The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle

by Modesitt. Jr. , L. E.

  Once the roof is clear, except for Belmar’s personal guards, the sorcerer steps to the edge of the roof and turns to jerGlien. “And the golds?”

  “The ship’s master keeps half, remember?”

  “I remember, and you retain a third of the other half.”

  JerGlien smiles modestly.

  “It’s not a bad investment. Sturinn gets back two-thirds of the cost of bribing the Mansuurans; we kill an entire company, which reduces the forces facing the Maitre, and everyone thinks that either Kestrin is bent on conquest or can’t control his own land.” Belmar smiles.

  JerGlien provides a noncommittal shrug.

  “I am sure that is the idea, or something close to it, if not more ingenious.” Belmar’s voice carries more than a trace of amusement. “However, you did promise.”

  “I did, and we do keep our promises. You will recall the small matter of scrolls.”

  “Ah…yes. Tomorrow, they will be dispatched. For the moment, I need to inspect the damage below. I look forward to seeing you then.”

  “Until tomorrow.” The man in gray bows, then slips silently to the steps.

  With a nod to his guards, Belmar follows the other down to the street, where they proceed in different directions.

  19

  The wind whistled out of the northeast, chilling Secca as she rode westward out of Sorprat toward Pamr, and toward the holding of Lady Herene that lay north of the town center of Pamr. Absently, as she refastened the top buttons of her riding jacket, the sorceress wondered if young Kysar would be there, or if he were in Fussen with his father, Falar, since Falar was about to turn the holding over formally to his ward and nephew Uslyn on the young lord’s twentieth birthday.

  The death of Uslyn’s older brother, Vlastal, had resulted from another need for sorcery set in the shadows, but not nearly so visible as the incident of the broken bridge at Aroch. Thankfully, Lord Ustal had been so unpopular that no one had looked closely into the snapped crossbow catch, and the frayed cable that had shredded his throat—or the consumption that had claimed Vlastal and had run its course well before Ustal’s death. Still, luck had aided Jolyn, luck and the fact that no one in Fussen had ever seen the sorceress.

  Secca straightened in the saddle. The gray’s hoofs clopped on the smooth stones of the road, the sound sharp despite the low moaning of the wind that seemed to foreshadow a long and cold winter. The cold haze above the horizon was thick enough to have swallowed the disk of the bright moon Clearsong, although it would be setting shortly in any case.

  Beside Secca rode Richina, silent for the moment, wrapped in a blue leather jacket similar to Secca’s green jacket. Before them rode Quebar and Savyn, one of the squad leaders of the purple company. At the head of the column was a single lancer bearing the blue banner with the two gold musical notes upon it that signified that Secca was a sorceress of Defalk—the banner that had been Anna’s. Palian and Delvor followed Secca and Richina.

  Secca’s eyes dropped from the haze above the horizon to the broad road that stretched—straight as a quarrel—from Sorprat to Pamr. The stones were even and level, and showed no sign of wear, and the road itself was a constant eight yards wide—enough for the largest wagons to pass side by side. A faint smile crossed Secca’s lips. The lowland section had been one of the last paved between Mencha and Falcor, and it had been the first major sorcery Anna had let Secca do. More than fifteen years later, her work looked almost new. Then, so did the roads done by Anna, Clayre, and Jolyn. They still hadn’t finished the network laid out by Anna, but there were completed metaled roads running from Falcor to the borders of Defalk in all the cardinal directions, as well as a few others.

  Before long, Secca would be working with Richina on road-and bridge-building, perhaps initially on the last section of the road between Mencha and the River Chean bridge. With only six deks or so to complete, perhaps she and Richina could finish it before summer. The northern section, from the north side of the River Chean to the Fal River and Elhi, had been one of the first roads paved through sorcery.

  “Lady, how much longer?” asked Richina quietly.

  “Two glasses, if we’re not stopped in the town.” She smiled. “Kysar may be in Fussen, you know, for the celebration?”

  “He’s not for me, even if mother has a soft spot for Lady Herene,” Richina replied.

  “She was your mother’s first warder and tutor.”

  “They’ve remained friends, and I like Kysar well enough, but he’s too charming.”

  Like his father, Secca thought, nodding, reflecting that Anna had been smart to keep Falar from ever controlling a holding directly.

  “Irenia is the one I’d rather see. She’s like Lady Herene,” Richina added.

  “I thought she was in Falcor.”

  “She left. Her last scroll said Counselor Dythya told her she was ready to work as an assistant saalmeister. She’s hoping Lord Tiersen or Lord Kinor will let her train in their holds.”

  “Something’s headed our way, lady,” offered Quebar.

  Secca squinted, trying to make out the object on the road ahead, an object that resolved itself into a large long-haul trader’s wagon, one moving quickly eastward. Drawn by six rough-coated dray horses, the heavy trader’s wagon rolled toward Secca’s vanguard. Then, as though the driver saw the golden notes upon the blue banner, the wagon slowed immediately, and the driver edged it to the left.

  “Sorceress.” The bearded driver bowed his head. “Our respects.” Beside him, the armed guard also inclined his head.

  “Thank you,” Secca responded cheerfully. “A good journey to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Even the pair of guards on the rear seat nodded as they passed, and Secca returned the gesture.

  The legend painted on the side of the long wagon was simple, gold letters set within a green rectangular frame: “Teryn & Son, Factors in Spirits, Falcor.”

  Secca nodded, as behind her the wagon again picked up speed, its iron-bound wheels rumbling on the hard stone, on its way toward Mencha, the Sand Pass, and then into Ebra. While the road was stone-paved only for roughly thirty deks into Ebra, the route farther eastward was well-traveled enough that it had been packed into a hard surface—except in the early spring or after heavy rains.

  The sorceress shifted her weight in the saddle again, a saddle that was getting harder with each dek she rode.

  20

  In the late afternoon, under a still-cloudless sky, Secca reined up the gray mare in the liedburg courtyard in Falcor. She was scarcely surprised that Lord Robero had not come down to greet her and her party upon her arrival. The silver-haired Dythya, who had been Counselor of Finance ever since Secca could remember, stood on the mounting block by the main west entrance.

  “Greetings, Lady Secca.” Dythya’s smile was as friendly as ever.

  “It’s good to see you again.” The courtyard was warmer than the open road or the streets of Falcor had been, and Secca unfastened the green leather riding jacket.

  “Lord Robero is engaged, but he will be free shortly and would hope you would stop by the audience chamber.” Dythya smiled again, professionally, rather than personally.

  Understanding, Secca grinned. “I will indeed.”

  “I will convey that.” Dythya’s smile broadened.

  Secca urged the mare toward the stables. Just ahead, the dark-haired Clayre stood by the second west entrance to the main section of the liedburg, smiling and raising an arm to greet Secca as the younger sorceress rode toward the stables.

  By the time Secca had unloaded her gear, then waited for Richina to do the same, Clayre had crossed the damp paving stones to meet them. “You still look the same.”

  “So do you,” Secca replied to the taller sorceress.

  “You look older,” Clayre added, with a grin to Richina.

  The apprentice bowed slightly, clearly unsure of how to respond to Clayre’s pleasantry.

  “The older fosterling boys, especially those from t
he north, will drool, but don’t mind them,” Clayre added. “They’re still not used to…Falcor.”

  Richina nodded, trying to keep from frowning, as the three walked from the stables to the side door and then up the stairs to the second floor corridor that held the major chambers of the liedburg. Behind them followed Quebar and two lancers.

  Clayre led the way to the chamber that had been Anna’s, in the middle of the eastern side of the liedburg, where she opened the door. “Lord Robero suggested that it be for the Sorceress of Loiseau.” Her voice carried a tone of both concern and apology.

  “He wasted little time, did he not?”

  The dark-haired older sorceress offered a nervous smile.

  As Quebar cleared his throat, Secca turned to the lancer captain.

  Quebar nodded at the pair of lancers. “Dyvan and Easlon will be your guards.”

  “I’m sorry. You have other things to do.” Secca inclined her head to Quebar. “I’ll be fine. Thank you.”

  Quebar bowed, before turning and heading toward the stairs.

  “We need to talk. I will be back in a moment.” Clayre nodded to Richina. “Your quarters are in the south tower, with the other fosterlings.”

  Secca watched for a moment as Clayre led the sandy-haired apprentice down the corridor, then looked at the older and shorter lancer. “Dyvan, I’ll be unpacking until Lady Clayre returns.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  Secca smiled, then turned and closed the door. She carried the saddlebags to the footchest, where she deposited them, before setting the lutar case on the bed, then unfastening the sabre scabbard and laying blade and sheath on the footchest as well.

  The chamber looked little different from what it had before harvest—or a score of years before—with the high bed, the small desk, the narrow window, and the attached bath chamber.

  Clayre had her permanent quarters farther north along the corridor, in the larger chambers that had once belonged to Lady Essan, who had died almost a score of years before. Robero, of course, had combined the three southeast corner chambers into a suite for himself and Alyssa.

  Secca had hung her riding jacket in the small armoire, washed up, after heating the cold water in the basin with the elemental spell, and was brushing her hair when there was a knock on the heavy door.

  “Come in.”

  Clayre stepped inside. “I am sorry. About the chamber. But the liedburg grows ever more crowded.”

  “You aren’t the one who made the choice.” Secca shrugged. “I know I can’t grieve forever, but…” She paused. “If I don’t take the chamber, I’ll be seen as petty and foolish.”

  “He was going to give it to Jolyn. We both protested.”

  “Thank you.”

  There was another silence. “We do need to talk.” Clayre inclined her head toward the chamber beyond the door and across the hall—the one that held the reflecting pool created by Anna’s sorcery.

  “It’s still shielded?” asked Secca.

  “Yes. Whatever she did affected the stones themselves.” Clayre opened the heavy oak door and motioned.

  Marveling and wondering how much of what Anna had done would last well beyond her death, Secca followed Clayre out and across the corridor. Dyvan followed Secca, while Easlon remained at the door to Secca’s chamber. Clayre opened the door to the scrying chamber, and both sorceresses stepped inside. Behind them Dyvan gulped even before Clayre shut the oak door. Secca smiled. Lancers were not used to sorceresses vanishing from view in plain sight.

  “I added a spell to keep words from leaving the chamber.”

  “Ears everywhere?” asked Secca.

  “More than I’d like. Anna hated it. I think that was one reason she left Falcor.”

  “One of many.” Secca’s voice was dry. “What’s wrong?”

  “You know me too well.” Clayre laughed, mirthlessly. “Not only is Hanfor dead, but there’s been an attack by Mansuuran armsmen on a coastal town in Neserea. The local lord killed all the attackers, but he’s sent bodies and tunics and a few other proofs from Worlan to Esaria.”

  “And scrolls here?” asked Secca.

  “I assume they’re on the way.”

  “This is your friend Belmar?”

  “Not my friend,” Clayre protested. “He never was. Good-looking through a glass, but never more than that, especially not now.”

  “It seems rather convenient.”

  “All too convenient, but Lord Robero won’t be willing to say that it’s suspicious. There’s no proof. If he says too much, then he’s viewed as wanting to take over Neserea, and Hanfor’s suspicious death is laid at his feet—or ours.”

  “Then, you haven’t told Robero? Or Jolyn?”

  Clayre shook her head. “I just found out last night, and I wanted to talk to you to see if you knew anything. Jolyn’s at Elheld. Robero has her rebuilding the stables. There’s no harp there.”

  “What did she tell him this time?” asked Secca with a laugh. “That the stables were collapsing?”

  “Something like that. Except there was the hint that he’d be compared unfavorably to his grandsire.”

  “She’ll do anything to get out of Falcor.”

  “Almost anything,” Clayre amended. “Except she won’t take a consort. She claims that she feels more like an aunt or a mother to anyone her age.”

  “With as many lovers as she’s had—all of them a decade older—she should know.”

  “Jealous?” asked Clayre.

  “No,” replied the younger sorceress simply. Somehow…in some fashion, Secca had always thought there would be someone, but there never had been. Robero had been far too self-centered, wanting someone to adore him, or at least pretend that, while Secca herself had been looking for someone like her father—or Lord Jecks. And after seeing the closeness between Anna and Jecks, Secca had never wanted to settle for a consorting of convenience, especially not if it meant losing her powers—or some of them—to have children to provide an heir…for what? “She’s also going to work on the road from Elheld north to Wendel?”

  “I did suggest that,” Clayre said with a laugh. “The way things are going, we may need more than one way northward…or in any direction.”

  “There’s no new trouble in Ebra,” Secca said.

  “No, but Hadrenn’s always been a rotten timber.”

  “Not rotten, just weak,” Secca corrected.

  “They both give way under weight.”

  “With Anna…gone…you think Mynntar will try something?”

  “You’ve followed him more than we have,” Clayre said. “What do you think?”

  “Mynntar won’t do anything directly against Defalk, but he could attack Hadrenn. Even so, he won’t act unless he can finish whatever it is before we could deal with him.”

  “But with trouble in Neserea…?”

  “He’ll bear watching,” Secca admitted. “We’d best tell Robero about the Mansuuran attack on Neserea. Tell him we just found out now, and that it could be a ploy by anyone, not necessarily by Kestrin.”

  “Kestrin couldn’t be that stupid.”

  “No. But what if someone wanted to show he didn’t control his land?” asked Secca. “That he is weak or ineffectual? Then what?”

  Clayre winced. “I don’t like that at all.”

  Neither did Secca. “We might as well tell Robero now. I should present myself to his lordship.”

  “You still don’t care for him, do you?”

  “Robero has always been too impressed with Robero, and I worry that without Anna…” Secca let the words trail off.

  “That we’ll have to go through the same trials she did?”

  “Haven’t you thought about it? She was a mighty sorceress from the Mist Worlds. How could we know or have the powers she did?”

  “They’ll learn,” Clayre prophesied.

  “We’d best go.”

  Clayre nodded, and the two stepped from the reflecting pool chamber.

  Dyvan’s eyes widened as t
hey appeared from what seemed to be an empty chamber, but he did not swallow or gulp as he turned to follow Secca down the steps to the main level and the audience chamber.

  Two guards and a page Secca didn’t recognize waited outside the closed doors.

  “Lady Secca and Lady Clayre to see Lord Robero,” Secca said quietly.

  The two guards inclined their heads slightly, and the shorter one turned and edged the door open. “The lady sorceresses, Lord Robero.”

  After a moment, in which Robero must have gestured, for Secca heard nothing, the guard opened the door. Dyvan remained in the corridor with the other two guards. The blocky man in the gilded chair did not rise as Secca and Clayre entered the audience chamber.

  Secca bowed, if just enough to convey respect for the position Robero held.

  Behind and to the left of Lord Robero’s chair was a smaller chair, occupied by a petite blonde woman, even more slender and shorter than Secca. Before her consort could speak, Alyssa rose and stepped forward with a warm smile. “Secca…it’s so good to see you.” She glanced at Clayre. “And you, too, if but since yesterday.”

  Rising belatedly, Robero offered the all-too-familiar boyish grin, then brushed back wisps of his thinning mahogany hair. “It is good to see you again.” He added quickly. “Both of you.”

  “It is always good to see you and Alyssa, even when the occasion is sad.” Secca was grateful to Alyssa, who served Robero as much as loved him, and who, somehow, quietly, managed to keep him from taking himself as seriously as he would have liked to do.

  “How…?” asked Alyssa. “She seemed strong last summer.”

  “She was working on something. She hadn’t even tried to cast a spell. I found her collapsed by the reflecting pool. Usually, when that happened, she would rest and recover. This time…she didn’t.”

  “We will miss her.” Robero, surprisingly, sounded as though he would, as he reseated himself, leaving Secca and Clayre—and Alyssa—standing.

  Secca had to believe that the Lord of Defalk had actually considered all of what Anna had meant to him and Defalk.