Shadowsinger: The Final Novel of The Spellsong Cycle

by L. E. Modesitt

  “How can he not?” replied Secca. “He needs us more than we need him. Also, it would show fear or distrust for him not to come.” She laughed. “He will keep us waiting, and he will have an excuse for that. He will be most apologetic, pleading the press of something.”

  “I would scarce wager against you on that,” replied Alcaren, shrugging his overly broad shoulders. “In truth, I’d scarce wager against you on anything.” His gray-blue eyes sparkled as he beheld his consort.

  “You say that because you love me.”

  He laughed. “True as that may be, I’d not have wagered against you from the day I met you, and that was before I came to love you.”

  “You speak so fairly—” At the sound of hoofs, Secca opened the doors and positioned herself on the top step of the four that led down to the entry lane, and the sole mounting block there. A clammy mist drifted out of the north, thick enough that the villa to the north was but a blurred shape.

  Fehern rode up at the head of a column that comprised a good two companies of lancers. The Lord High Counselor, wearing an oiled gray leather riding jacket over his crimson tunic, reined up by the mounting block and immediately dismounted. Behind him, Halyt and two overcaptains dismounted.

  Secca waited as the four walked toward her, then spoke as they started up the steps. “Greetings, Lord High Counselor.”

  “Greetings, Lady Sorceress. I beg your pardon, but a messenger arrived just as I was leaving.” Fehern shrugged. “You understand, I am certain.”

  “I do indeed. The others are waiting upstairs.”

  “Others?”

  “Just my overcaptains and my chief players.” Secca smiled. “The chief players must know so that they can position the players, and so they can inform us if there are situations where the players could not play. One cannot assume that sorcery is equally effective all the time.”

  “Ah…no, but you would know best about such.” Fehern smiled indulgently.

  Secca kept smiling as she led the way up the stairs, even as she bridled inside at the condescension that welled from the dark-haired lord.

  Once they entered the sitting room, with the long conference table, Secca gestured to those waiting. “You recall my overcaptains, Wilten and Delcetta, and my chief players, Palian and Delvor?”

  Fehern nodded. “This is Halyt, my arms commander, and Overcaptains Sterkan and Gedhar.”

  The four chairs were for Fehern and Halyt, and for Secca and Alcaren. Secca offered the chair at one end to Fehern, and took the one at the other end. Alcaren sat to Secca’s left, across from Halyt. The other seven people in the room formed a rough oval around the table, standing back several paces.

  “The first question,” Secca began, “is where might be best to set a battle to halt the Sturinnese. We have looked at the maps, and in the glass, and they show a line of steep hills some deks east of a small town, the closest true town to Envaryl.”

  “Hasjyl,” supplied Halyt. “Some call the hills the east walls of Hasjyl.” He laughed heartily. “Most just claim they are a creation of dissonance.”

  “We should see them.” Secca stood and slipped on the copper-tipped gloves, then lifted the lutar, the sole instrument in evidence, and began the spellsong.

  “Show us now and with details still

  those hills just east of Hasjyl…”

  The glass silvered, then displayed the rough and rocky hillside that was but partly covered by winter-tan grass. To the right side of the image was a narrow road, and to the left the Envaryl River.

  “You see,” pointed out Halyt, “one must cross the river and take a long circular trail for days to avoid the hill route.”

  “Where would the long way take them, were the Sturinnese to use it?” asked Wilten pleasantly.

  “They would have to ford the river west of Hasjyl about four deks, or follow the south side of the river all the way to Envaryl.”

  “So we would have the advantage if we are rested and upon the heights of Hasjyl before the Sturinnese arrive?” queried Secca.

  “So much as any have an advantage against the white priests.” Fehern snorted.

  “Where do your scouts show the Sturinnese to be?” queried Halyt.

  “This morning the reports from scouts and from the glass showed that the main body of the Sturinnese is a two-day ride—a full two-day ride—east of Hasjyl.”

  “How many might there be?” prompted Halyt.

  “Close to sixtyscore,” Secca admitted.

  “And together we have less than twenty,” replied the Dumaran arms commander.

  “We also have the use of sorcery,” Alcaren suggested.

  Halyt frowned, but did not respond.

  “What if the Sturinnese do not come to Hasjyl?” asked Fehern.

  “Then, we think about how we should attack them,” Secca replied. “If they do not come to us, we will indeed have time to consider how to go to them.”

  “That is true,” mused Fehern. “You said that the Sturinnese could make Hasjyl in two days, but when would you think the Sturinnese will actually reach Hasjyl?”

  “From where they are…” Secca glanced to Alcaren, although she could have answered the question.

  “At the pace they are making, four days, perhaps five. They are also sending out squads as scouts. Not all of those are returning to the main body, but none are near Envaryl or Hasjyl as of yet.”

  “You seem certain of that, Overcaptain,” offered Halyt. “How certain?”

  Alcaren shrugged. “For now, most certain. As they move west, it will be harder to tell.”

  “Oh?”

  “Past Hasjyl, the high plains and fields look most similar in a glass, and we do not have enough lancers to send scouts in all directions.”

  “Nor do we,” admitted Halyt.

  “What sort of plan do you intend, Lady Sorceress?” asked Fehern. “Or do your overcaptains handle the battle plans?”

  “Alcaren works with Wilten and Delcetta, and then we talk over what they think and what can be done with sorcery. We use sorcery from higher ground where possible, and against their sorcerers first, then against the first waves of attackers.”

  “Would they not do the same against you?” countered Fehern.

  “They did at Elahwa,” Secca admitted.

  “How did you handle such?”

  “We took a ridge below their position and began lofting arrows into their drummers and sorcerers. That forced them to attack.” Secca shrugged. While that had not been exactly what happened, she wasn’t about to reveal the full details.

  Halyt laughed. “Like stirring up a nest of red ants…so mad they don’t think, I expect.”

  “It did work,” Secca said.

  “If…if the Sturinnese continue to advance slowly today, we should leave the morning after tomorrow,” suggested Fehern. “Tomorrow, if they ride hard today.”

  Secca nodded.

  “You and your lancers…would you prefer the left or the right?”

  “The center,” Secca replied. “If we are on either wing, I cannot so easily protect the far wing with sorcery.”

  “Ah…but that would split my forces, and to command such…” Fehern frowned.

  “It does not have to be so,” Alcaren offered smoothly. “The lady Secca takes a position almost in the center, with but one company to one side, and your forces beyond that…”

  “Yes…almost centered…like sorcery…” Halyt offered another hearty laugh.

  Secca smiled once more, hoping she could just keep smiling while the other details were discussed.

  29

  Envaryl, Dumar

  In the darkness of the night, there is a tapping, and then a creaking, and then a glow as a man with a hooded lamp slips through the sitting room toward the door to the sleeping chamber. A scraping and another creaking follow as the man with the lamp eases toward the figure in the triple-width bed.

  “Lord…” The voice is low.

  The man bolts awake, and a shimmering short bla
de appears in his right hand as he lunges toward the man with the lamp, then lowers the blade. “Elyzar…I could have killed you.” His voice is thick, and he shakes his head, but does not lower the blade farther. “It must be the sixth glass of the night. Why are you here? And how did you get in?”

  “I suggested to the guard that the matter was urgent.”

  In the dimness, Fehern’s eyes narrow.

  “Lord…there is someone to see you.”

  “At this glass?”

  “It is better during this glass than when others might see,” offers Elyzar cryptically.

  “Oh? And why might that be?”

  “You will see, lord.”

  “Why should I? Why can’t he come at a decent glass, whoever he is?” Fehern still does not lower the blade farther.

  “To see him could cost you nothing, and it might be advantageous.”

  “Why?” snaps Fehern.

  “He is a Sea-Priest, who wishes to speak with you.”

  Fehern frowns. “Why would he wish to see me…unless…” He shakes his head. “All right…” The Lord High Counselor pulls on his trousers, a rumpled tunic, and his boots, then his belt, to which he clips his sabre scabbard, but the weapon remains in his hand. “Where is he?”

  “On the balcony, lord.”

  Fehern crosses the sleeping chamber, then walks to the balcony door, which is bolted. He turns to Elyzar. “How did he get out there?”

  “He said he had his ways, and that it would be better if he were outside.”

  Fehern slides the bolt, then opens the glass-paned door. He steps into the outer darkness and glances around. Chill air seeps around him as he surveys the covered balcony. He stops as he sees a tall cloaked figure standing by the balcony railing. In the distance is a sound like muted thunder, if more rhythmic. Fehern frowns and turns his head, then focuses on the man in the deep gray shadow cloak, who steps forward.

  “Lord Fehern.”

  “Who are you?”

  “You know whom I represent. Who else could it be? We have an offer for you.”

  “Oh? Why should I listen?” Fehern’s sleep-roughened voice takes on a sardonic tone.

  “Because it is in your interest to listen. There will be a battle. Perhaps there will be many battles. We will prevail, but it will be costly. We would rather not lose scores upon scores of lancers.”

  “Especially with the Liedfuhr of Mansuur considering whether to hurl thousands at you from the north once the snows melt?”

  “Let us say that we would prefer a solution that does not squander the lives of valuable armsmen and lancers. Let us say that such battles would be more to our liking and to yours were the Sorceress Protector of the East not present and unable to prolong them.”

  “Dead, you mean?”

  “Let us not concern ourselves with precise terminology. It matters not how, so long as she cannot sing.”

  Fehern remains silent for several moments. After some silence, he asks, “Why should I trust you?”

  “Lord Fehern…after these battles you will rule Dumar only under sufferance. It could be our sufferance or Lord Robero’s, but it will be sufferance.”

  “You presume…You presume much.” Fehern’s voice is edged.

  “I presume nothing. I could as easily have entered your chamber and killed you while you slept as come to talk to you.” A soft laugh issues from the shadowed face.

  “That well may be. You did not. That alone proves that you need something from me. It does not provide me with any assurance for what may happen later.”

  “No. It does not. I would point out that you are a man with few options. Lord Robero and all his sorceresses know that your accession was, shall we say, irregular. To the Maitre, that matters not, so long as a man is the one in charge of Dumar. Have you not noticed the suspicion with which the sorceress and her party regard you?”

  “How would you know whether they are suspicious or not?”

  “We have our ways.” Another soft laugh follows the words. “They do not trust you, and they will never trust you. We do not need to trust you because we can follow whatever you do.”

  “So I would be the Maitre’s puppet? I don’t think so.”

  “You will be as free as any other territorial regent, and that is much to be preferred over being dead.”

  “You presume that the sorceress will fail.”

  “Is that presumptuous? Has Sturinn ever failed to conquer a land where its ships and lancers have landed?”

  “How about Dumar…or Ebra?”

  “In the past, we did not devote our full forces here. That is not the instance now.”

  “That may be.” Fehern pauses. “Even if you are correct, and there is much doubt about that…”

  “I do not need an answer now. It will be several days before any battle is joined. Your actions will provide the answer.” Another laugh whispers through the cold night air. “Best you think carefully, Lord Fehern.”

  Fehern stands silently for a moment.

  The cloaked figure offers a bow, then steps over the balcony railing and rappels down a rope to the courtyard below. Silence and shadows swallow his form, and Fehern can hear or see nothing.

  The Lord High Counselor walks back into the chamber, bolting the outside door. “Elyzar?”

  There is no sound.

  Slowly, his sabre out, Fehern eases toward the sitting room side table with the lamp. He fumbles with the striker one-handedly, finally lighting the oil lamp, and looking around the sitting room as the orange glow illuminates the chamber. It remains empty. He slips toward the bedchamber door, pulling it open and waiting with the sabre at the ready. He can see no one in the smaller sleeping room.

  After several moments, he steps back, picks up the lamp, and walks around the sleeping chamber. No one is there. He steps back into the main chamber, lamp still in one hand, sabre in the other, but finds no sign of anyone.

  Finally, the Lord High Counselor of Dumar steps toward the main chamber door, the one to the main corridor. He reaches for the inside bolt. His fingers touch the cold iron. The door is still bolted on the inside—but his chambers are empty, the windows shuttered, and the doors to the balcony bolted. And he had not seen Elyzar leave by the balcony.

  30

  Out of the south came a gentle warm breeze under a sun that hinted that spring might be at last truly on its way. Even a faint scent of warming earth drifted past Secca now and again. Her riding jacket but loosely fastened in the late-morning warmth, Secca rode beside Richina, with Palian and Delvor directly behind them, and with the players following the chief players. There was almost a dek between the last of Secca’s force—a company of Delcetta’s SouthWomen—and the Dumaran forces, where Fehern rode alongside Halyt in the fore of the Dumaran vanguard.

  For the moment, Alcaren rode in the van of Secca’s forces, with Wilten, while Delcetta rode behind the last company of Defalkan lancers, from where she could watch the SouthWomen—and Fehern.

  “A better morning than most of late,” offered Richina.

  “That it is. We should see warmer days in the weeks ahead,” Secca affirmed. “That will be good, since we will doubtless be riding much.”

  “That was why you had the lancers take as much provender as we could?”

  “One reason.”

  “Fehern’s men do not seem so heavy laden.”

  “It is his land,” said Secca dryly, “and he may have other views of the days ahead. Not everyone trusts a scrying glass as we do.”

  “But Fehern wasn’t surprised by the scrying glass,” mentioned Richina, riding beside Secca. “And he never even looked at me.”

  “Good,” replied Secca. “Still, you must be prepared to use the flame spell, the short one, against anyone who looks to attack me or Alcaren—or any of the players if I’m not around or occupied.”

  “You trust him not at all?”

  “I trust no one who comes to power in ways that cannot be seen,” replied Secca, in a low voice. “A vipe
r does not use its fangs but once.”

  “Your pardon, Lady Secca…but…if that be the case…?” Richina’s eyebrows lifted quizzically.

  “What choice have we? If we do not rid Dumar of the Sturinnese, then we will be fighting all of their forces in both Dumar and in Neserea…and, before long, in Ebra once more. For the moment, the Maitre cannot bring more sorcerers and lancers to both Dumar and Neserea. If we can triumph here before summer…then we can travel north to aid Clayre.”

  “Could we not…?” Richina glanced back, in the direction of Fehern and the Dumarans.

  “Then we might find ourselves fighting both, as we did in Ebra. For the moment…we must only fight the Sturinnese…if they will indeed fight.”

  “You do not think that they will march to Hasjyl?”

  “Only far enough to make sure that we must maneuver to keep them from taking Envaryl. They will feint, and march south, or north, so that we must either hasten after them, or hold a position. They may send skirmishers or patrols to extend us, but they will try to avoid a full battle.”

  “But why? They do not fear you that much, do they?”

  “I doubt they fear me at all, but they will be cautious,” Secca replied, with a faint smile. “Let us see what the morrow brings.”

  31

  Itzel, Neserea

  Belmar pours the dark red wine into the two crystal goblets that sit on the small circular table between the two chairs upholstered in green velvet facing the fire in the hearth of the keep’s study, then seats himself in the vacant chair. “This is good wine. I thought you might appreciate it, master jerGlien.”

  “Good wine is always to be appreciated, Lord Belmar.” With a smile, jerGlien lifts the goblet, studying it momentarily. “As is good crystal. Is this from Neserea?”

  “Of course. There’s a holding east of Sperea where they make it and etch it.” Belmar frowns. “The name escapes me…Lyssin, that’s it. The lands were almost part of the holdings Cloftus had. So I suppose they belong to me now…or they will.” He sips the wine. “Why did you ask?”

  “It’s good enough to be traded anywhere, and fine crystal brings a truly remarkable return in Pelara and even in some parts of the Ostisles.”