Slowly, she slid from under the heavy covers, her feet touching first the woven rug beside the bed, and then the cold smooth stone of the floor beyond. Her right hand grasped the dagger on the table by the bed, slipping it from its sheath.
She cocked her head to one side, listening, but the hold at Pamr was silent, the stone cold and reassuringly solid beneath her feet.
One-handed, she used the striker to light the bedside lamp. As the glow grew, she looked around the room. Nothing looked different.
But what had been that awful anguished chord?
She glanced around the room again.
Something had disturbed the Harmonies mightily, but where?
Secca took a deep breath. There was little she could do. The ride to Pamr had been long, so long it had been well past sunset, into the second glass of the night, when she had slowly dismounted in the courtyard, and well into the fourth glass before she had pulled the covers in this strange guest chamber over her.
Even trying to search out the cause of that disruption would not be wise, not until she had more rest, and more food. In any case, there was little enough that she could do. Perhaps when she returned to Loiseau…
Still, she checked every corner of her chamber, and the latch bolt to the room, before she returned to her bed and blew out the lamp.
And…tired as she was, she found sleep was a long time returning.
27
Standing just back from the archway to the large practice room of the domed building that lay almost half a dek to the south of the walls of Loiseau, Secca listened as the second players worked through the spellsong.
Their copper-tipped finger guards struck the metal strings of the lutars with a precision that it had taken Anna—and Secca—years to develop. Then the three sizes of lutars had also taken years of effort to design and make. Finding a way to draw the wire strings had been the hardest, since spellsinging didn’t work nearly so well in replicating tempered or highly forged objects, such as master blades or wire.
Although Delvor and the second players had accompanied Secca to Falcor, neither Secca nor Anna had employed the second players beyond the lands of Mencha, except for road- and bridge building. Mainly, they had been used in wresting metals from the hills west of the Ostfels, but always on the lands held by Loiseau. So far they had not been needed elsewhere and for other uses, although Anna had insisted that the time for their use would come.
Delvor nodded in time to the simple harmony, the hard, almost drumlike rhythms of the lutars shaking the windows in their casements. The lead player’s lank brown hair flopped across his forehead. While his hair was far thinner than in years previous, it was still as long and brown and unkempt.
Secca smiled. Delvor was a far better lutarist and lutar leader than he had ever been a violino player. She slipped away, down the corridor to the smaller workroom where Richina was drilling Jeagyn and Kerisel in the simpler vocalises. For a time she stood in the door and listened. At the end of the first exercise, Richina glanced toward Secca.
“Your mouths aren’t open wide enough,” Secca said. “For a spellsong to carry, you must use all that you have with as little effort as possible. If your mouths are closed, you have to work harder, and the spell will not carry so far. In a battle, that could mean you would die under the arrows of archers loosing shafts from beyond your voice. In working the mines, that could mean more spells…or less iron.”
“Yes, lady,” chorused the three.
Secca smiled and nodded. “You will learn.” Then she continued into the spell-shielded room that held the scrying pool. She closed the chamber door behind her. Her eyes slipped past the pool to the iron door of the safe room. Behind the door were the bookcase filled with notebooks and the rows of overlarge sealed jars on the shelves of the second bookcase, each containing a different substance, finely ground. There was also a second smaller strong room within the safe room that contained strong-boxes filled with gold bars, coins, and a few other items.
Secca’s eyes dropped to the desk she and Anna had shared in recent years, when Anna had asked Secca to write down yet more of the scraps of knowledge Anna had remembered from the Mist Worlds. Secca shook her head, recalling the reason for all the notebooks, remembering the two times when she and Anna had tried to retrieve what Anna had called textbooks. Both times, the volumes had arrived as flaming masses, accompanied with ugly dissonant chords, and both times, Anna and Secca had been prostrated.
Dissonant chords—with that thought, Secca lifted the lutar case and opened it. She needed to find out exactly who had been manipulating the Harmonies two nights before. She should have checked earlier, but she had hesitated to push herself. She’d seen too often what that had done to Anna.
Still…both the power and the ugliness alarmed her, and she couldn’t imagine that it had been Clayre’s or Jolyn’s doing. After tuning the lutar, she concentrated on the reflecting pool and the scrying spell.
“Show me now and in great detail
the source of that night’s deadly wail…”
As the image filled the silvered waters of the pool, Secca swallowed in spite of herself.
The harbor, for it had been a harbor, lay devastated—and she was seeing it after two days. The heavy timbers of the piers had been snapped as if they had been basket withies ground under enormous wagon wheels and then scattered carelessly. Ship timbers of various lengths and colors floated on the muddy water, as did other objects, including white specks that might have been bodies. The buildings around the harbor had been reduced to heaps of stone and bricks or snarled and twisted piles of wood. In the distance, she could see a single solid stone bridge—untouched except for the rubble heaped under and around it.
The bridge looked familiar, and she smiled wanly. The harbor had to be that of Narial.
She released the spell, singing a second version.
“Show Narial and in great detail
the results of last night’s deadly wail…”
The scene was almost identical, except the silvered waters showed more of the shoreline, with a greater number of piles of shattered structures.
The third spell was to find who created the damage. That revealed a fleet of nearly two score ships—warships of Sturinnese design, sailing in formation, northward, from what Secca could tell from the lighting. With no land in sight, there was little way for her to determine just where that fleet was headed, except that it meant ill for some land.
“An invasion fleet…” She shook her head. Clayre was somewhere enroute to Neserea. Jolyn was traveling back to Falcor, if she hadn’t deliberately mislaid or “misunderstood” the messages sent to her.
What about Hadrenn and Ebra? And the troublesome Mynntar? First, Mynntar.
The next image in the pool was that of a tall and broad-shouldered and clean-shaven blonde man, wearing a burgundy tunic, riding at the head of a very long column, a smile on his face.
Somehow, Mynntar’s smile seemed even more dishonest than when Secca had studied him earlier. Was that because of the open honesty of Lythner’s smile? Secca shook her head. Lythner might be honest and warm, but those qualities were not enough, and she hoped she would not find herself settling for such.
It took her several more attempts to scry enough of the column to determine that the lancers were riding westward along a river, and that at least five companies were clad in the white tunics of Sturinn. Almost as disturbing were the dozen wagons following the lancers.
After releasing the last scrying image, she poured the order-spelled water prepared by Richina into the goblet and took several long swallows. There was no way to reach Clayre, but she owed Robero a message with the news. It might arrive scorched on his conference table, but arrive it would.
She sat at the desk and began to write on the heavy parchment. When she was finished, she scanned the lines.
Most noble Lord of Defalk…
…the harbor of Narial lies in ruins, destroyed by a giant wave raised through Darksong…Darks
ong undertaken by Sea-Priests…A fleet of near-on two score vessels sails northward toward Liedwahr…
…Mynntar leads a large force of armsmen toward Synek…Inasmuch as you have already requested my travel to see Lord Hadrenn…as Protector of the East, I will do as I can to support Lord Hadrenn…ensure that Dolov remains a holding loyal to you…
She reread the scroll, then rolled it and sealed it. Then she placed it in the copper traveling tube, the tube lined with the fuzzy mineral Anna had called asbestos.
With a long deep breath, she picked up the lutar.
After dispatching the scroll, she found her entire body shivering. But then, that was expected. Parchment had once been living and even sending it was a form of Darksong, although it was encased in metal. A minor form, but Darksong, nonetheless—although many forms of sorcery bordered Darksong, and the line between Dearsong and Darksong was far less distinct than even most sorcerers or sorceresses would admit.
Secca sank onto the hard surface of the wooden desk chair. You haven’t done that much scrying in seasons. Not in so short a time, at least, and the message scroll hadn’t helped. Then, everything associated with sorcery had its costs—as Anna had so often emphasized.
She sat for a time before the small desk, drinking water from the pitcher and slowly eating the hard biscuits that Anna had always insisted be kept in the tin by the reflecting pool.
Finally, she rose and walked down the corridor, stopping at the door of the first players’ practice room, empty except for the chief player.
Palian turned. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything. The Sea-Priests have raised a giant wave that has destroyed Narial, all except for the bridge Anna built. They have an invasion fleet somewhere south of Liedwahr, and Mynntar has raised armsmen and is riding toward Synek. There’s plotting and a possible uprising being planned in Neserea, and the old Liedfuhr of Mansuur died less than half a season ago, and there are probably plots against Kestrin as well.”
“And Wei?”
“The Council won’t make trouble for Defalk, but I can’t see them helping much either.”
“Do you still plan to go to Synek?”
“More than ever. We’ll take all the players and all but one company of lancers. We can do something about Mynntar. I don’t know that I can do anything about a Sturinnese fleet.”
“Where will they strike? The Sturinnese?”
Secca spread her hands. “Dumar is not so strong as it should be, and with Narial destroyed, Dumar would be easiest at first. But the Sturinnese have disliked the Matriarchs of Ranuak for generations, and they could also attack the Free City of Elahwa to support Mynntar.”
“Ranuak or Dumar,” Palian suggested. “They gain little from Elahwa.”
“We will see.”
“I will refresh the players with the battle spells when they return.”
“Thank you.” Secca offered a smile to the graying chief player before she turned.
Outside, in the blustery gray afternoon, she mounted the gray and rode back toward the open gates of Loiseau, followed as always by four lancers in green. Silently, she rode upon the stones of the side lane to the main road leading to the gates, then through the gates and the north courtyard to the stables. There, she dismounted.
“You’d be looking grim, lady,” offered Vyren as he took the gray mare’s reins after Secca dismounted. “I’d be wagering it not be the weather.”
“You’d be right.” Realizing the grimness of her tone, she added quickly, “I’m sorry, Vyren. I hadn’t planned on all that has happened. It will be a hard winter, and a harder spring.” She forced a smile. “We’ll do what we can.”
Vyren nodded sagely. “One doesn’t lose a great lady often.”
“No. Her loss is greater than any realized.” That was certainly turning out to be true.
From the stables, Secca walked through the open iron gate into the rear bailey—the one she and Anna had added with sorcery ten years earlier—and toward the large structure set before the westernmost wall.
The dull impact of a hammer against hot metal filled the chill air of late fall as Secca stepped into the smithy. She stood well back from the forge, watching as Belan turned hot iron on the anvil and, with deft hammer blows, fullered the circular shape into a thinner and broader form.
Only when he had taken the tongs and replaced the cooling iron in the furnace did she speak. “How goes it, master smith?”
Turning to the sorceress, Belan blotted his brow with the back of his forearm. “Would that I were a sorcerer, Lady Secca. Would that I were…”
“Sorcery does not work well for what you do. The Lady Anna tried, and so have I.” She shrugged. “It takes hard work to forge what will change Defalk.”
“I’d be knowing that. The parts, they be straight enough, but the seals…fitting them so that the steam does not burst forth…”
The smith gestured to the model of the engine upon the rear work shelf—the one that lay in pieces. “Even from it came steam.”
“I know. We did tell you that you would be paid well—because the work would be hard.”
“That you did, Lady Secca. That you did.” Belan laughed. “I have had to learn casting, and casting iron such as this…” He shrugged. After a moment he added. “We will need more iron soon.”
Secca nodded. “We’ll go to the Sand Pass mine on the way to Synek. You can bring back what we take from the hills. You may have to use some of it for the special arrows and some for blades.”
“Folk are talking about fighting. Not in a score of years…”
“There will be fighting,” Secca admitted. “We will try to keep it from becoming war.”
“You sorceresses will?”
She nodded.
Belan looked toward the iron in the forge, then back at the redhead, questioningly.
“Liedwahr will still need engines such as those, perhaps more than we thought.”
“Be seasons yet, lady.”
“I know.” Secca smiled gently.
When Belan turned to the forge once more, Secca slipped from the smithy.
As she walked back toward her room to ponder all that was happening, thoughts swirled through her head. She needed to review the spells to use against thunder-drums and Darksong, and all sorts of other spells Anna had developed, spells unused in years. She couldn’t count on there not being a Sea-Priest with the Sturinnese lancers.
She also needed to think about how far she dared to go. Anna had been regent when she had fought in Ebra, and Secca was far from a regent. Protector of the East, which allowed her to support and defend Hadrenn, but then what?
Would she have any choices? Would she recognize them?
28
Wearing the heavy leather trousers, the padded leather tunic, and carrying the cumbersome practice helmet, Secca walked under a leaden gray sky toward the small walled courtyard beyond the lancers’ barracks. From the worn brown leather belt at her left side hung the battered scabbard that held her unedged practice sabre.
As she neared the archway to the practice yard, she could hear the sound of metal on metal, the scuffing of boots on the stone pavement, panting, more than a few grunts, and an occasional mutter.
“Lady’s coming, Easlon said…”
“…get one of the new ones to spar with her…”
“…don’t want any bruises, Gorkon?”
“…can’t win. Hard to touch her…strikes hard…and if you do hit her…then what?”
“She laughs…tries harder…better ’n a lot of lords.”
Secca smiled and stepped through the archway. Almost a score of armsmen were practicing, half that number paired off and sparring with each other. Two were stood under the overhanging eaves in front of the armorer’s shop, watching the ancient Albero while he used the pedal grindstone, sharpening one of their sabres.
Everything stopped, and the lancers turned toward Secca. Secca didn’t see any of the officers, but she often didn’t if she came later i
n the day, since most had consorts.
“Lady?” asked Westl, one of the senior squad leaders, who had clearly been instructing a younger lancer.
“I need to sharpen my very rusty skills with a blade, Westl. We are leaving tomorrow.” Secca smiled. “I’m sure there is someone here who won’t mind.” She looked across the lancers who had been sparring, then nodded toward the dark-haired Gorkon, who reminded her vaguely of Lythner. “Gorkon? Would you spar with me?”
Gorkon bowed slightly. “As you wish, lady.”
Secca could sense the suppressed laughter. She was always amazed at how often people were surprised when she said something based on what she had overheard, thinking that she had somehow used sorcery instead of her ears.
She smiled pleasantly. “I realize I offer a smaller target than you seek.” She shrugged expressively. “But since everyone is larger than I…”
That drew a few smiles, even from Gorkon.
She pulled on the practice helmet—her one concession to sorcerous practicality, since a blow to her throat or face would have consequences that she couldn’t really afford, especially with the tasks before her. Then she stepped forward into the nearest empty practice circle and drew the sabre, setting her feet. The blade felt heavier than usual in her hand. Was it tiredness? That was something she also couldn’t afford.
“Go on,” Secca suggested to the lancer.
Gorkon’s first move was little more than a halfhearted feint, as if he really didn’t wish to strike at her.
Secca slammed the edge of her shorter sabre against his, then forced his blade down, and thwacked the bigger man across his right shoulder with the flat of the sabre, letting her blade return to a guard position. She tried to remember to keep her weight balanced.
His next moves were neither feints nor weak, and Secca had to fall back, parrying the furious slashes, waiting…until Gorkon overextended himself. Her blade slammed down on the back of his practice gauntlet, and he lurched backward, barely holding on to his blade.
The Shadow Sorceress: The Fourth Book of the Spellsong Cycle Page 11
