Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 23

He smiled dryly. “Why do you really want me to sing it?”

  “So I can watch the glass.” Secca’s voice was cold.

  “You really hate Belmar, don’t you?”

  “I do, but I don’t think he’s the one to hate.”

  “Sturinn? The Maitre?”

  “Who else?” She glanced up once more. “Can you…?”

  “Let me try to work out the chords for a few moments.”

  Secca smiled and took another sheet of the brown paper, frowning as she looked at the blankness. Finally, slowly, she began to write the thoughts and words of another spell, trying not to be distracted by Alcaren’s fingers on the strings of his lumand.

  “I’m ready,” he finally said.

  Secca put aside the paper and marker and looked to the blank silver of the scrying mirror.

  Her consort cleared his throat and began the scrying spell.

  “Show me Belmar now and in the same light

  that Sea-Priest who advises him tonight,

  the one who talks of whom to kill or fight

  and who would put all Defalk to flight…”

  Alcaren lowered the lumand and looked into the glass, over Secca’s shoulder. The image showed two men sitting across the table from each other in what appeared to be an inn. Neither was speaking.

  “Another Sea-Priest,” he finally murmured. “You thought as much.”

  “I did. It could be no other way.”

  “No other way?” Alcaren raises his eyebrows.

  “Belmar. He is a young lord of an impoverished set of lands. The only sorcerer in his family is a distant Prophet of Music. No one has ever heard of him. Lord High Counselor Hanfor dismisses him as unworthy of Annayal. Yet he has the coins to train and pay players, and he has more than five companies of lancers that were trained and ready a year ago? That might have been possible, straining his coffers, but by the middle of last season he had three times that many.”

  “He had taken the keeps and lands of several in Neserea,” Alcaren pointed out.

  “That is true, and that is what all were meant to think.” Secca paused. “It did not feel right, and I should have listened to my feelings earlier.”

  “All this was planned by the Maitre?”

  “All this, and much more, I fear,” Secca replied. “Much more, so much more that I cannot guess, only feel.” She laughed, harshly. “That sounds mysterious. It is not. The Maitre has a plan to take all of Liedwahr. That is clear. How he intends to do so is what is not clear—except that it has been planned for years, and involves sorcerers and lancers and fleets I fear we have never seen.” She paused. “And sorcery as deadly as anything Liedwahr has ever seen.”

  Alcaren shook his head. “Not so deadly as you might use, and that is why you hesitate and fret.”

  “Already, you know me too well.” Secca pursed her lips before lowering her voice. “Even knowing what the Maitre plans…how could I use such spells? How could I?”

  “How could you not, if it meant every woman in Liedwahr in chains, and every sorceress tortured to death or with her tongue ripped out?”

  Secca winced.

  “You see?” Alcaren said, sadly, gently.

  50

  The faintest orange of dawn had barely begun to color the eastern sky outside the windows of the dwelling in Hasjyl when Secca looked down at the image Richina had called up in the glass on the oblong table. Alcaren, Palian, Delvor, Delcetta, and Wilten—the others with them—also looked into the scrying glass.

  Early as it was in the day, the Sturinnese force was leaving the hamlet to the north, clearly headed toward the trade pass, since the maps showed that the northern road went nowhere else.

  Secca nodded for Richina to sing the release couplet, and that the younger sorceress did, easily and with a composure she had not possessed two seasons earlier.

  “How many days’ travel would it be for us to reach the pass?” Secca asked.

  “Three,” suggested Wilten. “Two, if we hasten.”

  Delcetta nodded in agreement.

  “I think we need to hasten,” Secca suggested. “For the first day, it is almost eastward along the river road, is it not?”

  “For a half day, according to the maps,” Alcaren replied. “Then the road to the trade pass separates and makes its way north along a stream.”

  “That stream is the one that comes from the trade pass and feeds into the Envar River, is it not?” asked Delcetta.

  “It is,” replied the broad-shouldered sorcerer. “Most passes have rivers or streams, but this is a narrow pass and a small stream as such go.”

  Secca glanced at Wilten, then Delcetta. “How soon before all can ride?”

  “Less than a glass.”

  “Good.” Secca stood, turning to the chief players. “And the players?”

  “They will be ready,” Palian affirmed.

  51

  Mansuus, Mansuur

  In the early-morning grayness caused by two days of steady rain, Kestrin uses a set of calipers to measure a distance on the maps spread across the wide desk in his private study, muttering to himself as he does, “Less than a hundred deks…day’s sail in favoring winds.”

  Thrap! Thrap! “Sire!”

  “Come in, Bassil,” says the Liedfuhr, his voice resigned.

  As Bassil enters, the Liedfuhr notes that the maroon uniform is not quite as precisely set as has always been the case with the older lancer officer, and Bassil’s hair is slightly disheveled, also unusual. “What has happened now?”

  “The Sturinnese have landed a score of companies of armsmen and lancers at Hafen, sire. And at Landungerste.” Bassil’s voice bears the slightest trace of raggedness, and there are circles beneath his eyes.

  “Dissonance! The dissonant sons of sea-sows…those…unmentionable heaps of dog excrement…” Kestrin breaks off the string of expletives, and shakes his head. “They looted and burned the town and harbor, in both places, did they not?”

  Bassil’s face reflects surprise. “Yes, sire. But how did—”

  “So that I will be forced to keep my lancers close to Hafen and Landungerste—and Wharsus. So that my people will be angry and unhappy that I did not protect them, but sent lancers to a foreign land to protect my sister and niece while leaving my people unprotected. No matter that we have never had more than two companies of lancers in Hafen, and never more than three in Landungerste. No matter that they would have been slaughtered by forces ten times their number.” The Liedfuhr shakes his head.

  “Will you recall the lancers from the Mittpass to Mansuus, Hafen, or Landungerste?”

  “To Hafen and Landungerste? What good would that do? There’s little enough left to protect, I imagine. That would be what the blighted Sea-Priests would hope, I wager.”

  “You wager much on each decision, sire.”

  Kestrin looks outside at the cold rain of spring, rain that has barely finished melting the accumulated snow and ice of the long winter. “Is that not true of every decision?”

  “Ah…”

  “We just don’t always have to pay for the bad wagers so quickly, and sometimes we pay for those of others.”

  “Others?”

  Kestrin ignores the question. “When did this happen, and when did you find out?”

  “You had your seers watching the Sturinnese fleet. Part of that fleet had sailed south into the northern part of Defuhr Bay several days ago, and a very small flotilla came even farther south. You were informed.”

  “That was when I shifted more lancers from Mansuus to Wharsus, in case they attempted to land there.” Kestrin stands and walks away from Bassil, toward the windows on the north side of the study, where he stares out into the rain.

  Bassil waits.

  In time, the Liedfuhr turns. “Send dispatches to all garrisons. Tell them to be especially alert. Send messengers to the forces entering Neserea. Tell them to avoid battle with either the Sea-Priests or Lord Belmar and to make their way to Esaria as quickly as possible.” He loo
ks to Bassil. “You have more bad news?”

  “Some of each, sire.”

  “The worst first, then.” Kestrin tightens his lips, listening.

  “Lord Belmar has defeated and slain the Sorceress of Defalk. Your seers believe that there are already Sea-Priest sorcerers in Neserea.”

  “Believe?”

  “They are encountering wards of some sort against their scrying.”

  “That makes a sorry sort of sense.” The Liedfuhr clasps his hands behind his back, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Go on.”

  “The Sorceress of Defalk slew some ten companies of Belmar’s forces, but that still leaves him with almost six companies yet.”

  “And the support of the dissonant Sea-Pigs.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “The better news?”

  “The Sorceress Protector of the East has destroyed close to forty companies of Sturinnese in Dumar, along with their sorcerers and drummers. She is moving northward toward the trade pass and against the last remaining force of Sturinnese in Dumar. Lord Fehern has vanished, and the seers say that he is dead, but know not how.”

  “He was a traitor to his brother, who was a far better man, and his death is no loss.”

  “That may be, sire, but that leaves no Lord High Counselor in Dumar.”

  Kestrin laughs ruefully. “Better a sorceress there than anyone Lord Robero would choose.”

  Bassil nods slowly.

  “We can but hope that the Sorceress Protector will destroy the last of the Sturinnese opposing her and move northward quickly. Would that we could send her a messenger saying such.”

  “By the time one reaches her…”

  “All is likely to be decided,” Kestrin finishes the other’s sentence. He turns back toward the window and the rain. “Before that, matters will get worse, much worse.”

  “Sire?”

  “I learned a long time ago, watching my father, that when affairs are difficult, and when it seems that they could not be worse, they inevitably become so.”

  Bassil nods imperceptibly, but does not speak.

  Outside the study, the rain continues to fall from clouds of formless gray.

  52

  Standing in her stirrups for a moment to stretch her legs, Secca glanced forward past the vanguard that wound its way downhill. The clay road descended and curved gently eastward around a hill covered with apple trees showing but the faintest hint of green at the tip of some few leaf buds. Overhead, the sky was clear and cloudless, and a soft warm wind blew at her back. A thin line of smoke rose from the chimney of the dwelling at the end of a muddy lane halfway up the hill, a good dek away. On the lower right side of the road was a field, half-tilled. Secca smiled, suspecting that the tiller had hurriedly taken his mule or horse out of sight when he had seen the column of riders.

  According to the maps and the glass, they were but five deks or so from the hamlet that the Sturinnese had briefly garrisoned to defend the trade pass, but the scouts had reported no new tracks on the damp clay of the road and no sign of the Sturinnese. Before they had broken camp that morning, Richina had used the scrying glass, and the image had shown the Sturinnese already partway through the pass, riding beside a stream swollen with runoff.

  Secca wondered if her small force would be able to catch the Sturinnese before they joined with Belmar’s forces. Yet…what else could she try?

  As she settled back into the saddle, Secca felt herself shaken—not by something like thunder or the shaking of the earth, but by a harmonic chime, one that indicated major sorcery. But the chime was almost clean, not with the dull undertones of death, or the dissonance of Darksong.

  She glanced to Richina, riding slightly ahead and to Secca’s right.

  Richina had already turned toward Secca, and the younger sorceress’s mouth opened as if to frame a question.

  Secca nodded. “Sorcery.”

  Richina closed her mouth.

  Alcaren had already turned his mount and was riding back toward them along the shoulder of the road.

  “We need to stop and see what has happened,” Secca said.

  “What do you think?” asked Alcaren as he eased his mount around beside Secca’s.

  “We need to check the scrying glass. The Sea-Priests have done something.”

  “The Sea-Priests?” blurted Richina. “But that was Clearsong.”

  “Who else?” asked Secca. “I cannot see Jolyn essaying such. She could not have reached Neserea from Falcor, and it did not feel like a death chime.” She turned in the saddle. “Chief players!”

  Alcaren motioned to Gorkon, one of the lancers riding guard behind Secca. “Would you summon Overcaptain Delcetta?”

  “Yes, ser.”

  Even before Gorkon had turned his mount toward the rear guard, Alcaren was urging his brown gelding back forward toward the vanguard where Wilten rode.

  Secca began to run through a vocalise to warm up her voice while she kept riding—until Alcaren reached Wilten, and the order echoed back. “Column halt! Stand by!”

  From the rear guard came a similar command.

  Secca eased the gray mare to the uphill side of the road, looking for a clear space short of the apple trees that was not muddy. She rode another ten yards forward before discovering a square area paved with stones, perhaps four yards on a side, with a narrow lane down to the main road, possibly an ancient loading area. She reined up and dismounted, handing the mare’s leads to Easlon, and unfastened the lutar from behind her saddle.

  Alcaren was close behind her, followed by Richina. While Alcaren unfastened the scrying mirror, Secca took out her lutar and began to check the tuning on the instrument. She finished the tuning and ran though another vocalise.

  She had to cough some mucus from her throat, and then try another vocalise. By the time she felt ready to sing, Alcaren had laid the scrying mirror on its leathers on the weathered stones. Delcetta, Wilten, the chief players, Richina, and Alcaren had formed a semicircle around the glass, flanking Secca on both sides.

  Secca took a slow breath, and then sang.

  “Show us now and in this glass

  the change in harmony that’s come to pass,

  that has chimed throughout this land…”

  As Secca watched, the mirror silvered, then shivered to show a solid line of rock between two low mountains. Steam rose from the rock and from behind it. In the foreground, a narrow and winding road ended abruptly at the jumbled mass of rock and soil, and to one side was an empty streambed.

  “A wall of rock…across the entire trade pass,” murmured Palian.

  “But why?” said Wilten quietly. “Or have they already crossed into Neserea?”

  “I would judge so,” replied Secca, “but we should see before we decide what we should do next.” She lifted the lutar once more.

  “Show us now as if upon a map of this or other land,

  where those of Sturinn we’ve pursued now ride or stand…”

  The white star appeared on the far side of the trade pass, clearly well to the north of the sorcerous barricade.

  “They used sorcery to melt their way through the pass, and then blocked it behind them,” Richina suggested. “They must fear you greatly, lady.”

  Secca waited for a moment, until all had a chance to study the mirror, before singing the release couplet. Then she considered Richina’s thought, frowning before speaking. “No. I think not. There is much more than such involved. They have shown little fear of me, or of Clayre.”

  “How can we reach Neserea?” asked the younger sorceress. “Will we have to cross Dumar and attempt to return through Stromwer?”

  “That pass is also blocked,” Secca pointed out.

  “There is no way to reach Neserea quickly, not unless you wish to try even greater sorcery and destroy whole mountains,” said Alcaren.

  “I do not know that we should try that.” Secca tilted her head. “That may be what they wish. Even if they do not, we are reacting to what they
do.”

  After a moment, she lifted the lutar.

  “Show us now as if upon a map of Neserea’s land,

  where Belmar’s forces now ride or stand…”

  The map showed most clearly a green star on the road south of the River Salya, a road that swung southwest toward the Mittpass. Secca nodded, then, after singing the release couplet, handed the lutar to Richina. “If you would use the map spell to show where the Liedfuhr’s lancers are in Neserea?”

  “In Neserea…Oh…yes, lady.” Richina’s fingers ran over the lutar’s strings. She licked her lips and then cleared her throat. Finally, she sang.

  When Richina had finished the third map spell, the mirror showed a maroon star on the road east of the Mittpass, a road that intersected the one on which Belmar’s forces rode, if some considerable distance from where the Mansuuran forces appeared to be.

  “How far between them?” asked Delcetta from where she stood at Alcaren’s shoulder.

  “I would judge more than a hundred deks at the moment,” replied Alcaren. “Perchance a hundred and fifty.”

  Secca noted the steam coming from the damp stones and could sense the heat from the scrying mirror. While there was a small spare mirror, there was no sense in breaking the larger mirror. “The release couplet.”

  “Ah…yes, lady.”

  Looking for a moment at the mirror that reflected familiar faces and the clear sky overhead, if slightly distorted by the heat of sorcery, Secca pursed her lips. “I must think.” Think…indeed you must.

  For a long time, she stood, holding a lutar she had forgotten was in her hands, her eyes looking nowhere.

  As she stood there, in the spring sunlight, with a warm breeze at her back, she could sense a cold and darkness, not of the day, but of the spirit, descending upon her, and she shivered.

  Alcaren eased forward and murmured softly, “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “We will talk later,” she replied in an even lower murmur, before raising her voice, “I was just thinking of the cold of the Mittfels. But that cold matters not. We will ride for Dumaria. That is all that we can do at this moment.” Secca offered a smile she did not feel, then bent and reached for the lutar’s case, slowly casing the instrument, and then waiting for Alcaren to wrap the scrying mirror and refasten it behind Secca’s saddle.