Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  Ashtaar’s eyes seemed to darken further. “That I cannot do. It would be most unwise.”

  “You will regret not renouncing the sorcery of Defalk.”

  “I am most certain that I will,” replied the Council Leader. “I am also certain that I would regret acting as you wish far more. Neither of us would wish to survive under the rule of Sturinn, and if we did, even you would regret most bitterly condemning song-sorcery.”

  “You presume too much, Ashtaar.”

  “No. I do not presume at all. Sturinn has been planning to take Liedwahr for years. The Maitres built their fleets and trained their sorcerers and lancers and waited until the Great Sorceress and the old Liedfuhr died. In this time of change, they have acted. We are at a time when the whole future of all Erde will be fixed for generations, if not forever. I will not place Nordwei in the van of opposition to the Sea-Priests. That would be foolish for many reasons. But I will not do anything to harm the efforts of those who oppose them, and where we can help, we shall.”

  “You are old and mad. You will have sorcery destroy us all, worse than in the Spell-Fire Wars.”

  “I think not. The harmonies will prevent that,” Ashtaar asserted quietly.

  “Words. Vain words, especially from one who does not believe in the harmonies.”

  “I admit that I do not believe in your harmonies. Harmony is a force. So is dissonance. They will balance. We may not like the resulting balance, but it is better to strive for the harmony we wish than to abdicate to those who would use dissonance because we fear the changes that struggle may bring.” Ashtaar’s fingers rest on the polished agate oval, unmoving.

  “We will see.” The Lady of the Shadows rises.

  “We will see, and I will also regret having to use a seer to ensure that your assassins are less than successful.”

  “We will see about that as well.”

  Ashtaar nods. “You may go.”

  After taking a step toward the door, the hooded woman turns back toward Ashtaar. “If I might ask, why did you not attempt to use your fine words to persuade me? Why did you oppose me so strongly?”

  “Would fine words have changed what you believe?” asks the older woman. “Would you have believed me if I had promised to look into the matter most carefully?”

  The hooded lady laughs, harshly. “We will see.”

  Ashtaar’s eyes follow the dark figure until the door closes.

  4

  From her seat at the conference table, Secca glanced toward the harbor and the masts she could see from the second-story windows of the guest quarters. The faint smell of spring-damp earth eased through the windows on the light breeze that still held a hint of chill.

  Secca’s amber eyes dropped to the papers and scrolls before her, the topmost one a rough map of Dumar she had sketched out in her efforts to plan where she and her forces might best land. Envaryl still held out, although Secca had the disturbing feeling that it should have fallen weeks before. The Ranuans were hurrying, according to Alcaren and the Matriarch, but it had been almost a week from the day she had asked the Matriarch to consort her to Alcaren and to hasten their departure for Dumar.

  On one day she had set a consorting and an invasion—although few would have considered her meager forces as adequate for such, even with two sorceresses and an untried sorcerer. Then, Alcaren was not untried in battle, just in battle sorcery.

  “Chief Player Palian, lady,” announced Gorkon.

  “Please come in,” Secca called as she looked toward the door.

  “You asked for me, Lady Secca?” The gray-haired chief player inclined her head to Secca as she stepped into the guest chamber.

  “I did.” Secca gestured toward the chair beside hers at the conference table and waited for Palian to seat herself.

  “You were the one who taught me my instruments all those years ago. You knew me when I was a little girl.”

  Palian nodded.

  “You were younger than I am now, closer to Richina’s age.”

  Palian smiled faintly.

  “If I might ask…if you would not mind,” Secca ventured. “Why did you never choose a consort?”

  Palian chuckled, ruefully. “I was never asked…and never did I see someone I wished to ask. Before I knew it…well, there was little point in doing so.” She paused. “After playing for Lady Anna, and under Liende…”

  “You did not wish to consort for the sake of consorting?”

  “Did you, lady?” asked Palian softly.

  Secca shook her head. “But now…I have decided to consort.” Secca looked at the older woman. “I never thought it would be like this.”

  “You knew that Lord Jecks threw himself before an enchanted javelin to save Lady Anna, did you not? That was when she took Dumar. A Sea-Priest was hidden and cast two at her.”

  Secca smiled, almost wistfully. “No. She never told me, but I was barely eight when Lord Ehara sent lancers into Defalk. It does not surprise me. It would have taken an effort such as that…” Abruptly, Secca laughed. “I’m more like her than I’d known—is that what you’re suggesting?”

  Palian smiled. “Alcaren could not have shown he loved you any more than he already has. Or than Lord Jecks did for Lady Anna.”

  “That is true…but…being consorted by the Matriarch of Ranuak…in Encora?” Secca raised her hands. “In less than two days…”

  “You do not have to. Not even Lord Robero could force you to consort,” Palian pointed out.

  “I had always thought—Flossbend, or Loiseau. Even Falcor. Never had I thought I would be consorted in Encora.”

  “Were it not Encora,” asked Palian quietly, “would you be consorted at all?”

  Secca didn’t even have to think about that. She’d already met most of the men anywhere near her own age and position in Defalk. A rueful smile crossed her face, but before she could speak, there was a knock on the chamber door.

  “Lady Secca, there is a messenger here,” Gorkon announced.

  Secca frowned. “A messenger?”

  “There are two, with a guard. They’re from the Matriarch.” There was a hint of laughter in Gorkon’s voice. “They very much need to see you, and I would say you should see them.”

  Neither Gorkon—nor any of her lancers acting as guards—had ever presumed to suggest whom she should see. Secca glanced at Palian. The chief player shrugged, her face also expressing puzzlement.

  “They…can enter—without the guard.”

  The “messengers” were two girls—and they carried something thin and almost as long as the older girl was tall—something obviously very light and wrapped loosely in dun cotton. “I’m Ulya, Lady Secca,” offered the dark-haired girl, bowing. She was not quite as tall as Secca.

  “I’m Verlya.” The younger and smaller blonde also bowed.

  “Mother said that we could bring these. They’re consorting gifts from Mother, Father, and us,” explained Ulya.

  “Mother?” Secca asked, although she suspected who the two must be.

  “She’s the Matriarch, but we call her Mother still,” said the younger blonde—Verlya. She added quickly, “You have to open these now.”

  “Thank you.” Secca smiled as she glanced at Palian. “You’re all very kind.”

  The girls had mentioned gifts, but she saw only the one, carried by both. Ulya lifted it toward the sorceress.

  Secca took the light bundle and laid it across the conference table, then slowly peeled back the dun cotton until she had revealed a gown—shimmering blue fabric, but the blue of Loiseau, not the pale blue of Ranuak—with three-quarter-length sleeves and a high-collared neck. Looking at it, as she lifted the garment and held the shimmer-silk before her, she realized it had been somehow tailored for her. She studied the gown closely, then smiled. It was a gown in appearance only, with a full skirt over three-quarter-length trousers, clearly designed to let her ride.

  She glanced at Palian, inquiringly.

  Palian shook her head.

 
“Lady Richina let us borrow one of your gowns while you were riding one day,” explained Ulya.

  “And some trousers. Mother said you would need to ride to the ceremony. Lady Richina promised she wouldn’t tell,” Verlya said, asking quickly, “Can we come to your consorting? Mother said we had to ask you.”

  Secca smiled softly. “If your mother agrees, you may come.”

  “Good!” exclaimed the small blonde. “She said we could come if you said we could.” She paused. “Oh…I forgot the second gift.” She fumbled in her leather jacket and brought out a rectangular box of polished white oak and extended it. “The real gift is inside, but the box is for you, too.”

  Secca slipped the bronze catch and opened the box gingerly. Her mouth opened. Inside was a necklace—a choker—of white gold. She studied the design of interlocking sections, noting almost belatedly that on one side—set inside a framed gold diamond shape—were a miniature sabre crossed with the symbol for a half note. Where the two crossed was inset with a small diamond. On the other side was a thunderbolt crossed with a note, and the jewel was a small emerald.

  “This is gorgeous,” Secca said slowly. “I do not think—”

  “You have to,” insisted Verlya. “It was made for you and Alcaren. He was the best of Mother’s guards.”

  “I gather I have no choice.” Secca smiled at the two sisters. “I thank you both…and your mother and father for being so thoughtful and generous.”

  “Mother says a consorting like yours happens but once in the life of a land,” offered the older and dark-haired girl.

  While she could have disagreed had Palian or Richina—or even Alcaren—said those words, somehow she could not contradict Ulya. “I do not know about that. I do know that you have made it more special, and I cannot thank you enough.”

  Ulya bowed. After a moment, so did Verlya.

  “We must go,” the older girl said as she straightened. “Mother said we were not to tarry.”

  “Or dally,” added the blonde.

  “By your leave, Lady Secca?” The two bowed again.

  “By my leave, and do convey my deepest thanks to your mother.”

  “Yes, lady.”

  The two turned and walked solemnly to the door—except Secca caught the glimmer of a smile from the younger sister.

  After the door closed behind the departing girls, Palian looked to Secca. “They were most polite and restrained for the heirs of a land.”

  “They’re not automatically the heirs,” Secca said absently, her eyes still on the white-gold choker she almost wished she had not been given. “This Matriarch is the younger daughter. Alcaren said that her mother was actually a cousin of an earlier Matriarch.”

  “That might be better for other lands, as well.” Palian’s voice was dry. She stepped forward and stood beside Secca, looking down at the open box beside the gown and studying the white-gold choker. After a moment, the chief player turned to Secca. “It carries a message, lady, though none is written thereon.”

  “I know.” Secca nodded slowly. “I know.”

  “The lady Richina,” announced Gorkon.

  “Do have her come in,” Secca said coldly, winking at Palian.

  Richina inclined her head almost before she was inside the chamber. “Lady Secca.”

  “I understand that you have been lending out my gowns,” Secca said sternly. “My only gown.”

  Richina bowed her head.

  Secca laughed. “Best you see the fruits of your deviousness.” She held up the gown.

  “It is beautiful, lady.” After a moment, Richina added, “It is my fault. I wanted you to have a consorting gown, but I cannot sew well enough for such. So I asked the Matriarch for her assistance. You do not mind, do you?”

  “You have more boldness than I do in such,” Secca confessed.

  “In that, you also resemble the lady Anna,” Palian said. “Never would she ask anything for herself if ever she could avoid it.”

  Secca flushed, then looked down at the polished wooden floor before raising her eyes again.

  “If you can,” blurted Richina, “you might keep the gown a surprise from Alcaren.”

  “I will say nothing,” Secca promised. “That does not mean he will not know. This is his land.”

  “I do not think any will tell him,” observed Palian dryly. “Not about a consorting gift from the Matriarch.”

  All three women smiled.

  Secca held up the gown again, stepping toward the mirror on the inside wall. “It is beautiful.”

  5

  East of Itzel, Neserea

  The two men sit across an inlaid wooden table in a study paneled in time-aged golden oak. Because the day is gray, and near sunset, only the dimmest of light seeps through the ancient mullioned windows, and most of that is blocked by the heavy gold velvet hangings drawn across each casement to block the late winter cold. Even so, the chamber is filled with the golden light that radiates from the almost half a score of six-branched candelabra that surround the table where the two eat.

  “This table is almost as exquisite as the one in Jysmar’s hold,” remarks the younger man, after taking a sip of golden amber wine from a crystal goblet. The darkness of his blue tunic, trimmed in gold, accentuates his piercing blue eyes, fair skin, and jet-black hair.

  “Much was lost when you brought his hold down around him, Lord Belmar,” replies the man in gray, who at times appears barely older than Belmar, and at other times more than a score of years older than the young Lord of Worlan.

  “That was his loss, not mine.” Belmar smiles before taking another sip of wine. “Besides, the show of force was necessary. The older lords were beginning to doubt my power.” He gestures around the chamber, his hand sweeping past the polished dark oak shelves that hold the scores of leather-bound books, past the Pelaran tapestries hung on the walls between the shelves. “Would we have had such easy entry here otherwise?” He chuckles. “And Lord Girsnah is more than happy to have us served his very best. I could even request his daughter, master jerGlien, and he would offer her willingly.” Belmar glances toward jerGlien, as if seeking a reaction. “She is young, tender, and rather attractive.”

  The man in gray offers a faint smile of amusement. “I imagine he would, under the circumstances.”

  “I won’t go that far. That sort of foolishness was what undid Rabyn.”

  “Along with his other failings.”

  Belmar ignores jerGlien’s sardonic tone. “The entire south of Neserea acknowledges me. So does the northeast and the far northwest. Only the river valleys of the Saris and Esaria itself stand opposed.”

  “That is true.”

  “Now is the time to strike.” The black-haired and blue-eyed lord glanced at the older man in nondescript gray. “Do you not think so, master jerGlien?”

  “Always…somewhere…it is time to strike, Lord Belmar. The skill is knowing where and how hard.”

  “Meaning that you think I am too impatient?” asks Belmar.

  “If you can stop the Sorceress of Defalk, then you should do what you feel necessary.”

  “I defer to your experience, master jerGlien, yet I might ask why you think I am too hasty. For your words suggest other than what they say.”

  A shrug comes from the man in gray. “We have made certain entreaties to Lord Robero, very quietly. He is not totally unreceptive, but he is far from convinced, it would seem to me. We must convince him…appropriately.”

  “And how would that be, and why would I care?”

  “I do not pretend to know Neserea, and Defalk even less, but…” JerGlien pauses dramatically. “…were I about to rule a land, I would prefer not to have an unnecessary enemy on my borders. Lord Robero is constrained by the presence of the very sorceresses who support him.” The Sturinnese smiles. “What man enjoys being constrained by women?”

  “You think…?”

  “One must strike before it is expected…or where such an attack is not expected, and it cannot hurt if one st
rikes where a loss may not be regretted totally by the ruler of a neighboring land.”

  “Striking at the sorceresses of Defalk?”

  “You face the least dangerous, for all her experience,” offers jerGlien. “The younger one is more dangerous.”

  “She destroyed an entire fleet, did she not? The younger one? That could not have pleased your Maitre,” replies Belmar.

  The man in gray laughs. “What she has done has gained her little. She remains in Ranuak, and the snows on the Mittfels and Sudbergs still deepen. She has no allies to speak of and will have to face far more sorcerers than she knows if she would wrest Dumar from us.”

  “She may have gained little,” points out Belmar, “but it has cost your Maitre dearly.”

  “Not so dearly as one might think, and if it positions her to fail…why then, it is well worth the cost.”

  “You presume to judge such for your Maitre, my friend.”

  “Were the Maitre here, I daresay he would find little to object to in my words.”

  “He is more trusting than I would be.”

  The Sturinnese smiles. “He is far less trusting. He cannot afford trust. He ensures obedience. That is safer and wiser. Far wiser.”

  Belmar pauses, not quite imperceptibly, before lifting the goblet. “I will study the glass and the maps tomorrow. Then, we will see. Perhaps we can persuade the lady Aerlya that her daughter—young Annayal—should indeed consider a consort most quickly in these troubled times.”

  “If she remains in Neserea.”

  “In a winter like this, with the snow waist deep except on the roads we have cleared with sorcery…where could she go?” Belmar smiles once more.

  “Where indeed?” replies the Sturinnese, lifting his own goblet. Although the rim touches his lips, he does not actually drink the wine, excellent as it may be.

  6

  Outside the guest quarters, a cold misting rain drifted from the low gray clouds, collecting on the windowpanes and running down the glass in irregular rivulets. Inside, before the low fire in the hearth, two figures embraced as though they had not seen each other for seasons, rather than just since the evening before.