Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle Page 6

  The Matriarch nodded. “I will convey both my approval and yours to the Council of SouthWomen…not that they need mine, nor have they always heeded the Matriarch, but it is better when we do agree.” Alya’s last words were delivered with a dryly sardonic tone.

  “How soon can we leave?” pressed Secca.

  “Before your consorting I had asked the Exchange to make ready the ships. Three days from now, I am told, if there are no storms, and if you are ready.”

  “We will be ready.”

  “I will send word.” Alya stood. “I wish that times were otherwise.”

  “So do we all.” Secca bowed. “Thank you.”

  “We owe you the far greater thanks, Lady Secca. Perhaps in time, all in Ranuak will understand that.”

  “You are kind.” Secca doubted that the Ladies of the Shadows would ever be thankful, and with what she might have to do in the weeks and seasons ahead, they would be even less pleased. “We will do our best.” With a faint smile, she bowed again and turned.

  Outside, Alcaren was still standing by the top of the stairs. He glanced at her.

  Secca nodded slightly, and they started down the steps.

  “Three days,” she murmured, as she and Alcaren crossed the foyer toward the archway leading out to the portico.

  “Wilten will not be pleased.”

  They both laughed softly as they stepped out of the building and under the portico.

  Gorkon led their mounts to them, and Secca mounted quickly, and as gracefully as possible, she thought, for a woman as small as she was.

  She said nothing as they rode out from under the portico and into the rain that had let up and become more like an icy mist.

  “That is not all, is it?” Alcaren finally said as Secca and he followed the squad of SouthWomen back southward toward the guest quarters and barracks.

  Secca eased her mount closer to Alcaren’s, so close that their legs almost brushed, and she replied in a low voice, “They’ve asked me to accept five companies of SouthWomen, with Delcetta as overcaptain reporting to you. I accepted. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Reporting to me?”

  “In a battle, I can’t worry about lancers. You think I should have them report to Wilten?” Secca lifted her eyebrows as she continued to look at Alcaren.

  He shook his head. “Best you let Wilten know that it was the Matriarch’s request.”

  “I will, once we have gathered everyone.” Secca used the back of her glove to blot away the melted water oozing down her forehead toward her eyes. Her thoughts went from the sea voyage ahead and the Sturinnese forces in Dumar to Clayre and the difficulties the older sorceress faced in Neserea…and back to her speculations about what might await her forces in Dumar.

  Alcaren respected her pensiveness, and the ride back to the guest quarters was without more conversation. As they made their way back up the stairs to the second floor of the structure, Secca blotted away more of the water that had seemed to seep into her hair, despite the green felt hat.

  Achar and Easlon were the guards at the double doors to her chambers. Secca glanced to the older guard. “Easlon…if you would find Lady Richina, the chief players, Overcaptain Wilten, and Captain Delcetta.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  “Oh…and would you see if you can find another chair somewhere?”

  Easlon nodded before turning away.

  Alcaren opened the door for Secca, then followed her inside and closed it. He crossed the room to the hearth and lifted another log from the wood box onto the gracefully curved bronze andirons—above the coals that were all that remained of the morning’s fire.

  “Thank you,” Secca said. “That icy rain is almost as bad as the snow.”

  “I’m not sure it’s not worse,” replied her consort, taking Secca’s jacket and hanging both his and hers on the wall pegs.

  Secca glanced toward the bedchamber. “Is your lumand here?”

  “It’s behind the door,” replied Alcaren. “Why?”

  “You’ll need it.” Secca smiled.

  “My lady…”

  “You’re going to do some of the scrying spells.”

  “I can see you are determined.” Alcaren laughed, almost ruefully.

  “You knew that before we consorted,” she pointed out.

  He shook his head as he crossed the room.

  “Lady Richina,” announced Achar.

  “Have her come in.”

  Richina entered, carrying her cased lutar, and offered a slight bow to Secca. “Lady.”

  “How are you feeling?” asked Secca.

  “I am fine.” Richina tilted her head quizzically.

  “Good. If you would sit at the table while the others are arriving and prepare a scrying spell to call up Lord Fehern of Dumar?” Secca asked.

  The younger blonde looked at Secca. “Are you feeling well, lady?”

  Secca laughed. “I’m fine. We’re going to face the Sea-Priests. Both you and Alcaren are going to get a great deal of practice in sorcery before we land in Dumar.”

  “She is very determined on this,” Alcaren said, stepping back into the main chamber and running his fingers over the strings of his lumand—a unique instrument somewhere between a mandolin and lutar.

  Richina offered a smile, and set her lutar against the wall, well away from the heat of the hearth.

  “Lady?”

  At Easlon’s voice, all three turned.

  “Here is a chair. The chief players will be here shortly. So will Overcaptain Wilten and Captain Delcetta.”

  “Thank you.” Secca walked toward the door, picked up the chair, and carried it back to the table. She had barely set it beside the table when Easlon announced the chief players. “Come in.”

  Palian and Delvor stepped inside the quarters. Both bowed, although Delvor slipped from his bow into quick sliding steps to a position in front of the hearth.

  “The fire feels good, lady,” he explained.

  “You can enjoy it until Wilten and Delcetta get here,” Secca said.

  “That won’t be long,” commented Palian. “They were but a few moments behind us.”

  As if to confirm her words, Easlon announced, “Overcaptain Wilten and Captain Delcetta.”

  Secca took a seat and waited until the others were seated around the conference table, before she began. “I met with the Matriarch earlier this morning. She has agreed to provide us with vessels to take us to Dumar. They will be ready in three days, if there are no storms.”

  “Three days?” asked Wilten deliberately.

  “The Sea-Priests are readying a fleet in the Ostisles. I would prefer that we have some time in Dumar before we face even greater numbers of Sturinnese and their thunder drummers.”

  “Lady…we have four companies that number closer to three. Even with two companies of SouthWomen…” Wilten shook his head.

  Secca glanced toward the red-haired Delcetta. “Has the Matriarch talked to you?”

  The SouthWoman officer nodded. “Would you like me to explain…?”

  “Please,” Secca said.

  Worry and puzzlement warred briefly on Wilten’s face as he turned to look at the blonde SouthWoman.

  “Both the Matriarch and the Council have agreed,” began Delcetta. “We will send all five companies of SouthWomen lancers with your forces. We are prepared to leave immediately.”

  Palian nodded, the hint of a smile crossing her face.

  “Delcetta has also been advanced to overcaptain, but the Matriarch has requested that she still report to Overcaptain Alcaren,” Secca added.

  “The SouthWomen have agreed to continuing that line of command,” Delcetta replied. “It has worked well.”

  Secca looked to Wilten. “We will have a few more companies, and also another sorcerer in Alcaren.”

  Wilten nodded slowly. “Still…it is a perilous undertaking.”

  “Very perilous,” Secca agreed. “But delaying will only make it more so.”

  “Where might w
e land?” asked Delvor. “Will not Narial be defended by the Sturinnese?”

  “I had thought we would avoid Narial.” Secca stood and gestured to the maps laid across the table. “We don’t have the forces to attack Narial, except with sorcery, and I don’t see any point in destroying what’s left of the port city. Most of the Sturinnese forces are gathering in Dumaria, probably for a march upon those Dumaran forces remaining in Envaryl. That is where Lord Fehern appears to be gathering his forces. If we land at the harbor of Stygia—it’s a small fishing port to the south of Envaryl—we can follow the trading road across the low hills east of the southern Westfels and reach Envaryl that way. Also, there is a narrow trading pass northeast of Envaryl that, when the snows melt, could gain us entrance to Neserea to help Lady Clayre.”

  “What about the Sturinnese, Lady Secca?” asked Wilten. “Could they not follow us from Narial?”

  Secca nodded to Alcaren.

  “That would be most difficult for them,” Alcaren said smoothly. “Much of the coast is rugged and rocky, and they have no vessels to carry them to Stygia. The only other route is by the midland farm roads, and that would take them far, far longer. We would be well in position on the highland bluffs before they could reach us.”

  “What do we know about Lord High Counselor Fehern? Will he hold until we reach Envaryl?”

  Rather than answer the question directly, Secca turned to Richina. “If you would call up Lord Fehern in the glass?”

  “Yes, lady.” Richina stood and reclaimed her lutar, taking it from the case and checking the tuning. Shortly, she began the chords for the scrying spell, and then the spell itself.

  “Bring us clearly and as you will

  Fehern’s image to this glass fill…”

  The glass displayed a man standing by a window, a figure seemingly tall, with graying black hair, deep-set eyes, and an angular face.

  Both Wilten and Delcetta frowned.

  Secca was more interested in the broad-shouldered figure in traveler’s gray who stood back from Fehern’s shoulder. She studied the man. “He looks like a Sea-Priest, even if he’s in gray and not white.”

  No one else around the table spoke.

  Secca smiled at Alcaren. “Can you come up with a spell to see if he is?”

  Richina’s eyes went from Secca to the glass, then back to the Ranuan. Then the younger sorceress sang the release couplet for her own spell.

  “Let this image leave in flight

  and clear the glass for another sight…”

  After frowning and mouthing some words, Alcaren eased from his chair. He picked up his lumand, an instrument smaller than Secca’s lutar and, facing the glass, began to sing.

  “Show me now and as you can,

  Any Sea-Priest close to Fehern the man…”

  The glass showed almost the same scene, except that it focused on the dark-haired man with the trimmed and square black beard.

  “You can release it,” Secca said to Alcaren. “If you and Richina would sit down…” She waited until all were seated around the conference table.

  “Did you know this before?” asked Palian.

  “Not for certain. Jolyn had sent a scroll some weeks ago that suggested Fehern’s rise to Lord High Counselor had been sudden and unexpected.” Secca laughed once, harshly. “We had Sea-Priests in Ebra. Why not in Dumar?”

  “How could he place himself in the hands of the Sea-Priests?” asked Delcetta. “Does he not understand that he will be their slave?”

  “Perhaps Fehern doesn’t know the man is a Sea-Priest,” suggested Richina.

  “He may not wish to know,” said Alcaren dryly.

  “With this…can we afford to enter Dumar?” asked Wilten.

  “Can we afford not to?” countered Palian. “Fehern cannot know or allow himself to believe that the man is Sturinnese. Otherwise, he would not have fought the Sea-Priests. He would have sought terms or some advantage. Better we act before the Sturinnese learn we know such.”

  “So long as we never rely on Lord High Counselor Fehern,” added Alcaren.

  Secca stood. “We still embark in three days. While we make ready, I would like you to think upon this, and how we might turn it to our advantage.”

  Wilten looked at Delcetta, then at Delvor, and finally at Alcaren. Each met his gaze without blinking. A long moment passed before he murmured, “As you will, Lady Secca.”

  Those around the table rose and bowed to Secca, except for Alcaren, who merely stepped back toward the windows while the others filed out of the chamber.

  After the door closed behind Richina, Secca and Alcaren exchanged glances.

  “It’s a trap, you know,” Alcaren said.

  “A snare within a trap, I think.” Secca looked at Alcaren. “Yet waiting will tighten the noose more.”

  “The Maitre has been planning this for years.”

  “He has been planning longer. We’ll have to plan better,” she replied. After a moment, she added, “Once preparations are complete, and just before we embark, we should send a message by sorcery to Lord Robero telling him that we are beginning the effort to reclaim Dumar.”

  “Do you have some thoughts as to how we are to accomplish that, my lady?”

  “Not yet.” She smiled, half-sadly, not quite truthfully, as she recalled the notes hidden away in her pack, the ones taken from Anna’s notebooks with the spells she had shuddered to read, and shuddered more in reading Anna’s explanations. “Do you?”

  “Not yet, but I have great confidence in you.”

  Secca shook her head.

  “I do…It is just that you fear doing what you must do.” Alcaren grinned. “Remember, you don’t have to do anything this moment.” He glanced toward the bedchamber, with a half-leering smile, “except enjoy your consort.”

  “I never thought…” Secca began.

  “Neither did I,” he replied.

  They both laughed, and the sound was a mixture of rue and joy.

  10

  Encora, Ranuak

  The Matriarch walks slowly toward the throne-chair of blue crystal that waits upon the low dais at the end of the formal receiving room. Her eyes barely take in the familiar room, or her distorted reflection in the shadowed long windows on the west side of the room, a reflection that does not show clearly the blonde hair that is silvering all too rapidly, nor the drawn face that has become more and more angular with each season.

  Silently, she steps up onto the dais, turning and seating herself on the blue cushion that is the sole softness within the chamber. She straightens herself upon the throne-chair of blue crystal, then clears her throat, before declaring firmly, “You may show her in.”

  “Yes, Matriarch.” The voice of the guard is firm and clear, although he stands in the corridor outside the receiving room.

  The door opens. A gray-haired woman steps slowly into the formal receiving room, and beams of golden morning light slanting through the long windows bathe her boots. The short cut of her hair accentuates the roundness of her face, but the deep-set eyes are hard and cold. She offers a bow that is less than perfunctory. “Matriarch.”

  “You expressed a desire to see me. What do you wish?” asks Alya.

  “I would like to know how long you intend to keep us prisoned in the White Tower. Or our daughters in the Blue.”

  “Not much longer, Santhya. It would not have been necessary had you not been so foolish as to try to kill the Sorceress Protector.”

  “I did nothing of the sort, Matriarch.” After a pause, she adds, “As you well know.” After a second pause, she continues, “Nor did I consort a sorcerer and a sorceress under the aegis of the Matriarchy.”

  “You would rather I deny them that small happiness?” Alya snorts. “As for attempting murder, as one of your council, you approved that attempt, even if you did not personally lift the blade.” Alya offers a wry smile. “Even so, I keep my word. It may be a week or two, but then you can return to your home.”

  “But not to the Exch
ange, I wager.”

  “No.” Alya shakes her head. “You have proven that you place the Ladies of the Shadows above your duty to Ranuak. That is not acceptable for the Assistant Exchange Mistress.”

  “Dyleroy accepts this?”

  “It was her decision, not mine. She is Exchange Mistress.”

  “For mere golds you will destroy all we hold dear.”

  Alya’s eyes glitter, and a palpable chill issues from the dais.

  Santhya shivers, but says nothing, and her own deep-set eyes continue to view the Matriarch.

  Finally, Alya speaks, slowly, deliberately. “What we hold dear is the right to determine how we live. What we hold dear is for each woman to be mistress of her own body. Golds are one tool, but no Matriarch and no Exchange Mistress has ever subverted those principles to golds. You, and all the Ladies of the Shadows, fear the use of sorcery so greatly that you would return us to being slaves rather than see sorcery employed to keep us free. Through fear, you would enslave us.”

  “Through sorcery,” counters Santhya, “you will destroy us.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “Matriarch…small as she is, well-mannered as she is, that sorceress will destroy all that is Liedwahr before the year is out. The Spell-Fire Wars will seem like nothing compared to what she will unleash in the name of protecting Defalk—and us—from the Sea-Priests. The oceans will turn to steam; the land will flow like water; and the handful of folk who survive will die barren.”

  Alya laughs. “In the time of the Mynyans, during the Spell-Fire Wars you mention so often and so well, there were scores of sorcerers and sorceresses. Today, Defalk has four, perhaps five. The Sea-Priests may have a score, possibly twoscore, after the score or so that the Sorceress-Protector Secca destroyed.”

  “The Sorceress-Protector has the knowledge from the Mist Worlds, and none had that in the time of the Spell-Fire Wars.”

  “Enough.” Alya does not raise her voice, but the receiving room chills yet more, despite the morning sunlight angling through the eastern windows. “We do not agree. We will likely never agree. I have answered your inquiry, and you may go.”