As you say, ser.”

“Not as I say,” Alcaren replied. “Either of these two ladies could turn you into dust with a few words, were they so inclined.”

“Yes, ser. I mean, yes, ladies. Ah…let me make sure all is well. It must be well…yes, it must.”

“It might be best if you went with him, Achar,” Alcaren said, glancing toward Secca.

While still trying to see and appear alert when she felt anything but, Secca offered a nod to the Ranuan.

“And you, Dyvan,” said Alcaren. “One of you guard the room, and the other come and fetch us when it is ready.”

When Dyvan returned, Alcaren followed the innkeeper, and Secca trailed Alcaren up the dim and narrow stairs, unlit except for an oil lamp set in a bracket in the upper hall.

Once in the upper hall, the innkeeper turned to follow the
narrow hallway back toward the front of the building, walking less than ten yards before halting at an open door.

Achar stood by the door. “This is the best for you, ladies. One other is a mite larger, but…” His nose wrinkled.

“Thank you, Achar,” Secca said, then turned, “and you, innkeeper.”

“Thank you,” echoed Richina.

The innkeeper bowed, then backed away with a second bow.

The room was not even so large as Secca's bath chamber at Loiseau, and had but two narrow beds, little more than padded cots, and a single window. Although both the inner and outer shutters were closed, the inner shutters vibrated with the gusts of wind buffeting the inn. Secca reflected that the cots probably couldn't harbor too many vermin, and when she felt better, perhaps she could manage a spell to kill them.

Once she had stepped inside the room with Richina, she waited for Easlon to set her gear on the floor. Then she closed the battered door and pulled off the damp and still-frozen oiled leather riding jacket and hung it on one of the two wall pegs. There was no wardrobe or chest in the room, and not even a row of pegs for clothing. The sorceress shivered, looking at the saddlebags before deciding that nothing in them would warm her.

Slowly, she eased herself down onto the edge of the narrow bed. Sitting there, Secca cradled her splitting head in her hands.

In time, she lifted her eyes.

Richina sat on the other cotlike bed.

“Does your head ache?” Secca asked.

“Not so much now. It ached terribly for a time while we were riding in the snow. I couldn't see at times.”

Secca closed her eyes, just trying to ignore the rattle of the shutters in the wind and the coldness that seeped from them across the bed to chill her neck and back. She thought about lying down, but was too tired to move and afraid that lying on the bed would be even colder than sitting.

“Lady?”

At Richina's gentle words, Secca jerked herself out of the half-stupor, half-dozing state. Richina stood before her with a large brown mug filled with a steaming liquid.

“Overcaptain Alcaren brought this. He said you should drink it. He said it's a brew that the Matriarch uses after sorcery.”

Secca sniffed the substance, catching a bitter odor, then closed her eyes and tried to identify the scent. At the sound of fingers on a lutar, she looked up to see Richina standing there.

Secca gaped, then opened her mouth to protest.

By then, the younger sorceress had finished the short verse with a smile—a smile that vanished as she paled, then staggered, barely catching herself on the back of the spindly chair. The lutar thumped the rear leg. Tears poured from the sandy-haired young woman's eyes, and her face was drawn tightly with pain.

Secca looked at the cup, which remained unchanged, then took a sip, then a swallow, before handing it to Richina. “You need this more than I do.”

In turn, Richina took a swallow, then a second, before handing the large mug back to Secca. The two sat across from each other, trading the mug until it was empty.

Richina massaged her forehead. “What…happened?”

“Darksong,” Secca replied. “All food is living—or was. I tried to warn you, but I wasn't thinking very well myself.”

“That's what happens…?”

“No. That is what happens in the beginning,” Secca said gently. “If done often or too strongly, it gets worse each time, at least for a sorceress. That is another reason why we send few messages by spellsong.”

Richina winced. “I had not thought…”

Secca nodded slowly, even as she wondered about the brew Alcaren had offered. While he had to have known that Secca was a sorceress, why would he have brought such a concoction with him? Could the fabled matriarch-leaders of Ranuak use their sorcery to see parts of the future? Or had the Matriarch supplied Alcaren with it, knowing that it might prove useful at some time?

And why? Was the Matriarch looking for the sorceresses of Defalk to support Ranuak? Was Encora where the Sturinnese fleet was headed? And how had the Matriarch known that? Or had she? Or had Alcaren acted on his own? And if so, why?

The questions swirled around in Secca's head.

“We need to eat, lady,” Richina said. “They may have something in the public room, might they not?”

“We can but see.” Secca rose to her feet, then stepped toward the door, opening it slowly. The narrow hall was warmer, if fractionally, and Easlon, Achar, and Dyvan stood stiffly in the narrow space. “Easlon…if you could see if Overcaptain Alcaren would join us. We'll try to get something to eat in the public room below. Achar, if you would escort us…?” Secca managed to smile, hoping it was not a grimace.

“Yes, lady.”

Easlon nodded and hurried down the steps ahead of the three. Achar followed the other guard.

The first floor foyer was again deserted, with a chill draft from around the front door. Under the shuttered window beside the door was the faintest dusting of fine white snow. Secca felt as though her breath was steaming, but saw no white.

Richina peered into the public room, seemingly empty, then stepped inside. The small fire in the hearth lifted some, but not all, of the chill from the long and narrow room.

A serving girl, thin like the innkeeper, and not even so old as Richina, scuttled out from the door to the kitchen. “There be not much, ladies…” The serving girl glanced from Secca to Richina, then back to the older sorceress.

“What do you have?”

“Just the stew, and bread—the bread be fresh—and ale.”

“That will be fine. Four stews, with bread and ale.” Secca motioned to Achar, who had followed them. “You can eat first, then go relieve Dyvan.”

“Yes, lady.” Achar grinned.

“Any table…you wish, ladies.” The serving girl bowed and scuttled back toward the kitchen.

Secca took the table close to the hearth, pulling up an oak
ladder-back chair, stained dark from time and smoke and grease. Achar took the adjoining table.

The serving girl returned and put two of the large bowls on the table, with oversized spoons, then returned with another bowl and a basket containing a single long loaf of bread. Achar got the bowl and Secca and Richina the bread.

“Another may be joining us.”

“Yes, lady.” The girl bowed nervously.

“And could you put another log on the fire?”

“Yes, lady.”

Secca took a mouthful of the stew. While there was a faint odor of beef, what she tasted most was heavily salted pepper, that and soggy roots and squishy potatoes. “It is a hot meal.”

The serving girl struggled back into the public room with two largish logs, levering one, then the other, onto the hearth, before slipping back to stand by the kitchen door.

The bread was better than the stew, a rye faintly warm and crusty. As Secca ate, she could feel the last of her headache subside into but a faint throbbing. All too soon, her bowl was empty.

Achar had gulped down his stew, and left, to be replaced by Dyvan, who was sitting and eating at the adjoining table when Alcaren stepped into the near-empty public room, brushing the last remnants of snow and water from his riding jacket. His smooth face was red from the cold, and his brown hair was damp and plastered to his skull.