Alcaren stepped toward the man.
“Ah... ser?” The thin innkeeper swallowed as he saw the broad-shouldered overcaptain—and then caught sight of the six guards who followed Secca and Richina.
“This is the Lady Secca, Sorceress-Protector of the East, and the Lady Richina. They will have your best room.”
“Ah . . . would not the keep at Dolov...?" stammered the innkeeper. “Not that I would not wish…”
“It might have been.” Alcaren said smoothly, “save for the fact that the sorceresses leveled it and turned all the stones into gravel. Such is the price of rebellion”
“Yes, ser.” The innkeeper bowed, once, then twice. “Yes, ser. As you say, ser.”
“Not as I say,” Alcaren replied. "Either of these two ladies could turn you into dust with a few words, were they so inclined.”
“Yes, ser. I mean, yes, ladies. Ah ...let me make sure all is well. It must be well...yes, it must.”
“It might be best if you went with him, Achar,” Alcaren said, glancing toward Secca.
While still trying to see and appear alert when she felt anything but, Secca offered a nod to the Ranuan.
“And you, Dyvan,” said Alcaren. “One of you guard the room, and the other come and fetch us when it is ready.”
When Dyvan returned, Alcaren followed the innkeeper, and Secca trailed Alcaren up the dim and narrow stairs, unlit except for an oil lamp set in a bracket in the upper hall.
Once in the upper hall, the innkeeper turned to follow the narrow hallway back toward the front of the building, walking less than ten yards before halting at an open door.
Achar stood by the door. “This is the best for you, ladies. One other is a mite larger, but…” His nose wrinkled.
“Thank you, Achar,” Secca said, then turned, “and you, innkeeper.”
“Thank you,” echoed Richina.
The innkeeper bowed, then backed away with a second bow.
The room was not even so large as Secca’s bath chamber at Loiseau, and had but two narrow beds, little more than padded cots, and a single window. Although both the inner and outer shutters were closed, the inner shutters vibrated with the gusts of wind buffeting the inn. Secca reflected that the cots probably couldn’t harbor too many vermin, and when she felt better, perhaps she could manage a spell to kill them.
Once she had stepped inside the room with Richina, she waited for Easlon to set her gear on the floor. Then she closed the battered door and pulled off the damp and still-frozen oiled leather riding jacket and hung it on one of the two wall pegs. There was no wardrobe or chest in the room, and not even a row of pegs for clothing. The sorceress shivered, looking at the saddlebags before deciding that nothing in them would warm her.
Slowly, she eased herself down onto the edge of the narrow bed. Sitting there, Secca cradled her splitting head in her hands.
In time, she lifted her eyes.
Richina sat on the other cotlike bed.
“Does your head ache?’ Secca asked.
“Not so much now. It ached terribly for a time while we were riding in the snow. I couldn’t see at times.”
Socca closed her eyes, just trying to ignore the rattle of the shutters in the wind and the coldness that seeped from them across the bed to chill her neck and back. She thought about lying down, but was too tired to move and afraid that lying on the bed would be even colder than sitting.
“Lady?" At Richina’s gentle words, Secca jerked herself out of the half stupor, half-dozing state. Richina stood before her with a large brown mug filled with a steaming liquid.
“Overcaptain Alcaren brought this. He said you should drink it He said it’s a brew that the Matriarch uses after sorcery.”
Secca sniffed the substance, catching a bitter odor, then closed her eyes and tried to identify the scent. At the sound of fingers on a lutar, she looked up to see Richina standing there
“If this be poison or unfit for her to sup
let it turn to dust within its cup.”
Secca gaped, then opened her mouth to protest By then, the younger sorceress had finished the short verse with a smile—a smile that vanished as she paled, then staggered, barely catching herself on the back of the spindly chair. The lutar thumped the rear leg. Tears poured from the sandy-haired young woman’s eyes, and her face was drawn tightly with pain.
Secca looked at the cup, which remained unchanged, then took a sip, then a swallow, before handing it to Richina. “You need this more than I do.”
In turn, Richina took a swallow, then a second, before handing the large mug back to Secca. The two sat across from each other, trading the mug until it was empty.
Richina massaged her forehead. “What . . .happened?”
“Darksong,” Secca replied. “All food is living—or was. I tried to warn you, but I wasn’t thinking very well myself.”
“That’s what happens...?”
‘No. That is what happens in the beginning,” Secca said gently. “If done often or too strongly, it gets worse each time, at least for a sorceress. That is another reason why we send few messages by spellsong.”
Richina winced. “I had not thought..."
Secca nodded slowly, even as she wondered about the brcw Alcaren had offered. While he had to have known that Secca was a sorceress, why would he have brought such a concoction with him? Could the fabledMatriarch-leaders of Ranuak use their sorcery to see parts of the future? Or had the Matriarch supplied Alcaren with it, knowing that it might prove useful at some time? And why? Was the Matriarch looking for the sorceresses of Defalk to support Ranuak? Was Encora where the Sturinnese fleet was headed? And how had the Matriarch known that? Or had she? Or had Alcaren acted on his own? And if so, why?
The questions swirled around in Secca’s head.
“We need to eat, lady,” Richina said. “They may have something in the public room, might they not?”
“We can but see.” Secca rose to her feet, then stepped toward the door, opening it slowly. The narrow hall was warmer, if fractionally, and Easlon, Achar, and Dyvan stood stiffly in the narrow space. “Easlon ...if you could see if Overcaptain Alcaren would join us. We'll try to get something to eat in the public room below. Achar if you would escort us...?” Secca managed to smile, hoping it was not a grimace.
“Yes, lady.”
Easlon nodded and hurried down the steps ahead of the three. Achar followed the other guard.
The first floor foyer was again deserted, with a chill draft from around the front door. Under the shuttered window beside the door was the faintest dusting of fine white snow. Secca felt as though her breath was steaming, but saw no white.
Richina peered into the public room, seemingly empty, then stepped inside. The small fire in the hearth lifted some, but not all, of the chill from the long and narrow room.
A serving girl, thin like the innkeeper, and not even so old as Richina, scuttled out from the door to the kitchen. “There be not much, ladies. . .” The serving girl glanced from Secca to Richina, then back to the older sorceress.
“What do you have?”
“Just the stew, and bread---the bread be fresh, and ale."
‘That will be fine. Four stews, with bread and ale.” Secca motioned to Achar, who had followed them, “You can eat first, then go relieve Dyvan."
“Yes, lady.” Achar grinned.
“Any table . . . you wish, ladies.” The serving girl bowed and scuttled back toward the kitchen.
Secca took the table close to the hearth, pulling up an oak ladder-back chair, stained dark from time and smoke and grease. Achar took the adjoining table.
The serving girl returned and put two of the large bowls on the table, with oversized spoons, then returned with another bowl and a basket containing a single long loaf of bread. Achar got the bowl and Secca and Richina the bread.
“Another may be joining us.”
“Yes, lady." The girl bowed nervously.
“And could you put another log o
n the fire?"
“Yes, lady.”
Secca took a mouthful of the stew. While there was a faint odor of beef, what she tasted most was heavily salted pepper, that and soggy roots and squishy potatoes. “It is a hot meal.”
The serving girl struggled back into the public room with two largish logs, levering one, then the other, onto the hearth, before slipping back to stand by the kitchen door.
The bread was better than the stew, a rye faintly warm and crusty. As Secca ate, she could feel the last of her headache subside into but a faint throbbing. All too soon, her bowl was empty.
Achar had gulped down his stew, and left, to be replaced by Dyvan, who was sitting and eating at the adjoining table when Alcaren stepped into the near-empty public room, brushing the last remnants of snow and water from his riding jacket. His smooth face was red from the cold, and his brown hair was damp and plastered to his skull.
“I beg your pardon." The Ranuan overcaptain bowed. “I needed to check with my captains.”
“How are your SouthWomen?” Secca motioned for him to sit at the table.
"They are warmer than they would be riding, and have managed to start a cook-fire in an old hearth off the barn they have taken.” Alcaren pulled a chair into place, then smiled. “Better than some of the lancers, I would say, though all are under roof.”
Secca immediately felt guilty, but beckoned to the serving girl who stood by the door to the kitchen. “Another stew, please.”
With a bob of her head, the girl vanished.
“I’m curious, overcaptain,” Secca said slowly. “I was most thankful for the brew you sent, yet that is not exactly something a lancer officer would carry?"
“I had forgotten I had it. The guard chiefs of the Matriarch carry two packets of such. Never had I even used one.” Alcaren laughed easily. “Did it ease your discomfort?"
“Yes. How did you know?"
“Lady Secca, you have ridden hundreds of deks. You are graceful and poised upon a mount, and then you almost cannot ride and stumble dismounting. That could but be if you were...not as you should be?"
“I was not, I admit.” Secca wondered if Alcaren had an answer —and a good one--- for everything.
Was that why she felt so uneasy around him? Or because, while he was an overcaptain, he was probably several years younger than Secca, but seemed far more interested in Secca than the younger and more attractive Richina? Or because she couldn’t help but feel attracted, and that worried her?
“You are concerned, Lady Secca?"
“I am. I question where the Sea-Priests take their ships. In the morning, when we are rested, then I will see what we can scry?” She shrugged. “Where do you think the ships will go?”
“Encora or Dumar.” Alcaren paused, momentarily worrying his upper lip with white teeth. “Encora, I fear.”
“Why?” asked Secca.
“There is already a fleet that lays siege to the remnants of Narial, if the white lancers have not already taken it. Were that the Sea-Priests’ goal, why would they have sent so many lancers to Ebra? Half that number and no ships and no thunder-drums would have been enough to draw you from Defalk, would it not?”
“It was enough,” Secca admitted. ‘We did not know for sure that the ships were headed to Elahwa or that there were any white lancers in Dolov or with Mynntar’s forces. Not when I left Loiseau.”
“Loiseau?” Alcaren looked puzzled.
“The keep in Mencha. It was the Lady Anna’s, but she left it to me.”
“Lady Secca is also the Lady of Flossbend, and a member of the Thirty-three in her own right,” Richina pointed out.
For a moment, Alcaren was silent, before asking, “Are all sorceresses from the Thirty-three?”
Secca laughed. “Some are, and some are not. I am, and Richina’s mother is Lady of Suhl.”
“There are those who are not?” pressed Alcaren.
“Yes, a number of them.”
“You do not name them.” Alcaren’s eyes twinkled.
“One is the sorceress Jolyn,” Secca admitted. “The others should name themselves.”
The serving girl returned with a bowl of stew for Alcaren and more bread.
“If we could each have another serving,” Secca said. The girl bobbed her head again, and took the two empty bowls.
The thin innkeeper appeared, immediately bowing, “All be to your liking, ladies, ser?”
Secca smiled politely. “It is as it should be.” The man bowed again, and Secca understood. She fumbled in her wallet and brought forth a silver, presenting it to him. “This may help for now.”
“Yes, lady. . . thank you, lady.” Three more bows followed before he backed out of the room.
“You didn’t have to pay him,” Alcaren said.
“No, but I could, and it is less costly now than later.” Far less costly, she thought.
The serving girl returned with two more bowls filled to the brim.
Secca nodded thanks and began to eat, amazed slightly at her hunger for the over-peppered and mushy stew.
“Are there any . . . ample . . . sorceresses?” asked Al caren, almost innocently, except for the persistent twinkling of the gray-blue eyes that seldom left Secca.
“There may be,” mumbled Secca.
“Not from what I have seen.”
“Oh ... overcaptain, I fear we are the only sorceresses you have seen, save perhaps the Matriarch.”
Alcaren flushed slightly. Somehow, Secca felt better about that, although she could not have said quite why.
78
Wei, Nordwei
Ashtaar slowly looks from one end of the long dark table to the other, stopping to take in each of the other counselors. The lamps in the sconces on the wall seem to flicker as her eyes pass by each, and the room is hushed.
At last, she speaks. "The Maitre of Sturinn has planned exceedingly well, far better than ever I would have guessed. Dumar lies within his grasp, and before long, the southeast of Liedwahr.”
“The Sorceress-Protector has defeated the Sturinnese in Ebra, and the Sea-Priests failed to take even EIahwa,” observes a young-faced, but balding, man wearing gold-trimmed brown.
Ashtaar’s eyes flash. “Two sorceresses are caught in a winter storm south of Dolov. Another is mired in Esaria trying to support the heir to Neserea against a rebellion fomented by the Maitre, and the last full sorceress and her assistant remain in Falcor, for Lord Robero had not wished to leave his liedburg undefended. The Sturinnese fleet has blockaded both NariaI and Encora. The Liedfuhr of Mansuur cannot afford to split his forces, even if he dared send them through the Westfels in winter. He will choose to stand by his sister and her daughter, if he must choose. Only the sorceresses can stand against the thunder-drums and the Sturinnese lancers, and none will reach Dumar this winter.”
Again...there is silence in the council room.
The Council Leader’s dark eyes glitter under the silver hair as she looks to the left. “Marshal Zeltaar? How soon could the first and second fleets reach Dumar?”
“The seas around the Winter Coast have already begun to freeze. We will have to sail westward across the Bitter Sea. The winds are less than favorable most days.” The stocky woman with the iron-gray hair and square face shrugs. “It could be done in three weeks, but it might be six. Do you wish us to prepare? If it is to be done, we should leave within the week."
“Or you may not be able to leave at all?” Covering her mouth with, the dark green cloth she carries at all times, Asbtaar coughs, then waits.
“The winter has come hard and early,” concedes the marshal.
“Why should we send ships against Sturinn?" questions a figure in a black cloak, her face shadowed by the black hood.
“I am not proposing such,” Ashtaar replies. “Yet in these times, I do not wish our fleets to be frozen in unseasonable ice. What would prevent them from sweeping in behind the spring melt to catch us unprepared?" Her eyes sweep the table once more.
The marshal nods slowly.
“Also,” Ashtaar continues, “while our ships roam the seas, the Sea-Priests must also take more care in how they deploy their vessels.”
“You aid the Defalkans, then?” The voice from the Lady of the Shadows is almost indolent.
“I aid us, without costing us other than provisions.” Ashtaar shakes her head. "Lady of the Shadows, if you would consider this. If the Sturinnese must leave some vessels to guard their supply lines and their staging ports, then those vessels cannot support the invasion and con-quest of Dumar. That weakens the Sea-Priests. If they are weaker, the Dumarans and the sorceresses, if one can reach Dumar—or Encora—can inflict greater damage upon the Sturinnese. The more they weaken the sea-tigers, the less we will need to face. Would we not be fools not to take steps to weaken our enemies without fighting?” Ashtaar’s smile is almost that of a death’s head. “And without the use of sorcery."
The Shadow Sorceress Page 34
