The Shadow Sorceress (44 page)

Secca rode on the north-south boulevard, away from the harbor and the guest quarters and toward the dwelling set amid a parklike garden and behind granite walls that appeared pale blue. The more she thought about the assassin of the night before, the angrier she felt. Even though Alcaren had warned her, even though she had seen the scars of sorcery throughout Ranuak, Secca still smoldered. She had always disliked the pettiness and the maneuvering for power, the use of politics she had seen among the Thirty-three and in Falcor, and the Matriarch was clearly using Secca for her own political ends.

Perhaps that had been another of the reasons why Anna had insisted on taking Secca to Loiseau. A fiery temper did not mix well over time with the intrigues in the corridors of the liedburg of Falcor—nor in other corridors of power.

A few words drifted in her direction as she rode past what appeared to be a shop dealing in all manner of baskets.

“The Lady Sorceress of Defalk…has to be…”

“Her hair…like flame…”

“…looks stern…”

“…in great anger…”

“…is said that some already attempted to remove her…”

Secca could not catch the rest of the words of those few who turned to watch as she was escorted along the wide stone-paved boulevard by the two companies of lancers, one in the green of Loiseau and the second in the crimson and blue of the SouthWomen. Yet the fact that those in the street knew of the assassination attempt told her again that every wall in Encora might well have ears—or worse.

“You are still angry,” offered Alcaren, riding beside her. “Perhaps I should have been more direct…”

“No. I understand that. You thought that if you said something very direct and obvious that word might get out that I'd been warned, and I would find it even harder to protect myself.”

“I am most sorry…” Alcaren's voice was soft, but strained.

Even in her anger, Secca could sense both the truth of his words and something more than mere professional concern. She turned, wanting to ask, then stopped what she was going to say. Finally, she spoke. “I can see that. It was not your fault, and I do not blame you. You have always spoken truth to me.”

“I have tried.”

“Unlike others.” Secca snorted. “But your truth also says that Encora is a pit of vipers with spies everywhere.”

“That it is,” Alcaren admitted. “Why do you think Delcetta and I prefer to serve you?”

“That just makes me more angry. If Sturinn weren't such a problem…” She shook her head. “Still, the Matriarch has much to answer for. Last night was totally unnecessary. It was an easy way of dealing with a problem that should have been handled generations ago.”

“How?” asked Alcaren. “By using sorcery? So that even more women would flock to the shadows? By imprisoning mothers and giving their daughters another reason to hate the Matriarch?”

“I don't know.” Secca shifted her weight in the saddle. “All I do know is that allowing assassins to attack me is not exactly hospitable…”

“The Matriarch had guards everywhere, lady. Yet they did not, or could not, stop your attacker. Does that not tell you something?”

“Yes. It tells me that too many women in Ranuak are stupid and fearful. And possibly men as well.”

Alcaren winced. After a moment, he added, “Say what you will to the Matriarch, but essay to say it without the fire of anger that consumes you.”

Secca forced herself to take a deep breath. Alcaren was right about that, and he was daring to offer good advice to a very
angry sorceress, which offered another message. That message could wait—would have to wait—until after she dealt with the Matriarch. In dealing with the Matriarch, Secca needed to be cooler, the way Anna had been. It had never done Secca any good to lash out—and the Matriarch was not unintelligent. She could not be, and rule.

Secca took a slow deep breath, then nodded to Alcaren. “Thank you.”

They rode silently toward the opening in the bluish-white granite walls that surrounded the Matriarch's grounds. There were no gates, not even decorative ones, only the opening leading through a single high stone arch. Above the keystone of the arch was a single white-bronze fire lily. The stone drive inside the walls curved to the side of the three-story dwelling in the middle of the parklike setting. There, under a low portico barely high enough to allow a rider on a tall mount to pass without ducking, was a long carriage mounting block. Toward the dwelling from the mounting block were three wide stone steps leading to another archway.

The SouthWomen lancers had already passed under the portico and re-formed, facing Secca as she dismounted and handed the gray's reins to her guard, Dyvan. Alcaren dismounted as well.

“Grace and strength, lady,” offered Captain Delcetta, her voice strong but not booming, carrying over the light midmorning breeze.

Secca turned and inclined her head before taking the first step toward the archway. “My thanks to you all.”

Beyond the archway was a square foyer—and a single staircase. There were no doors beside the one through which she and Alcaren had entered. At the foot of the staircase was a single guard in a pale blue uniform absolutely without insignia. “You are expected, lady and overcaptain.”

The staircase leading to the second floor landing was not overly broad—less than three yards from one plain stone wall to the other. A single guard stood at the top of the landing, looking down at Alcaren and Secca.

Alcaren walked up the stone steps beside Secca, close enough
to offer his arm, though he did not do so. As they crossed the landing and approached the single door of golden wood set in the wall at the far side of the landing, the guard spoke.

“The Matriarch will see the Lady Sorceress alone, overcaptain.”

Alcaren nodded. “I will wait here.”

The guard turned and eased the door ajar. “The Sorceress-Protector of Defalk, Matriarch.”

“Have her enter.”

Secca stepped into the formal receiving room. Despite her resolve to be calm and not to lash out in anger, she could feel the fire in her amber eyes as she looked toward the dais and the woman seated on the blue crystalline chair that was not quite a throne. The hazy light that fell through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the shimmering blue stone floor offered little cheer and less warmth.

“Welcome, Lady Secca.” The silver and blonde-haired Matriarch inclined her head in greeting. “It has been long since a sorceress has visited Ranuak as friend and ally.”

“After last night, it may be a great while before another does.” Secca managed to keep her voice even, but she could sense the edge it carried. She stopped several yards short of the crystalline chair, sensing that the chair was far more than ceremonial.

“That might be best,” replied the Matriarch. “Sorcery is not favored by many in Ranuak.”

“Yet you use it, and you would have me use it to assist Ranuak.”

“I do not believe Ranuak has even asked such of you.” Again, there was the hint of a twinkle in the eyes of the Matriarch.

“I would not be here were it otherwise,” Secca pointed out. “And I am not much interested in further employing words as blades.”

“What am I to do with you, Lady Secca?” Although the Matriarch's voice was calm and firm, there was an even greater hint of a smile in her eyes, very much at odds with the tone of her voice.

“Perhaps you could begin by apologizing for the behavior of those who tried to kill me. You have their bodies, and you would know better than I what occurred,” Secca suggested. “You could then advise me of what you intend to do to redress the grievance. And then, perhaps, we could discuss how we can work together to remove the Sturinnese from Liedwahr.”

Alya laughed, gently, humorously. “You are as direct as the blade you bear.”

Secca drew the two scrolls from within her riding jacket and extended the first. “This I bring from Lord Robero.”

“Thank you.” The Matriarch took the scroll but made no effort to open it.

“And this is from me.” Secca handed the unsealed short scroll. “I thought you might find this helpful in dealing with those who have in their hearts less than the best interests of Ranuak and Liedwahr.”

Alya took the list, her eyebrows raised. “This is…?”

“A list of some of the more powerful within the Ladies of the Shadow in Ranuak.”

Alya laughed. “It will indeed be most helpful, perhaps even in ways neither of us might envision.”

“It is very possible I would not envision those ways,” Secca said carefully, “but I cannot imagine that you have not considered all of them.”

The Matriarch shook her head slowly. “Although I never met the Lady Anna, you are as she once might have been.”

Secca cut off her immediate response and considered the Matriarch's words before replying. “I would not know, but I have always thought most highly of her. More highly than any other I have ever met.”

“And she of you, most clearly, and with great reason.” The Matriarch pursed her lips. “I am truly sorry about the events of the past evening. I had hoped that my guards, and those of the SouthWomen, would have deterred the Ladies of the Shadows. I had hoped…but I still feared.”

“Yet…?” Secca waited.

Alya frowned. “You have seen my dwelling. You have seen
how few guards I have. I can muster fewer lancers than can Lord Robero.”

“Ranuak is richer than Defalk.”

“Ranuak is as rich as it can be. It cannot be much more than it is. Defalk can be far greater and more prosperous than Ranuak.”

Secca's face expressed skepticism.

“It is simple. You rode from the east. You saw the swamps and the bogs, the trees that grow less than well. All the land that bears good harvests, all that is used. We have turned to the sea, because we have little good land, for most of Ranuak is poisoned or poor, or both.”

“Poisoned? After all these years?”

“Not just from the Spell-Fire Wars, lady. Once the sorcerers and sorceresses of the east, and not just the Mynyans, employed sorcery for creating all manner of devices and materials. When they wrenched metals from the earth, the rain seeped into the pits, and leached forth noxious substances. When they pulled iron from the soil, trees and plants withered and died. There must be a balance within the soils and within the lands, and there is none in much of Ranuak, and it will be many hundreds of generations before the Harmonies restore such.”

Secca tilted her head. The Matriarch seemed truthful, and what Secca had seen bore out her words. So did—now—some of Anna's words, words she had scarce heeded in years past.

“You have heard this before?” asked Alya.

“Lady Anna…she offered some words. She always said that the least sorcery was the best.”

“She was right.” Alya paused, then asked, “How can Ranuak help you defeat the Sturinnese? Is that not why you came to Encora?”

“I had thought to come here to reach Dumar,” Secca said. “So that I could keep the Sea-Priests from subjugating that land and using it to conquer all of Liedwahr.”

“You cannot reach Dumar by sea from here any more easily than from Elahwa. Not while the white-hulled ships hold the Southern Ocean,” pointed out the Matriarch. “And we of Ran
uak have few ships left from the attacks of the Sea-Priests. Even were their fleets to vanish, hard years would face us. Would that we could take some of their ships in recompense for the suffering that they have caused. Have you spells that would destroy them, but not their vessels?”

“That
might
be possible…but only for a few vessels,” Secca admitted. “It took all my efforts, and those of my players, to destroy a mere five vessels. Sturinn has four-score warships in the Southern Ocean.”

“Mere?” Alya arched her eyebrows. “One sorceress, a score of players, and five mighty ships are gone.”

“Compared to the task at hand…mere,” Secca replied. “What I can do with sorcery is limited, and more so upon the ocean, it would seem. I can scarcely sing spell after spell on a ship pursuing the Sturinnese.” She paused. “With their thunder-drums, after my first sorcery, they would use the drums to speed from us.”

“What if they were gathered together?” asked the Matriarch. “Could you not come up with one spell that would leave at least a few ships untouched, and then a mighty enough spell to destroy the others?”

“Perhaps. I might be able to sing a spell that would affect them all. I'll need to try out some things on the shore, though.” Secca frowned. “Spells dealing with the oceans or objects upon them are harder.”

“So it is said.”

“How would one gather all the Sturinnese ships together?”

“That…that we might well manage.” Alya offered a wry smile. “The Sturinnese fear and respect you, lady. If all our trading vessels were armed, and gathered as if to carry you to Dumar, what would the Sea-Priests do? Especially after they found five ships less than able to halt you?”

Secca nodded slowly.

“It will take a week, maybe two, for they must see in their glasses what we do…”

As the Matriarch explained, Secca listened, forcing herself to concentrate on the problem of the Sturinnese and to put aside her anger at the Ladies of the Shadows and the Matriarch's
inability to deal with them. The problems of the Ladies of the Shadows would have to remain those of the Matriarch.

Not so a few other problems, Secca feared, but she forced herself to listen carefully.

The Matriarch sits upon the blue crystal chair on the dais in the formal receiving room.

“The Assistant Exchange Mistress, Matriarch.”

“Send her in.” Alya's voice is even more chill than the gray clouds that she can see through the long windows, clouds that have returned to cloak the skies over Encora in the late afternoon.

A gray-haired and round-faced woman steps through the door that is quickly closed behind her with a dull
thunk
. The Matriarch watches as the woman steps toward her, then stops and bows, if almost indifferently. The Matriarch waits.

“Why am I here, Matriarch?” asks the gray-haired woman after a time. “Have I done aught to displease you? What, I can scarce imagine.”

“I believe you can, Santhya. I do believe you can.” The Matriarch studies the Assistant Exchange Mistress. “Last night, there was an attack on the Sorceress-Protector of Defalk. I thought you might know something about it.” The Matriarch's voice is mild.

“I am less than pleased to have a sorceress of power in Encora, but that is true of many, as you must know.” Santhya bows her head slightly and waits.

“The assassin was one of your number, Santhya. The sorceress
killed her face-to-face. You and the others of the Ladies of the Shadows underestimate the sorceress—in that fashion, and in others.” The Matriarch lifts a roll of parchment. “She provided me with a list of all those in authority within the Ladies of the Shadows.”

“That is a lengthy list, Matriarch. Their absences would be noted.”

Alya laughs, if mirthlessly. “That they would. Fear not, Santhya. I see no point in executing you all—not at the moment. You will all merely be my guests in the White Tower until the Sorceress-Protector leaves Encora.” A cold smile crosses her lips. “So long as no other attempts are made on her or upon any in her party…why, nothing will happen.”

“I cannot speak for the others.”

“Oh, I understand that. Indeed, I do. That is why you will join all of those on the sorceress's list—and a few other names I have come across—as my guests. I am also keeping your daughters—as my honored guests, of course—in the Blue Tower. As we speak, they are being gathered.”

Santhya nods. “I cannot say I would expect any less.”

“Those keeping watch over your daughters will be the third and fourth companies of the SouthWomen.”

“You cannot—”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do.”

Santhya's ruddy color pales.

“I might add that there are two others who know sorcery with the sorceress. It is most unlikely that all three could be killed at once. The others would have my leave to turn their sorceries upon every name in this list. From the White Tower it would take but a single spell.” Alya's eyes fix on Santhya. “I do hope you understand.”

The older woman's eyes are as cold as those of Alya. “I understand, Matriarch. You will revisit all the horrors of the Spell-Fire Wars upon us.”

“Better that than chains for generations to come. You may go. Your escort awaits you.”

The Matriarch's eyes appear as gray as the clouds as she watches while Santhya turns and walks slowly toward the door at the back of the formal receiving room.